Mothers of daughters

 There are days when I wonder how we got here. My daughter, who is highly gifted and has a degree in pharmacy, once had many plans and opportunities. Now she is 31 and we are back to square one. Over the past few years, schizophrenia has repeatedly fragmented her life, each time taking her a little further away from herself.

The fifth psychotic episode has just landed her back in hospital. This time she couldn't stay in her flat near her university. Too unstable, too dangerous, they told me. So, she's back at our parents' house, back in her old room, back in our care. And although I love her, although I want nothing more than for her to be well, I'm exhausted.

Our family has a small business. Work is a core value for us, it always has been. My other children have thrown themselves into the business with great dedication, taking on tasks and proving themselves. But my daughter doesn't fit into that world. She's different. She has always been the dreamer, the searcher. That was fine as long as she flourished in her studies, as long as she could shine with her visions and her thirst for knowledge. But that was a long time ago.

After her studies, she was unable to enter the profession. It was as if the idea of a career crushed her. So, she started something completely different: ethnology. It seemed like a fresh start, but then came the next relapse. Now she talks about wanting to be a nurse. I listen to her and nod, saying it's a good idea. But deep down I have doubts. Isn't this just another fragment of a life that can't be put back together?

I find it particularly difficult to accept the illness. I know she is ill and needs help. But part of me still hopes that one day she will just get up and leave all this behind. That she will no longer need the medication and will regain her independence. Maybe it's my fault that she keeps stopping her medication. I was never convinced it was the right approach. I can see that her psychotherapy is helping her and I often wonder if there aren't other, gentler ways of supporting her.

Her illness is a taboo subject in the family. My other children look at her with a mixture of incomprehension and rejection. They only see that she contributes nothing, that she has no job, that she is often lost in her own thoughts. But they don't see what I see: the effort she makes every day.

I wish I could organise my thoughts and find some direction. But everything seems so unresolved. Will she ever be able to stand on her own two feet again? And if so, how? I can't carry the responsibility forever. But the thought of letting her go completely fills me with panic. She has dreams, I know. But the dreams always seem a little too big for the reality she lives in.

Sometimes I imagine what our lives would have been like if this illness had never happened. But those are dangerous thoughts. Because what was can't be brought back.