Mothers of daughters

You always want to do the right thing, especially when it comes to your children. When I was pregnant with Sophie, I read a parenting guide that recommended not to pick up a crying baby immediately - every four hours at most - to avoid spoiling the baby and to give yourself a break. I still regret following that advice, even though I wanted the best for Sophie. So, I did what the book said. I let her cry. It was horrible to see her like that, sometimes she would literally scream until her face turned blue. One day my gynaecologist said, 'Follow your heart! If she cries, pick her up!’ So, I did, but I've always felt that that early period permanently damaged our relationship.

My husband worked a lot, and I also had to earn money because my father had multiple sclerosis and we needed every penny. It was never possible for me to go to university, although I would have liked to. Instead, I worked while my mother-in-law looked after Sophie. She was a lovely woman and took good care of Sophie. She looked after her so well that by the time Sophie was six, my daughter thought she had been born to her grandmother. I remember explaining to her that I was pregnant with her brother. She looked at me in amazement and said: 'I came out of you too?’ I said: 'Yes, of course, I'm your mother!’ And she replied: 'I thought I came out of my grandmother!’

Sophie was a bright child. In elementary school she was top of her class, and in high school she was among the best. She had a talent for languages, an interest in science and seemed to have a bright future ahead of her. 

But in third or fourth grade, she began to change. She lost the joy of learning, her performance deteriorated and she became withdrawn. I put it down to puberty and the fact that we - my husband and I - were so busy all the time. When she was 13, she sat motionless in her school desk, her teacher told me. At home she became increasingly unruly and began to turn against me. Everything I said was wrong in her opinion.

After leaving school, Sophie started medical school. She wanted to specialise in brain research, a field that fascinated her. But even though she studied for several years, she barely took any exams. Her first big exam was in chemistry and she failed because she hadn't studied. My husband suggested that she change to a different faculty, but that was out of the question. 

Eventually she passed the chemistry exam, but she made little progress. We supported her as much as we could - she had her own room and we provided everything she needed. But she was always dissatisfied. She often accused me of loving her brother more than her. Maybe she was right. Things were so much easier with my son.

I never thought she might be ill. As a layman you are helpless. You see the changes in behaviour, you look for explanations, but a mental disorder? That was unthinkable for me. But then, when Sophie was 23, I got a call from the library where she worked because she had locked herself up in the library - naked. I didn't know what to do. In desperation, I called a doctor friend who advised me to call the police and have Sophie admitted to hospital.

She was taken to the nearest hospital and then transferred to a psychiatric department. There she was finally diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. I remember the doctor telling me the diagnosis. He was cold and distant, handed me a piece of paper with the address of a family self-help organisation and said that they would explain everything to me there. When I left, I was standing outside the hospital. It was winter and there was snow between the pavilions of the hospital. I looked up at the sky and never felt more hopeless than at that moment.

Sophie came home. She had been given medication - but the side effects were terrible. She couldn't sit still, paced restlessly and screamed that it wasn't fair. I felt guilty, as if I had failed. As a mother, you feel responsible for everything. I finally contacted the family association and found a lot of support. They explained to me that I wasn't alone and that many other parents were going through similar situations. This helped me to start questioning my feelings of guilt and understand that I couldn't control everything.

Today, two decades later, Sophie has accepted her illness. She is now staying in a supported living facility, has a day structure and actually is learning French in an adult education centre. I see her once a week, when we undertake some activities together, like going for a walk or to the cinema.