Am I Still Ill?

Hurting because my son is having yet another bad time through no fault of his own. A scenario I know only too well. And become less, not more tolerant of as time goes on.

His foster parents are ganging up against him. Accusing him of manipulation and playing mind games. Not understanding what HE is going through. Trying to make out that he has a better life than they do. Not true.

Have done pretty much all I can for today. Contacted all interested parties. Spoken to my Mum and the foster mum and the supervising social worker.

Jasper gives the placement about a month. I want him home. Further foster placements are not the answer. Frying pans and fires come to mind. These are good people. Non-conformists, with creativity and a sense of humour. But sometimes even those of goodwill can fail us when push comes to shove.

I know this scenario inside out and back to front. I have been falsely accused of so many things it’s made me dizzy and nauseous. People have some kind of demon inside themselves which they have to inflict on those who are strong enough to take it. I am innocent as charged, and so is my son.

Was also rudely interrupted while washing my hair this morning by a contingent of six mental health professionals and police. They ‘negotiated’ (read ‘coerced’) an agreement with me that I would ‘work with’ the Home Treatment Team. Something I was not in a position to freely choose, as the threat of hospital was openly held over my head.

‘Work with’? For whose benefit? Certainly not mine. Will they ‘make me better’? No. Will I teach them how to look after mentally ill people more effectively? Probably. But that’s not my beef. My beef is me myself and I. Looking after me and mine. Not showing the professionals how they should be doing their job.

In order not to be dragged off by the strong arm of the authoritarian state to the hell hole that is Downhills Ward, St Ann’s Hospital, for another bout of serious bullying, I had to agree to be patronised and intruded on in my own home and fed medication that my body will probably reject in no uncertain terms.

If you think that is all fine and dandy? You’re way madder than I’ll ever be.

I want my son home. He can protect me and I, him. We understand each other. My son has not had a happy day for two years and nor have I. I wouldn’t know a ‘happy day’ if it jumped up and slapped me in the face, which, knowing my luck, it probably will.