Mothers of daughters

I remember the afternoon I went to the family self-help organisation for the first time. It was a sunny day, but there was nothing but darkness and worry inside me. My daughter Paulina, just 23 years old, had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital. The doctors had talked about a psychosis. I couldn't believe it.

It had all started with her PhD. She was determined to finish it in record time. For weeks, all I saw of her were her books and her laptop. It was as if she had shut out the world around her. The pressure she was under was enormous, but she didn't want to show it to anyone. Instead, she withdrew more and more. Her nights got shorter, her coffee stronger, and at some point, I felt she was living in a bubble of tension and sleep deprivation. 

Then Paulina suddenly became suspicious, spoke in enigmatic tones, seemed to perceive reality differently. She had hardly slept and began to say confused things. I remember the moment when she suddenly accused me of working against her, of conspiring with others against her. It was like a slap in the face. Our once close relationship suddenly felt fragile. Finally, when she could no longer cope with everyday life, I took her to the hospital.

But it was not an easy decision. The first few weeks in hospital were terrible for me. Paulina seemed so different. She was sedated by medication, the doctors called it 'stabilisation', but to me she just seemed dazed. Where was the vibrant, intelligent daughter I knew? I wondered if I had made a mistake. Should I have kept her at home and helped her myself? 

The counselling sessions at the family self-help organisation were a lifeline for me. First, I was explained what psychosis was and why medication was important. The counsellor listened patiently, answered my many questions. Later she helped me to see the small steps forward that I had previously overlooked: Paulina's speech became clearer, her anxiety lessened and she began to seek contact with me.

The discussions with my daughter and the doctors were particularly valuable. At first, I felt I had to mediate between her and the medical world - as if I were her translator. But gradually she began to ask questions herself, to bring in her own perspective. It was a long road, but I could feel that she was fighting her way back bit by bit. 

I had to learn to let go. That was probably the hardest thing for me. I always wanted to be by her side, to protect her, to take away any uncertainty. But I realised that she needed time and space to grow. Step by step, I managed to reduce my visits to the hospital from almost daily to twice a week. This was a relief for me and gave her the chance to become more independent. 

Fast forward: Two years later she is back at home and still has a long way to go, but I can see progress. There are moments when her anxiety comes back - when she seems quiet and introverted, or starts working late into the night again. But I have learned that sometimes it is enough just to be there and trust that she will find her way. Paulina has made a new start. And in a way, so have I.