For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fighter. I fought to bring my daughter into this world, and I’ve fought every single day since to ensure she has the best life possible. My daughter, now in her twenties, was diagnosed with autism with a PDA profile and ADHD. These labels, while helpful for understanding her unique brain, hardly encapsulate the tumultuous journey we’ve endured together.
I remember the early days, when her laughter was the brightest sound in our home. But as she grew, so did her struggles and frustrations. Her need for control became a force of nature (which I now recognise as an automated drive for autonomy driven by her anxiety), and her emotional storms often turned violent. There were days when I couldn’t recognize my sweet girl, the one with the infectious smile and wicked sense of humour. Instead, I faced a whirlwind of anger, manipulation, and abuse that left me physically bruised and emotionally shattered – not to mention financially broken.
The system, the very one designed to support families like ours, became another adversary. I fought tooth and nail, advocating for the help she so desperately needed. I begged, I pleaded, and I demanded, only to be met with empty promises and dreadful accusations of fabricating or inducing her presentation – no one could see what I was going through and no one believed me. The nights were the hardest, with the echoes of her rage bouncing off the walls, and the chilling fear of what each new day might bring. Some mornings I would wake up not knowing if she had ended her life or one of my children’s lives in the night. Nothing compares with that level of stress and trauma.
I called the police and ambulance service more times than I care to remember, each call a desperate cry for help to keep myself and my other children safe. The guilt and heartbreak were unbearable, knowing that my pleas for intervention were also cries of desperation to protect my daughter from herself. Each visit from the authorities felt like another failure, another reminder of how I was losing control over my own home and my ability to mother.
My mental health deteriorated rapidly. The constant anxiety and fear took their toll, and I often found myself staring blankly at the ceiling, too numb to cry, too exhausted to sleep. I was living in a nightmare where every day was a battle for survival, both physically and mentally. My other children, innocent bystanders in this storm, bore their own scars from the chaos that engulfed our family – they’ve been in therapy ever since.
The decision to place my daughter in a residential setting was the hardest choice I’ve ever made. It felt like tearing out a piece of my soul. But it was also a necessary one, a step towards getting her the intensive help she needed. In that new environment, away from the emotional entanglements of home, she began to make progress. But the cost was a fractured family and an estranged relationship that may never fully heal.
The system failed us. It took years of relentless struggle before we found a semblance of the support we needed, and by then, the damage was done. The trauma of those years, the battles fought and lost, left us broken in ways words can scarcely capture. My daughter is finding her way, but the path to healing for our family is long and uncertain.
Understanding why some children harm their parents is crucial. It’s a complex interplay of unmet needs, neurological differences, and the overwhelming pressure to conform to a world that doesn’t always understand them. There is help out there, but it’s often hidden, buried under layers of red tape and indifference.
If you’re a parent walking this harrowing path, know that you’re not alone. There are resources, communities, and experts ready to help, even if it feels like they’re impossible to find.
For those seeking support, I encourage you to join a webinar hosted by Sunshine Support and PEGS on Tuesday, June 11th. It’s a step towards finding the help you need and deserve. You can book your place here.
We must continue to fight, not just for our children, but for the families and the systems that should support them. Our voices, though strained and weary, can spark the change needed to prevent others from enduring the same pain.
With love and resilience,
A Mother
PDA – A Full-day Intensive Workshop in Derby
Understanding & Supporting Autistic People Who Self-Harm
Understanding & Supporting Dyslexia
