No Child Of Mine by Judith Haire

Don’t talk. Don’t feel. Don’t be. Learn to hide your feelings and thoughts. Yes that’s better. Blame the illness on your genes. You’re mad. You’re bad. There’s no hope for you and we told you so. You can’t blame us – you made your choices. We tried to help you when you were a teenager and very depressed. Don’t you remember? We took you to see a Child Guidance Specialist. He gave you Diazepam and Mogadon didn’t he. Yes it was a shock to us all when you became psychotic. A cocktail of psychotropic drugs, electro convulsive therapy and shame. There, that’s the best we can do. We did come to see you in hospital. We came every day. Some days the nurse told us not to bother because you were in your own little world. The psychiatrist told us he thought you were hallucinating and having delusions. We were very worried about you when you said you didn’t want to take your medication any more. Shouldn’t you have been on a maintenance dose? Yes we knew you had side effects but surely there was other medication you could have taken for those? Oh and you have cataracts? Don’t worry we can operate on your eyes – did you take Chlorpromazine by any chance? We’ll get your sight back. And your eyes will be like brand new.

You can’t have your job back you’re dead wood and you’ve taken too much sick leave.

Try to do something useful with your life dear. Oh you wanted children? Well it’s probably best you didn’t. Not with your history.

It’s not our fault. We had no idea you were struggling. We didn’t realise just how far we had pushed you. Now you say you were in an abusive relationship well we told you to leave. Yes you did leave and you broke down. That’s what comes of bottling it all up dear.

No one can hear your headaches you’ve got to find your voice

I can hear screaming. After a moment I realise it’s me. I’m sobbing. I shout out “He’s going to get me” I sit up suddenly. I shake.

I’m cold. I wrap myself more tightly in my blankets and try to sleep. Memories of another day are receding. Full of self-loathing I promise myself I will seek help tomorrow. I pick up the phone. I talk to a well being practitioner. I explain I’m having night terrors. She tells me that children have night terrors, I know. They’ve never gone away. I can hear her typing. She doesn’t understand. I go to one session of counselling. I go to another but leave half way through. Still, no one hears my voice;

Far be it from me –