What does a week-long stay in a psychiatric facility offer your child in North Carolina? Unfortunately, it often amounts to a handful of medications and a brief overview of one of the most challenging times in your life.
When my partner and I drove our son, Ethan, three hours away to a psychiatric hospital following his breakdown at school and an agonizing wait of 256 hours, we were filled with anxiety and tears. Ethan was transported by law enforcement, while we attempted to distract ourselves with the latest episodes of a podcast.
Our time with him was limited to a heartbreaking ten minutes, during which he pleaded with us not to leave, his eyes red and swollen from sleeplessness and worry. I reassured him that I would write to him every day, emphasizing my love and repeating the familiar conversation we had since his breakdown.
Ethan: “This feels like a punishment.”
Me: “It’s not a punishment; it’s a consequence. You know why you’re here.”
Ethan: “Yeah.”
Me: “We want to prevent what happened at school from happening again, right?”
Ethan: “Yeah.”
He displayed incredible bravery, something I had seldom witnessed in him before. He’s usually more focused on his routine than expressing emotions, yet I saw him shed genuine tears throughout those ten days—tears that left his eyes puffy and raw.
As we signed the necessary paperwork, it felt surreal standing in the parking lot, staring blankly at one another. Ethan had never been away from home for long; sleepovers with friends were rare, and he had only stayed with those who understood his challenges. He wasn’t allowed any comfort items, as everything was treated as a potential risk.
I understand the need for safety protocols; the wellbeing of all children and staff is crucial. However, I was struck by the cold demeanor towards parents. It felt like I had signed him over to a correctional facility rather than a place for healing. Communication was restricted to two brief phone calls a week and 20-minute Sunday visits. Throughout this past month—and the eleven years preceding it—I’ve learned that supporting children with mental health issues is a collective effort.
Unfortunately, the facility in Jacksonville did not share this perspective. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been shuttling Ethan between various doctors, following up with his psychiatrist and pediatrician, all while trying to navigate the chaos. He was prescribed the wrong medication and endured three days of vomiting before our pediatrician intervened. We later discovered he was given multiple medications simultaneously and needed adjustments. Every day felt like a precarious balancing act as we awaited his new facility opening in two weeks.
In summary, Ethan was heavily medicated during his stay, spent the entire time in tears, and was sent home with the label of “stable” after only four minutes of discharge paperwork. Despite my daily letters that took days to reach him, we learned after several days that some of his clothing wasn’t permitted, leaving him in tattered shorts throughout his stay. The books I had requested for him never arrived, and the few comforts he had were unreliable.
Some staff members were helpful, but most treated us as if we were the problem.
Feeling Overwhelmed
My partner and I have come to terms with the fact that, despite our education and love for Ethan, we are often overwhelmed by his mental health challenges, particularly his Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder (DMDD). I explain it like this: Ethan has a car that can only move in two ways—at a crawl with minimal gas or at full throttle. For him, the leap from anxious to enraged is frighteningly quick and unpredictable.
We are trapped in a tumultuous relationship with Ethan’s mental illness, and he is our child. There’s no escaping this reality, nor would we want to. He’s still growing and discovering who he is, often unaware of his actions due to the fatigue from anxiety and executive functioning challenges.
This is why we felt compelled to seek emergency help. As his mother, I will always advocate for him. He may not always grasp our decisions and often perceives them as punishment, but he knows I’ll support him unconditionally. During a phone call from the facility, he broke down, saying, “Mom, I just miss you so much.” It was a revelation for him—acknowledging that he could truly miss me, the person who has always been there for him.
Is this a lesson learned? I’m not sure. Visits to the doctor are now daunting for him, and getting through a simple pediatric appointment has become a monumental task. He expresses love more frequently, yet each day remains a struggle for him. Navigating this journey often feels like a day-to-day battle, with unpredictable outcomes.
We had hoped for guidance and support, but instead, we found discouragement and a stark reminder that this journey is far from over.
Was it worth it? No. The psychiatric bed experience felt largely unproductive. While not every facility operates this way, the system leaves parents with limited options. The reality is disheartening—children vying for beds often emerge medicated, confused, and even sicker.
We never expected a miracle cure, but we anticipated gaining more understanding of our son. Unfortunately, the focus seemed to be on mere “stability,” a concept that is difficult to define.
The Challenge of Understanding
One of Ethan’s favorite bands is The Fray. Their song “How to Save a Life” resonates deeply with my relationship with him. The truth is, for families navigating mental health issues, the experience is something only they truly comprehend.
Throughout this ordeal, people have often said, “I just can’t imagine.” I know they mean well, but I do imagine it. I live it daily. Each phone call could signal an emergency, and every new side effect raises alarm. Every night, I find myself battling panic, grappling with fears that are all too real.
If I’ve learned anything from this ongoing experience, it’s that I’m not alone. Many families share this exhausting fight.
The state of healthcare in the U.S. is disheartening. Colleagues from around the world express disbelief at the treatment of children in our system. I recognize it’s not an easy fix, and there’s “work to be done,” as many remind me.
Yet, it’s unacceptable to have reached this point. We are failing children of all backgrounds, especially those lacking resources, who bear the constant fear of job loss and financial instability. What I witnessed at Ethan’s facility was preparation for confinement, not healing.
Finding Hope
We’ve been fortunate to have the support of Hope Creek Academy for the past four years. During a recent conversation with someone from the North Carolina Hospital Association, I finally articulated what I’ve felt about Ethan’s school: Hope Creek Academy has given my son a childhood, something many children like him miss out on. The public school system can be draining—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—leaving little joy.
We didn’t prevent a psychotic break or cure Ethan’s mental illness, but we’ve provided him with understanding. From dedicated teachers to peers who relate to his experiences, and an extended community of parents who know our struggles, we have built a supportive network.
While we can’t overhaul the healthcare system, we can advocate for more schools like Hope Creek Academy and ensure they receive adequate funding to support children in need. My advice? Find your community. Seek out those who understand your journey. They may not always be family, but the support is essential. We must unite to demand better education and healthcare. These children are only young for a short time, and they’re remarkable yet vulnerable beings.
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