Have you ever stepped inside a psychiatric ward? If not, let me describe it for you. The walls are painted a dull, neutral shade, and every room is stripped of anything that could be used as a weapon—think of electrical cords, thin sheets, shoes, and even pencils. In one corner hangs a television protected by a thick layer of plastic. The mattresses are encased in plastic, and patients are given flimsy scrubs instead of their everyday clothes.
Now, envision an 8-year-old child. Picture this little one who grew inside you for nine months, who shaped you into a mother. One evening, her mood shifts, and you find her standing on the couch with a knife nearly the length of your arm.
Contrary to what some might think, my child has not suffered abuse. She wasn’t left to self-soothe as a baby. Every scrape or bruise was met with love and care. Her meals range from macaroni and cheese to spaghetti. I don’t expect her to call me “Mommy Dearest” or scrub the floor with a toothbrush.
My daughter is bright. She has surpassed her reading levels and shows remarkable empathy. When her great-grandfather struggled with his eyesight, she cared for him with a tenderness that is rare for her age.
So why do I feel such overwhelming guilt for seeking help that I can no longer provide? If a child is hospitalized for pneumonia or measles, parents aren’t judged. Why should it be different for a child facing an unseen illness?
Mothers aren’t meant to hand over their children to strangers amid emotional chaos. It goes against our instinct to “fix” what’s wrong. Each day, I watch the clock, waiting for one of the few moments I can talk to her. I pace, anxious about which version of her I will hear—will she be angry, or will she sob, pleading to come home?
Imagine telling your child they can’t return home. I’m in a constant state of distress, fixated on the well-being of that precious child I cannot heal. Is she eating properly? Are the nurses treating her with kindness? Not only have I entrusted her care to others, but the pandemic limits my ability to visit and provide her with any sense of normalcy.
The weight of unspoken words builds within me, making it hard to breathe. Finally, I put pen to paper, carefully selecting my words as if they were delicate pearls, crafting them into a true representation of my feelings.
Strength comes back, if only for a moment, as I comfort her during our phone calls. I remind her of my love and that our only hope is to help calm the relentless storm within her.
Well-meaning family members suggest brain scans and blood tests. Rapid-fire questions about her stay and medication changes threaten to push me over the precarious edge I’m balancing on. Mental illness is not straightforward. There isn’t always a clear “trigger,” and searching for a diagnosis often only reassures the mind. Medication isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution; even if something alleviates symptoms, it doesn’t provide a cure.
This storm is shaking our foundation. Cracks are appearing, and I worry that one day, she won’t be the only one swept away by the hurricane.
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Summary:
Navigating the complexities of having a child in a psychiatric care facility can evoke overwhelming guilt and anxiety for parents. While the physical environment of such facilities can be stark and emotionally challenging, the journey of seeking help for a child suffering from a mental illness is fraught with unique challenges. This poignant narrative explores the emotional turmoil and societal perceptions surrounding mental health, highlighting the unconditional love and concern parents feel while grappling with their child’s needs.
Keyphrase: Child psychiatric care
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