I get jealous sometimes.
The freedom my friends have when talking about their children. Justifiably proud mother hens, their pride gentle and understated. No one is judging them. No one is second-guessing.
If they walked up to a stranger and said, “My children are wonderful,” it would probably be met with a smile. A small celebration.
If they shared a vulnerability, they would be met with reassurance and support.
But for me, talking to professionals about my children – strangers to us – was different. My words were written down on paper, sceptically. Confidentiality used like a wall to keep me out. My observations and memories recorded, but not really heard.
My motivation questioned.
My intentions examined.
Who I am as a mother quietly doubted.
Worst of all, the silence around my voice – the one that knows him best – is slowly unravelling the support meant to hold him up.
Maybe they are diligent. Maybe they care.
It’s hard to tell.
So I justify. I plead. I repeat myself, hoping to be understood, hoping to be taken seriously.
Because this is life and death.
And I give everything.
Did they hear me?
Will they help?
Do they understand?
I can’t tell. They aren’t doing anything.
Those people, maybe trapped within the chapter that talks about damaging childhoods and overbearing parents. Or they are tired from a long shift. They’ve seen it before. It was fine last time. It can be dealt with tomorrow.
There was no reassurance.
No advice.
No humility.
No reflection.
Just judgement. And silence.
And it wasn’t only professionals.
A close family member once accused me of exaggerating. The pain that caused me could have destroyed me. To be told by someone you love and trust that what happened didn’t happen the way you said it did.
They had watched everything unfold from the sidelines. Surely they understood?
I wanted to shout, scream, cry, plead.
But what’s the point?
They will never understand.
I cannot give up. Love for my adult child carries me forward. And the fact that I endure does not mean it wasn’t real.
I am a good mum who loves her amazing children.
Why should I have to justify that?
Just hear me.
Just trust me.
And don’t judge.
Because if someone had simply listened – really listened –
if I had been trusted, reassured, supported, given the tools to help, all of it would have been avoided.