I don’t remember when I first noticed marks on his arms. At first I said nothing, I just looked, and looked again, hoping that I was mistaken. But I wasn’t. Mostly on his forearms, back and front, and some on his upper arms. Of course, the minute I tried to casually mention it, he covered up, literally and metaphorically.
I spoke to the GP. The CAMHS appointment was still nowhere to be seen. The GP had no idea how long it would take, the system was at full capacity and children were waiting months and months.
Things got progressively worse. He was barely attending school. At home he was either in his room with the door firmly shut, or out. Somewhere, anywhere, just not home. We would go through phases of leaving it, not even waking him. Then gentle persuasion. Pleading. Bribery. Blackmail. Arguments. On occasion, shouting with sheer frustration. Literally nothing worked.
He was eventually assessed by CAMHS on the phone. Result: Does not meet the threshold for this service. Although, at risk of self harm. Lock everything up.
One morning we had an almighty row. I have a tremendously long fuse, and can go for a really long time being very reasonable, and then finally I lose it. I was at my wits end that morning, and I snapped. It was a full-on, “it’s-really-terrible-for-us-too-we-are-all-hurting”- carry on. Furious and tearful and ultimately, having achieved precisely nothing except making matter worse, I went upstairs to get ready for work.
When I came down some time later, I noticed that the door to his room was wide open. This was unusual – it was never anything other than resolutely shut, a physical and metaphorical barrier to the world. I glanced in and as was usually the case, he was lying on his side staring blankly into space. I hesitated to go back in – not wanting another confrontation. However, I went into his room and perched on the bed, to make amends before I went to work.
He didn’t respond to me, and I saw that he was crying, silently. Then I saw his wrists. They were bleeding, and he just lay there, completely and utterly still, unblinking. Just crying.
I’m not sure what happened to me that morning, but it was as if someone else took over. I went to the door and shut it behind me. I called to The Middle One in as normal a voice as I could muster, and asked him to take Little M to his school. He asked me what was going on, and I said nothing, and he knew that wasn’t true. He looked at me with eyes that conveyed alarm, and a slight weariness, but definitely knowing. I have come to see that look so often over these last few years. He was 13 and old beyond his years. I kissed little M goodbye (The Middle One doesn’t do kissing, or hugging. Never has), and The Middle One scooped up his little brother, and they were gone.
I somehow got my man-child out of bed, dressed and down the stairs, out of the house and into my mini. I look back and think I must have literally taken leave of my senses. And I don’t know how I physically managed it. It wasn’t that he was unconscious or even uncooperative, it was more that he could not co-operate. He was like a giant rag doll, and I had to do all the work.
I got him into the car, called my husband and told him what had happened. He works at a neighbouring hospital and said he would meet us there. I called my boss, and told him I wouldn’t be at work (again). It was 18 miles to hospital and it was rush hour, and Oxford traffic isn’t good at the best of time. I don’t think that journey, that I have made hundreds of times, has ever felt so long. I drove all the way there talking manically to myself and periodically grabbing his nearest wrist and holding it in the air. He said nothing.
There is no parking at A&E, so I dropped him at the entrance, told him to go into the Paediatric reception and I would follow. I did wonder if he might do another runner but decided it was a low risk.
I must have done 3 or 4 laps of the car park desperately trying to find a space. I finally found one and was pipped to it by two young girls who swung in and stole it right from under my nose, laughing to each other as they got out. It’s funny what you recall clearly and what you don’t. I recall that like it happened yesterday, and I can’t say what I thought at that moment. Part of me wanted to get out of my car and pin one of them up to a wall by her throat, and part of me wanted to lie down and scream. I did neither, I just needed to park.
Eventually I came running through the door of Paediatric A&E and couldn’t see him. They had turned him away thinking he was an adult. Once again, that man-child thing. We got him back into Paeds and they were good, and fast. He didn’t fit on the bed. He looked utterly enormous. I was chastised vehemently by a consultant for not ringing for an ambulance. Again, funny what you remember.
The physical stuff was dealt with very quickly. It was a cry for help, and my logical side knew that. He had propped the door open. If he’d have left it half an hour later, I would have gone to work, so I knew that he hadn’t intended to……… but it didn’t make it any easier.
The rest of the day was spent waiting for and going through an assessment by a nurse trained in mental health issues. She was helpful, patient, kind. With an air of having seen this over, and over, and over. She explained that the CAMHS service was the best place for him to be seen. And that it was very, very full. She explained that we would receive a call from the CAMHS team within 24 hours, and then we were discharged.
I left hospital that day feeling like a different person. We drove home in almost complete silence. When we got home he whispered sorry, and I am sure that he was. It was the only thing that he said all day, other than to answer a few questions in the hospital. He seemed so overwhelmingly tired. We all were. And then he went upstairs and closed the door behind him and I made some tea. I didn’t know what else to do.
Later, I watched him drift off to sleep. Then I lay down on the floor next to him, in the clothes I had been wearing that day, no pillow and no blanket. It was a small but nevertheless punishment for shouting at him that morning.
This is my fault.
When I say I slept, I’m not sure I slept at all. I spent most of the night wondering, where did I go wrong? Why can’t I help my child? Why won’t he tell me what’s wrong? Of course I turned that argument we had in the morning over, and over. I still do, every now and then.
I wanted to scream. Instead, for the first time that day, I allowed myself to cry. Just as he had, and just as my mum before me, I was completely silent. I have that down to an art form now. I broke my heart that night, in the darkness, silently. It was pure grief, for the child I felt I had lost, who was sleeping there beside me.
Eventually, thankfully, morning came. I made more tea ( another big feature in the last four years) and then got into my bed for a few hours. Then I did sleep, very deeply, and woke up and wasn’t sure if I had slept right through to the next day. I looked at my clock. I hadn’t. But I did find this on my bedside table.
It’s a pincushion in a teacup. At some point whilst I slept he had written this message in pins and left it by my bedside. I still have it by my bed today, gathering dust. Possibly one of my most precious possessions – albeit a reminder of a time when we just couldn’t find the words. .
Oh, this is so raw. Thank you for being so candid. I’m sure you could turn your fantastic writing into a book which would be such a help for many, many families.
The message stabbed out in pins (must be a metaphor there, surely!) from your lovely boy has had me weeping this morning.
Lots of love to you all
Jen x. (Toadstoolgreen on Instagram)
Strange what different people focus on, but my main feeling on reading this is anger ….. at the two girls in the car park š They may be motherās one day…. desperate and frightened…. I hope they donāt encounter their former selves. xxx
Yes, indeed. I thought the same. You can’t see past your own stuff at that age, I don’t think!
Oh Lisa… just read this and your previous post. Iām sat here crying and grateful for your honesty. We too are going through something similar with our youngest daughter ( now 35). She was a happy go lucky child always dancing and singing. At school age we moved from the midlands to a very small village in Cambridge… we were in comers and never accepted as locals. She began experiencing bullying at school, never made to feel she fitted in. This followed her all the way through senior school and on to university where she met a predator boyfriend who took away any self worth she had left. We went through self harming and counselling, she managed to function and became a specialist nurse. Her anxiety surfaces often. She met what we thought was the perfect partner, by this time she has 2 adorable girls herself. Her perfect partner was hiding his addiction to cocaine until the mortgage wasnāt paid ( unbeknown to her )… he has left and she is once again struggling to function. You wouldnāt think it to see her with her girls, but on her own the pain is unbearable. So as a mother I too keep questioning where did it all go wrong and the guilt is overwhelming, her pain is my pain. So you see to read your words resonates with me… weāve retired to Cornwall and she also moved with us , we support her as much as we can., I look at my friends life and their functioning families…. well you know the rest… much love to you and yours…..
Hello Lyn. I absolutely do know the rest. It is hard, when you see other families seemingly functioning brilliantly and it doesn’t feel as if yours is. She has you, and you are nearby, and that must be a very great comfort. You must be exhausted, you must find time to look after yourself too. Much love to you.
So beautifully written. I have cried so much this morning reading this. It resonates with me so clearly. Thank you for your courage in writing this Lisa and I just wish I could hug you x
Thankyou Donna, and I am sorry to make you cry. We will meet IRL one day and this pandemic permitting, a massive hug and a glass of wine will be in order!
Phew Lisa, Iāve finally caught up and have an opportunity to comment. Sweet girl, Iām in awe of how you cope and am at a loss to know what to say. I struggled with my late husbandās mental issues which manifested themselves in his late 30s when he was diagnosed as manic depressive. Group Psychotherapy eventually helped, although he was never really free for the rest of his life. Iād just like to say you have the greatest gift in that pincushion, one that shows despite everything your son understands and appreciates all you do to try to help him. Much love xx
Thankyou Sue, and much love to you too. And yes, I shall carry that pincushion close to me for all my life. Thankyou for your support x
Xxxxš
Oh my goodness, this made me cry, for him and for you.
Iāve stared at the comment box for quite a while now. Iāve never shared this publicly but my mother attempted suicide. Very very different from the utter pain of having your child go through this this I know. However I still canāt find the words. I really think you are quite the incredible woman. Iām so sorry that youāve all had to go through so much xxx
It takes one to know one Nancy. And as you know all too well, we all have our stuff. Much love to you, my friend x
Reading your blog has touched a chord within me, my son was diagnosed with schizophrenia at 18 after me going crazy for a year trying to get him seen by the mental health team. 6 years on and all he gets is a depo injection every two weeks no interaction, therapy councilling or any input at all from the mental health services
Hello Jane. I’m sorry, that sounds really difficult, for both of you. You think if you get a diagnosis you might be getting somewhere, but it doesn’t sound like it. He has you, though. Keep going, we are with you.
This is resonating so much with me. My daughter spent about 2 years not wanting to go to school. She would come up with every excuse and I spent so much time at the GP or A&E due to mysterious illnesses and unexplained pains.
She would say she had no friends although I knew this wasn’t exactly true and eventually I got a series of notes left under my pillow at bedtime which explained her feelings. I started to dread going to bed in case there was another revelation I’d be thinking about all night.
Once she got things off her chest (not everything because she doesn’t tell me everything) things did start to improve. She also saw a private counsellor after a year of gentle persuasion and that helped too. The initial stages of lockdown helped her enormously because she didn’t have to go to school.
I feel I am on alert constantly and I find it exhausting at times.
Hello Lisa, thankyou for reading and taking the time to comment. I hear you – that feeling of being on constant alert and looking over your shoulder is so exhausting. It does sound as if you might be getting somewhere though, if she is finding a way of communicating with you – go with it. Be gentle with yourself, you need to try and look after you, so you can keep looking after her. It sounds like you are doing a great job.
So much pain and love Lisa. Iām so sorry xxx
Thankyou Lynn. And tomorrow is another day, as we both know. Lx
I have wanted to comment for a while but I canāt seem to find the words. I want to hug both of you so tightly and say that you will survive this hurricane. That you are loved. That you are valued.
You are making a difference sharing this. I respect and admire your vulnerability.
Hi Sarah – thankyou. And I admire your bravery – so I think we might be quits. Thankyou for that hug, it is much needed.
This is incredibly difficult to read. Your pain comes through in every sentence. I truly hope your son gets the help he needs.
It was very difficult to write, but it seems to be a helpful process for me, and it seems helpful for some others. He is much better at the moment than he has been, although you never stop being watchful. Thankyou for your kindness.
I’m struck by how much you have dealt with on your own. Even in the middle of an acute crisis, having to juggle two other children and then physically get your son to safety and help by yourself. Getting him into the car (you are tiny!), dealing with the surreal practicalities of the situation (find parking and navigate traffic), protecting the younger boys, dealing with the bureaucracy….all while you were terrified. My heart truly goes out to you. I think you are going to educate a lot of people about what families, in particular mothers, go through in the current system
I am genuinely horrified that the hospital sent you both home with so little. Your son needed support but so did you. Again, just so sorry your family has gone through this.
I think it’s when we are in difficult situations that something else takes over – it felt like that on that day. You keep going because you know you have to. I did crumble, much, much later on. The bureaucracy has been so difficult…it is one of the things I would really like to change, if I could. Thankyou for you very kind words, I really appreciate it.
This made me cry: for you and for me, which I needed! You show such commitment and bravery and love. Keep going; writing this is so good!
with love Px
Thankyou Penny, although I am sorry to make you cry. Although you are right, sometimes it is what we need. And I shall try to keep going. At the moment I can’t seem to stop!
Oh Lisa, how hard that must have been to write. It seems self indulgent to say the tears are flowing, but I guess it brings up so many things reading your story. My mum tried to kill herself when she found out she had breast cancer, I never knew, she only told us after my dad had his first breakdown, she told me calmly and matter of factly, as she does with all major events. I guess it’s that generation. Everyone has a story, we should all remember that. I never kept any of these things a secret from friends or work colleagues. Thank you for sharing, there is no doubt it will help others, and I hope in some small way, will help you too.
Much love
Lyn
I absolutely agree Lyn – everybody does have a story, and most of them we will probably never know. I am sorry if that brought back memories. You are right, there is a real generational thing I thing I think about not showing emotions. I’m glad that’s changing. Thankyou Lyn x
My son committed suicide at the age of 24 , Iāve never written that before . 11 years ago but still hard to put to paper . Thanks for sharing I know how hard that can be and be brave but donāt beat yourself up sometimes we arenāt the problem and we canāt solve the problem.
Hello Wendy
Gosh I don’t know what to say to you – except I am sorry. That must still be incredibly hard every single day, and to have written that today. I agree though – we most often are not the problem, nor can we help. Hard for us mothers. Take care of youself.
Your incredible, powerful piece evokes so many feelings for so many people. My mum is in late stage dementia heavily medicated and she has completely disappeared in front of our eyes. A different experience Lisa but your words have struck a cord. I have been unable to talk about my distress, hopelessness my powerlessness, but I think I need to before the fear envelopes me. Thank you for your honesty.
Hello GAil, and thankyou for reading and taking the time to comment. I am so sorry, what a terrible thing for you to see and witness. My mum is slipping into the same place little by little but is very happy in her own little world. I can’t think how it must be to have your mum disappear like that. I do think it’s helpful for you to talk, or write, if you can, even if you just write it down for yourself. Some outlet of some description. Take care of yourself.
Oh my what a tale to have to tell. Iām choked up for all of you . I have heard this and similar tales many times over the years, they donāt get easier to know about ( I would leave my job if they did) and I am aware of them further anguish to come. But come it must because by sharing this part of you life, you will help others,I know as a fact. I will certainly bare this in mind with families I work with if they need to find a connection. Much love x
Hi Sara. I think thats the thing isn’t it? In a strange way, our story is completely normal. There have been countless before us and there will be countless more. I am sure you need a strategy to deal with that when you are working in it. What an amazing job you do. Thankyou.
This is so raw. Thank you. Your beautifully written blog would make a fantastic book and would help many, many families.
I was so moved by your son’s message of love, stabbed out in sharp pins (surely a metaphor there!) that it’s something I won’t forget.
Love, Jennifer (toadstoolgreen)
Hello Jennifer, and thankyou. I hope this blog is of use, it is to me – and I am not sure I thought that it would be! I can’t think it would be the stuff of a book – our story is so frighteningly ordinary – I realise we are one of a sea of families stumbling their way through the system. That is so depressing! Thankyou so much for taking the time to read and comment, I really appreciate it.
Wow Lisa Iāve just managed to catch up with this.. Iām so sorry, for him and for you, your words made me cry.. I know that helpless feeling and the fear that never really goes away.How is he doing now?? Huge hugs my love xx
Dear Lisa, thank you for sharing your story, one I can relate to so very much. My son has suffered very similarly for nearly three years; he was 15 when we first realised he was self harming and suffering with anxiety and depression.
That following year was an incredibly distressing, lonely time … for us all. Help was hard to find, or when it came my son often quietly closed down or simply couldnāt relate to the box ticking counsellors. He missed a lot of school, lost friends, gave up his sport, couldnāt sleep, ate irregularly, stayed in his room and basically became a shadow of his former self.
As his mother it has been so heartbreaking and I canāt bear to watch him suffering. Things have improved slowly and Iām more positive these days. We have a very close relationship; together weāve experienced the worst of times after all. (My husband worked away a lot and my daughter had gone to uni by then). Iām slowly taking backward steps as he finds his independence … heās just started a job and will soon take his driving test. Iām sure Iāll always be wary though. And Iāve recently spoken to a local mum whose son has just started suffering – I wish Iād had someone like me, or you, at the beginning. Hugs to you Lisa xx
Hello Lucy, and thankyou for getting in touch. It sounds as if you have given some much needed support to that other mum – as well as your son. It is heartbreaking and we just have to keep going. Exhausting but it sounds as if you are moving into a bit more of a positive place. You must find time to take care of yourself too!
And you were worried no one would read your story…amazing comments and one from Nancy that I know…I was going to read this tomorrow as Iām extremely tired and know the signs of being tired, but Iām glad I did. Your son knew youād find him, knew you loved him and help him as he couldnāt say it out loud. Hope heās doing better now and it sounds like itās very cathartic for you to put down the words.
He is Jason thankyou, although you never stop waiting for the signs to go the other way – but broadly yes – a much better place. It is cathartic although quite hard too, but it feels important right now. Thankyou, my bearded friend!
Shining through all of this comes such honesty, bravery and love. Your voice resonates loudly with so many people, including me. Thank you for reminding me that the greatest thing we have is simply love š
Thankyou Jo. I’m not so sure about bravery, we do what we have to do!
Oh, Lisa! That pincushion! I see I wasnāt the only one with wet eyes. We have so much to talk about – a couple of days will serve as a prologue only I feel. What an eye opener this is. Your love of a small world that you can have some form of control over is fully explained. And yes, most definitely a best seller in the making. Much love to you xxx
Karen you are kind. I am so looking forward to getting away, covid permitting. And yes, we do have so much to talk about. Much love to you my friend x
I tell you what, them telling you he didn’t meet threshold for care, but to lock up everything because he was a risk to himself (including anything that could be used as a ligature as you make clear in your next post-I’m reading backwards-which means, like, every effing thing that exists) would be grounds for a massive, massive lawsuite over here, and a completely justifiable and necessary one. In general, I am not in favor of sueing medical professionals, because I know what they deal with, but this is completely out of bounds. It’s outrageous!! It is, in the literal actual meaning of the word, insane. I can not imagine how dead you’d have to be to actually say that to someone. I hope I never get that dead inside, or stupid, or whatever it is that allows someone to say such a thing. I really really hope I do not. God’s truth, I can not fathom this.
Though, if you’re trying to seek protection from someone who is threatening to harm you, often our legal system won’t do anything until they have already harmed you. So you get to hope they harm you bad enough for the legal system to finally step in, but not bad enough to kill you, which is what you need protection from in the first place. Nothing anxiety promoting about that! I guess it’s all part of the same thing. It’s all stupid, though, that’s for sure. Completely lost my temper over here. xo
I too am crying with you, for you, for meš My Son also attempted to take his life a few years back and the pain I felt is like no other I have ever experienced. he was on his own but called an ambulance and was seen and discharged, he was living alone after a breakup and I spoke to him the day it happened and every day for 3 days after, it was only when he didnāt turn up for work that I was contacted by his boss whoās told me that the day he did it he phoned in work and told someone he had ādone something stupidā because he is an adult I wasnāt informed and like I say it was two days before I knew what he had done. Luckily he had a great GP who prescribed medication and I scooped him up from his flat and brought him home to our quiet little home, where he didnāt talk just slept for just over a week. He has had amazing counselling and now seems to be ok, but are they ever ok? I worry all the time about being to hard on, nagging him, leaving him, the list goes on. I have learned to live with it but it has forever changed me. I wish you peace of mind and I love that your boy who when in such distress reached out to you to confirm his love for youā¤ļø Before COVID I had wishes and dreams of material things but now all I really do want is to be with my family and love them hard. Much much love to you . Karan xxx
And I am sure that you do. Thankyou for taking the time to write Karan. I know that feeling all too well of always worrying, and the endless questioning of yourself. It’s easy to say stop, but so much harder to do. It sounds as if he has such an amazing support in you, and actually his boss too, and also good to have a great GP. It feels a bit pot luck on that score. Take care of yourself, you need to keep well in order to keep supporting him. Much love to you too.