Wug

"Wug", gentle reader, is the sound a parent makes when they come back to earth with a bump.

One of the pitfalls of parenting a child with mental illness is that you start to identify with the outcome.  If you are doing all the running - arranging home tuition, finding appropriate care, taking her on outings - and things seem to be going well - then you start to feel proud of yourself.  You give yourself a pat on the back.  "The professionals didn't have a clue what to do," you say to yourself, "but I knew what to do, and I have made my child happier as a result. Lo, I am Super Woman!"  In your mind's eye, you are already preparing what you will say when you appear on a Horizon documentary as "The Woman Who Cured Her Child's Mental Illness Through Love and Masterly Organisation." 

But before I even had time to squeeze into the itzy-bitzy knickers of the Super Woman outfit, there was the pitter patter of things that, having gone up, were inevitably raining down all around me.  The first part of this week was fantastic - we had had our triumphant trip to the spa, Rhiannon had visited us twice, Julie had gone shopping with schoolfriends in town.  When Martha, her CPN, phoned on Thursday morning (as arranged) Julie was in such a good mood that the call lasted barely five minutes.  I could hear her shrieks of laughter all over the house as she challenged Rhiannon to a game of Wii ping pong.  Later on that day I left as usual for my training course (for families of psychosis sufferers), and when I came back it was obvious that Julie's mood had slumped.  "She's been phoning friends all evening." said Joe cheerfully.  But she hadn't - she'd been phoning Childline and the Samaritans, in a vain attempt to find someone to support her as she crashed.

By Friday afternoon she had to be supervised even on trips to the toilet, and needed Zopiclone to sleep.  Communication had seized up again.  The only words she could smuggle out of her prison cell were that she couldn't cope, she wanted to go to hospital, she wanted to self-harm again.  We got in touch with Martha again, whose despair was audible down the phone.  She was about to stop work for the weekend - the only thing she could offer was another visit to A&E to talk to yet another stranger.  We both knew that this would be disruptive and probably pointless.  Even if there were a hospital bed free, what would admission achieve?  There is no easy way out: admission can delay the inevitable, but at some point we will have to do the hard work of supporting her through this.  I wish we had outreach support over the weekend, but it doesn't exist: I might as well be wishing for George Clooney to come and whisk me off my feet.

So it's back to Joe and me for the weekend, with our trusty timetable, our baking recipes, our subscription to Lovefilm and a stack of board games.  We pore over our weekend in advance like generals before the battle, anxious to prepare for all emergencies.  If Joe takes her shopping on Saturday afternoon, will that leave her feeling tired and unsupported before dinner?  Does she think she could manage a film at the cinema at the moment?  If I take her for a walk on Sunday morning, giving Joe a chance to catch up on work, would she like to bake a cake with Joe in the afternoon?  We press on, brows furrowed, despite the background refrain provided by Julie, "I can't do this any more.  I can't cope."

So far, she has not (yet) self-harmed, though we have to make it through the rest of the weekend. This is what we do.  I'm not Super Woman (actually I knew that), and there is no magic cure.  The things I have arranged do help in the long-run, but in the short-run we're still at the mercy of the weather inside her head.