That’s what I have been told, several times. I don’t care about my daughter, I mean, why else would I send her to be evaluated at the children’s psychiatric center?
Let me back up…..
This is not the first, but second time my daughter has been hospitalized. I didn’t talk about the first time. I was scared, I didn’t want to be judged, I didn’t want people to look at her differently if they found out. I was trying to protect her….I was trying to protect myself.
Making the decision to put her in the hospital was the most difficult decision of my life. The first time she went, I cried the entire week. Yep, they kept her a whole week. They released her on different medications and mentioned mood dysregulation. I didn’t really know what to think of it, but they did put me in touch with a different therapy team (including a therapist, behavior management services and a case manager).
I had high hopes. But the same day she was brought home, we had issues. We found that a lot had to do with one of the medications they put her on….so within a few days we took her off and she got a *little* easier to manage.
We began working with this new team and I, again, had high hopes. They came to our home at least once a week. Yep, that’s a team of three people visiting all the time.
Within a few weeks, she had gotten worse, not better. Violent outbursts were happening daily. We were instructed that when she became violent we had to put her in a safety hold, for her safety AND ours. The holds consist of us trying to manage her while she turns her hands to dig her nails into our wrists, bite whatever she could or band her head into our chests.
After several extremely violent days, her therapy team said we needed to admit her to the hospital. I said no. No way. I couldn’t do it again. I was miserable last time and didn’t think it would help.
In the new few days, we had some out of control nights…and for nearly nothing. One day I told her to grab a book to read, she didn’t like the books we had, so she lost it. I ended up with cuts all over my hands and my husband had four bite marks on him. I begged her to stop because I didn’t want her to go back to the hospital, but I knew if she continued, that’s what she needed.
The next night I told her she had to do something nice for the people she had hurt. She had to earn time with the family, that was part of our program with the therapists. She wanted to color in her room, so I asked if she wanted crayons, she wanted markers. Nope, you color all over things with markers and I don’t feel like scrubbing it off, so I took a box of colored pencils, pens and crayons. She lost it. She threw it across the room then started kicking her walls and door. It was time for another hold.
She fought me more than ever and I had to put her face down on the ground with her arms behind her back and sit on her legs or she was trying to kick my back. I couldn’t hold her any other way to keep her from kicking me or the house. About this time my husband came home from work and hear the commotion. He came up to help me and tried to talk her down.
She said she’d calm down. We let her loose….and she tried to attack us again. Back to a hold.
At this point it took both of us to hold her from kicking and scratching. I called the therapist to tell her what was going on. They said she HAD to go to the hospital and called 911 to come to our home. I completely lost it. I was crying hysterically, but knew it was what I had to do.
Within a few minutes we had a house full of paramedics and police officers. As soon as they walked in, she calmed down and acted like nothing had happened. We showed the police and paramedics our wounds, but they still gave us looks as if we were out of our minds. My husband had a fresh, bright red bite mark on his hand from her. They didn’t seem to care very much. Because it was her therapist that called, they had to take her for evaluation. She ended up going willingly in the ambulance to the be taken to the pediatric emergency room. I followed closely behind and met her inside the hospital. Driving across town, watching her through the window in the ambulance was the hardest thing for me to do. I knew it was important for her well-being though.
Since she’s been in the hospital, I have been shown a lot of support and also been told that I either don’t care about, am a horrible parent, am never happy among a lot of other hateful things.
I’d let to set a few things straight:
First, I love my daughter very much. That is why I have spent so much time and effort trying to get her help. I know she needs help, more than what I can give her myself. I have been to numerous therapists, counselors, psychologists, psychiatrists and at this point feel like we’ve talked to everyone in the city! I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t care about her.
Secondly, it’s not that I’m not happy with the doctors. It is that I’m frustrated that we’ve tried so much and are still searching for an answer. I was sad every day that my daughter couldn’t come home and I missed her so much.
It was not my first choice to send her to the hospital, but she NEEDED it. She was not safe for anyone, including herself. It wasn’t an easy choice, but after being told by several therapists it was what needed to happen…I did it.
Am I bad mother for it? I don’t think so…but you tell me…..