Mothers of daughters

I live in Romania, my daughter Elena lives and works in Vienna and I came to Vienna to assist her when she was diagnosed with a psychotic disorder four years ago.

When I arrived in Vienna, everything was strange. Not only the city, which I hardly knew, but also the situation, which plunged me into a chaos of uncertainty. My daughter Elena, who had always been full of life and energy, was suddenly in a psychiatric hospital. I stood helplessly by her side, not knowing how to help her or what else to do.

She is my only daughter and I had no choice: I had to be there for her and had to leave my daily life in Romania. When I stood in front of her, I hardly recognised her. She seemed lost, trapped in a darkness from which I couldn't pull her out.

The doctors told me she was suffering from a psychotic disorder. Her symptoms were frightening and often surreal. She was convinced that she was caught in a web of conspiracies that was becoming increasingly tighter around her. Even everyday objects such as mirrors or televisions became instruments of surveillance in her eyes. She felt that her thoughts were no longer her own, but were being controlled by someone or something.

The first few weeks in Vienna I was completely overwhelmed. I didn't know anyone, felt like a stranger and didn't know how to support her. I spent hours in the hospital and was always with her. But the more I tried to help her, the more the question arose: was I too present or too withdrawn? Should I urge her to stay in hospital, as the doctors recommended, or should I respect her wish to go home?

As time went on, I became painfully aware that I too was reaching my limits. The nights without sleep, the constant feeling of exhaustion, the physical weakness that paralysed me - it was all dragging me down. It wasn't just the worries about Elena that weighed on me. Every night was a struggle against my own fears and doubts. I would lie awake for hours, listening to every sound, whether it was a sign from Elena or just the silence of the night. My body rebelled against the constant tension, my hands trembled with fatigue and my heart felt heavy.

Finally, after weeks of ups and downs, my daughter began to take steps in the right direction. She started talking again about the work she loved and began to make plans. It was as if she was slowly coming out of the darkness. But then came the moment I was dreading: Elena said she wanted to try it on her own. Without my constant support.

At first I was insecure, afraid of losing her if I withdrew. But I understood that her desire to do it alone was part of her healing. I stayed for a few days to make sure she was coping, and then I went back to Romania. 

We spoke on the phone from time to time, but less and less often. Today, Elena is back to work, on a part-time basis so as not to strain herself. But although she is back to work, she often seems tired and overwhelmed. I can still see the shadows of the past in her eyes, which haven't completely disappeared. There are moments when I admire her strength, but also moments when I worry whether she is on the right track.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, I wonder if I left too soon. If my support would have been necessary for a longer time.