She Is Not a Duck, part 4

A Mother’s Journey into the world of Mental Health and Spectrum Disorder Challenges

She walks like a duck, talks like a duck, but she is not a duck.

Chapter 3 The Road of Despair Leads to Hope

Nightfall, actually as soon as dusk steals the glory of a sunny day, was always the worst for Sarah.

In the midst of this particular weekend, she was agitated and much more than usual. Pacing, lost in her own thoughts, while she was simmering all at the same time, never boded well for any of us.

She was close to turning 10, tall and strong. It was always a struggle for me to meet her anger with my feigned steely exterior and firm spine. I did question if she could easily take me down.

I didn’t want her to smell my fear.

She had quite a few good days at school. Her medicine was indeed helping and her teacher reported stability. But, she was in her home now and it was getting dark both outside and within her.

By this time, we could all see the start of a storm brewing. My other two kids had scurried to the safety of their rooms. They had learned to steer clear lest they would be targeted.

She appeared in the kitchen and positioned herself next to the knife block. It was unnerving the way she would look to them and then slowly lock eyes with mine. She told me she would kill me, that she wanted me dead and she would only be happy when it happened.

I was scared but I was the mom.

In the back of my mind, I remind myself of the pediatrician’s words to me.

“You are Sarah’s target for a reason. She knows that no matter what, no matter how ugly she treats you, you will never turn your back on her. She trusts you. You are her safe place. As awful as it is in the moment, remember that. You are her safe place.”

These words have sustained me through the rockiest of times.

I held onto this concept, cradled it in my mind, and used it to fuel my desire to live up to her expectations of me. I will not let her down; I will not leave her.

She’s solid, rapidly nearing my height of 5’7” and her shoulders and strength are easily rivaling mine. I can’t think about that though. I just can’t. I had to remain in control. I get the upper hand, right? Maybe.

We somehow distracted her away from the knives that she continually eyeballed and occasionally rested her hands on. They were quickly hidden in the cabinet. She told us she’s leaving — rather, she screamed at top volume so everyone in a three-block radius will know how awful we are to live with.

She slammed her way out the front door and stopped in the middle of the dark street. She stood there and yelled. And yelled. There were indiscernible words mingled with threats of my impending demise.

I found the paper, that damned paper the doctor gave me. I figured only desperate people would ever need it.

Looks like I was one of those desperate people after all.

I was scared and my heart was racing.

Sarah had moved to the sidewalk and promptly scrawled with chalk, in large colored letters, “Bitch.” “The bitch should die in hell” and other variations of hatred. It was hard to reconcile the pretty colors, that she was slowly and deliberately filling in, with the vile words she had written.

I sat in the unlit corner of the front porch and dialed the number. The people on the hotline asked me some questions and told me to take her to the closest ER.

How was I going to get her in the car? How?

“I am just a mom, remember?” I said this to no one.

I was woefully out of my territory and not equipped to handle a now raving foul word sniper that wanted to erase my existence. I drew from my reserve energy tank that I was sure had already emptied. Somehow, we were in the car and I held my breath at every red light wondering if she would jump out.

It was so dark and quite late, nearing 11 p.m. The quiet seemed strange for an ER. Even Sarah and I didn‘t speak. We had become walking zombies.

She knew that she needed help.

Her exhaustion won, and seemingly in defeat, she followed alongside me. We checked her in and were shown to a room. I hated that familiar, yet unfamiliar, antiseptic smell. A social worker went through the pre-scripted drill and asked some pointed questions.

Sarah said she wants to burn down our church.

This was news to me but she’s adamant even after the woman explains that you can’t say things of that nature, post 9–11, without serious consequences. Sarah thought about this for a solid minute and confirmed, that yes, she hears a voice telling her to burn the church.

I was dumbfounded. She actually just said that.

Interviewing continued and I was informed that my daughter needed to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital. They would transport her by ambulance for her safety.

What?

I slunk out front through the hospital doors and called my husband. As soon as I heard his voice I burst into tears. “What do we do? What is a psychiatric hospital these days? Do we get to see her, when does she come home? What does all this mean?” We were simultaneously asking each other the same things. So many questions, so many tears, such high-intensity worry.

I ached ~ I felt so small and so alone. The hospital was looming in comparison to me, the few cars and some small shrubs. Only the fluorescent lights in the parking lot reminded me that this was real and not a nightmare. I wanted it to be over and everyone to be home where they belong.

I had to get back inside to Sarah. Was she scared? Worried? Did she want me with her? My heart was heavy but I knew that help was on the horizon.

I mustered up my courage and donned my bravest mom face.

She was slightly sedated. She looked over at me, the calm version of Sarah, the little girl who was funny, compassionate and so loving. Her beauty shone bright again, even at that moment.

I told her where she was going and why. She did a slow blink and simply said, “Okay.”

Okay.

She was only a little girl. Was I really letting them take her? Yes.

We’ll do it for her.

Sarah deserved this chance; she deserved to hope with us. We are a team and I will never turn my back on her. It was her time to feel well again.

And I slept.

· Thank you for joining in to read the fourth installment in my series. We will travel through the hallways of the psychiatric world, the school system, and our family dynamics. I look forward to sharing more and hope you will see that none of us are alone.