Mothers of daughters

  When I look back on the years with my daughter Judith, I still have this nagging feeling that I could have done more. Yes, sometimes I blame myself, although I know I tried very hard. Thirty years ago, Judith was at home and taking her medication only sporadically. As soon as she felt better, she would stop taking it. She had no insight into her illness – she had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia - and that had made everything so difficult.

We had the police in the house at least once a year. She was desperate to live alone, so we found her a small flat on the third floor of the house where we lived. She often locked herself in her room and wouldn't answer when we knocked. We never knew how she was. 

One day the police and the fire brigade had to break down the door to her flat. I will never forget the scene: my daughter was huddled up in her bed, completely apathetic. She was no longer able to use the toilet. She was involuntarily committed and taken to hospital. There I was asked why I hadn't taken better care of her. She had lice. There was a hail of accusations from all sides and I felt terrible.

The neighbours saw everything too. You can't hide anything in a house with several tenants. Judith would often start screaming in the middle of the night. She would lie in bed with the window open and her screams would echo across the courtyard. 

She kept claiming that we were going into her flat when she wasn't there and taking things away. She often put her childhood doll’s house dishes on the table. I once asked her why she was doing this and she replied, 'Don't think I'm always alone. I'm never alone because they're all with me’. She was talking to supernatural beings, and she was convinced that they existed. 

Looking back, I remember something, which was perhaps the first sign of her disease. In primary school, she had an imaginary friend called Oline with whom she often talked. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Children have vivid imaginations. But later, when her illness had fully developed, it all made sense.

Judith was admitted to a psychiatric hospital at least 20 times over the years. It was a constant up and down. And at some point, I reached my limit. When she came home from hospital and my husband was at the end of his tether, I confronted her. I said: 'Either we find a solution so that we can live together in the house normally. It's not working anymore. We have other problems. Your brother has to study now and we need peace in our family. Or you can find your own place somewhere else.’ I knew it was hard, but it had to be said.

We found a supported flat for Judith. She moved there, but she refused any form of authority. She didn't take her medication and did what she wanted. She was in her late 40s at the time. I used to get phone calls when something had happened again. She later moved to a shared flat in another area, but there were problems there too. Twice a year everything fell apart. 

Once she was even arrested and sentenced to prison for theft. I remember going to the police station and to court. It broke my heart.

Five years ago, Judith died of an overdose in her apartment. Her death left a void that I still feel today. My husband, who was very busy with his work all his life, shared my grief. He died of the corona virus three years ago. And me? I had never stopped thinking about her. I had always hoped that there might be another way for her. The pain we have all endured remains. It has been a difficult journey. Judith was a part of me and I hope she is at peace now.