Our paediatrician referred us to a psychiatrist who sends his patients to a psych hospital near his practice. He merely changed and added meds to the ones we already have. No assessing, no evaluating, no nothing except asking the nurses how angry she’d been and asking her if she feels angry. He paid himself -from our medical aid- over R30 000 for changing meds. But that’s not what the hotel hospital claims the psychiatrist does. On their website, they state very clearly, what you’d expect. A psychiatrist that diagnoses psychiatric illnesses, or rules them out after thorough assessment.
He did zero. He didn’t even take a proper background history. The questions he asked on the day of admission, the only time he ever met me while she was undergoing ‘diagnosis’ were all about how her developmental milestones were and then that was it. No asking when my girl started self harming, no asking what the home environment is like, my parenting style, what she’s told or not told, how she’s treated, how she treats her siblings…
Even the lies she tells that bother me were treated as if I’m expecting too much. Even the one when it turned out she hadn’t been seeing my dead parent, hadn’t been seeing the devil, didn’t have headaches that had lasted two days and an inability to see properly.
Not the lies that make her out to be a victim and others to look bad. Lies that can get you charged with neglect. The lies about how she doesn’t get treats, only the smaller ones do are just one of the lies told by my angel who purposefully leaves out facts to make herself mistreated. “No, they didn’t give me pain medicine.” But not stating that she hadn’t told anyone she was in pain so they didn’t know they (me) had to give her anything. Consistent lies that are aimed at garnering sympathy by making her seem uncared for.
“I stole from the shop because I knew I’d never be given that sweet.” Except she was at the shop to choose any treat, even sugary, that she wanted.
Or the, “Dad is so proud of himself that he just showed us a photo of himself with all the trophies he has.” Except I knew he didn’t have a whole bunch of trophies. I checked the camera and he’d not even come close to them. And he hadn’t shown ‘them’ anything. Instead she became angry when I asked her brother who she said had been with her when this ‘showing’ happened, and he said nope, dad didn’t even talk to them. Proven by camera footage which showed that he was on his phone as always, in his own world, while the children played elsewhere.
These are just a few examples of the almost monthly lies that mingle with the truth my girl tells.
The psychiatrist asked, “But ISN’T he egotistical?” Doesn’t mean we should add lies to the truth though, does it?
But he knows nothing about my girl. He doesn’t know how she would climb the wardrobe shelves like a monkey scaling up a tree, looking for biology kit blades to slice her finger when she was only six years old.
Nor does he know about the bullying and emotional abuse the mittenknes are subjected to. The tears because they feel guilty that they aren’t bowing to her will and she’s telling them they are mean. How do you tell your little sister she’s mean for NOT wanting you to bath her? It’s not her job to bath her anyway.
We lost tens of thousands of rands and all our psychiatric in patient benefits for the year. For almost nothing. For my girl to spend time in a hotel with many nurses and give my children peace for 19 blissful days before she came back last Saturday. And added meds-as I said. We’ve moved from three times a day to four times. And added meds and took others away. This rivals the six times a day I’m meant to give my non speaker cups of medication.😆And then the other two have meds twice a day.
No wonder I forget my own like I’ve forgotten this evening already. And no wonder I can’t fit time in to prepare my own meals when there are their meals with all their intolerances and no go foods.
“Mommy, we’re playing so nicely! Ammy’s not here…So she’s the problem!” said my then six year old. (She turned seven while her sister was in the hotel.)
And so this morning, my still untreated daughter asked why there’s a key in her sister’s door. “Is it for me?” I was honest. I told her her little siblings are scared of her. (When she starts ranting and raving and stomping out the house, they imagine her entering again like she has done, to harm them with weapons they can’t fight against. Like curtain rods and brooms like she took to target her little brother who had done nothing.
Or they picture her again ramming our glass door with a branch she’s pulled down and off our tree.)
They will never feel safe while she’s this volatile. And neither will I. And not knowing if this is going to be lifelong, doesn’t help.
And neither will I feel that she herself is safe either. The girl who turned gas plates on and saw fire bursting out, trying to burn herself before she went to the hotel, is the same girl who just last week took multiple pills. Set some beta blockers out onto the counter top, took as many as she could while I grabbed as many as I could,and tried to hide other tablets and capsules, fearing she’d run behind me and try grab the key to where I hide the knives, heaters that she used to slice her fingers in front of her little siblings like she did when she wanted to get to the knives. She frantically opened boxes of her little sister’s antipsychotic syrup while I tried to hide other medication, hoping her big brother who I had coaxed to stop her, would be able to stop her swallowing the things she was trying to take.
This is no life for any of us.
And yet, knowing that her little sister is scared of her anger, made her angry too.
She told me to never tell her they are scared of her.
But she had asked, correctly guessing the key is for protection against HER.
My poor, poor children.😔Walking on eggshells thrown into a minefield. How do you protect your children when you don’t know when a bomb will detonate and what will set it off? These bombs even get set off when you’re not even walking in the minefield.
