Mothers of sons

I still remember the first few years with my two sons, Markus and Dorian. It was clear to me early on that the two were very different. While Markus – the older of the two – was able to adapt easily to new situations and behaved calmly and thoughtfully, Dorian was always a bit different. He was more impulsive, thoughtful, often introverted, and sometimes he seemed to be in his own world. But every child is different, and I never saw that as a problem – until the first difficulties arose.

Already in kindergarten, Dorian was not as carefree as the other children. He had trouble fitting in, had a hard time dealing with change, and often withdrew. It continued in a similar way in elementary school, and when he finally came to high school, it did not get any easier. There he was repeatedly compared to his older brother. Markus was calmer, more adapted, and knew how to fit into society. - I remember one of his favourite sayings: ‘You have to know when to stop.’ I think that's a good description of the difference between the two of them. Markus knew when enough was enough, when he had to back down. Dorian, on the other hand, didn't know this boundary. 

Dorian’s childhood was marked by fears. He could hardly sleep alone at night. He had nightmares, and I often had to sit with him to calm him down. At the time, I thought it was just a phase, that he was perhaps just particularly sensitive. But as he got older, his anxiety didn't subside – it actually increased.

The turning point came on New Year's Eve when Dorian was 15 years old. After a party where he had drunk alcohol, he hit his head against a wardrobe. He never told me exactly what happened, but on New Year's Day he was completely changed. Suddenly he was like a little child again. He held my hand and was terrified. He didn't leave the house, spent most of his time in bed and hardly spoke. And then, after a week, it was as if someone had flipped a switch – it was all over. It was as if nothing had happened.

But it wasn't just a one-off incident. Every month, almost to the day every 28 days, the pattern repeated itself: for a week he was a frightened teenager, then he seemed normal again. It was incomprehensible. 

In February, during school holidays, my husband, Dorian and I went skiing like we did every year. We were there with friends and their children, and I hoped that the fresh air and exercise would do Dorian good. But on the very first day, he completely lost his orientation. He couldn't find his way back to the accommodation and we had to search for him. After that, he refused to continue skiing with the others. Instead, he stayed in the accommodation and didn't want us to leave. When my husband and I went for a walk, he panicked. ‘What if something happens to you?’ he kept asking. His fear was so great that it completely paralysed him.

After this incident, we consulted a doctor. Numerous examinations followed before a diagnosis was finally made: a cyst on the hippocampus that regularly filled with fluid and thus triggered his anxiety attacks. The doctors recommended surgery, and I clung to the hope that this could be the solution. But even after the operation, his condition did not improve. Instead, he began to withdraw even further. He became suspicious, sometimes appearing to live in a world that was invisible to us. Sometimes he would talk to someone that no one but him could see.

Over time, school became another struggle. He transferred from high school to business school, but even there he found no stability. He kept saying, ‘I want to be independent, I want to take control of my life.’ I didn't want to deny him that wish. So, I let him go. He moved to a city, away from the countryside, where we lived and where everyone talked about everyone. I hoped that he would be able to make a fresh start there.

But it soon became clear that he was moving further and further in the wrong direction. Sometimes he came home on weekends. Then I found a bong in his room, I didn't know exactly what he was consuming – but I sensed that I was losing control over him. I tried to set rules, to protect him. But I was too weak. I was afraid of losing him for good. I had a job, but my thoughts revolved only around him. I searched for answers, running from one doctor to the next, hoping for a solution. I constantly asked myself: ‘What is this?’ and ‘How can we cure it?’

Then, at the age of 20, the diagnosis of schizophrenia arrived: When I heard the word for the first time, it was like a door that I had desperately kept open all these years slammed shut. I had been looking for a simple answer for so long, hoping that there was something that could be easily treated. But now it was clear: there was no quick way back, no cure that could undo everything fast. 

But there was a way forward. The medication helped, even if it didn't always work perfectly. The therapies required patience, but they brought progress. And eventually, after many setbacks, a new life began to take shape for him – one that may have been different from the one I had once imagined, but no less valuable.

Today, Dorian lives in his own world – no longer in one that separates him from reality, but in one that he has built for himself. A life with structure, with people who understand him, with small steps that have led to big changes. He has learned to live with his illness instead of fighting against it.