The Enchanted Life

“Because enchantment, by my definition, has nothing to do with fantasy, or escapism, or magical thinking: it is founded on a vivid sense of belongingness to a rich and many-layered world; a profound and whole-hearted participation in the adventure of life. The enchanted life presented here is one which is intuitive, embraces wonder and fully engages the creative imagination – but it is also deeply embodied, ecological, grounded in place and community. It flourishes on work that has heart and meaning; it respects the instinctive knowledge and playfulness of children. It understands the myths we live by; thrives on poetry, song and dance. It loves the folkloric, the handcrafted, the practice of traditional skills. It respects wild things, recognises the wisdom of the crow, seeks out the medicine of plants. It rummages and roots on the wild edges, but comes home to an enchanted home and garden. It is engaged with the small, the local, the ethical; enchanted living is slow living.

Ultimately, to live an enchanted life is to pick up the pieces of our bruised and battered psyches, and to offer them the nourishment they long for. It is to be challenged, to be awakened, to be gripped and shaken to the core by the extraordinary which lies at the heart of the ordinary. Above all, to live an enchanted life is to fall in love with the world all over again. This is an active choice, a leap of faith which is necessary not just for our own sakes, but for the sake of the wide, wild Earth in whose being and becoming we are so profoundly and beautifully entangled.”

The Enchanted Life, Sharon Blackie

Transformation

I’m ashamed to say that this was the landing not so long ago. A plastic crate of toiletries that landed here soon after the move, a chandelier that came with us from The House in the Sky but which needs an electrician to install, a bag of Christmas gifts that hadn’t found a home, a soft toy that Ivy was throwing out, a bag of old toy cars that Lily had finally agreed to get rid of, and several large samples of wallpaper purloined from B&Q for future use. A mess, in other words – but a mess that I had gotten so used to that I’d stopped actually seeing it. Is it just an ADHD thing? My mind is very capable of cataloguing clutter and then completely ignoring it, as if it weren’t there at all, particularly if the items are destined for elsewhere like the tip or charity shop. It’s only when something else intrudes into the domestic chaos, like knowing a visitor is about to descend, or -god forbid- deciding to put the house on the market, that suddenly the mess reveals itself through fresh eyes.

Panic.

The timescale of getting the house onto the market and selling it was pretty tight. Having only made my mind up in early March, it was clear that the house would have to be sold before June in order to complete all the legalities and move in to our new home before the September term started and Ivy begins her GCSE courses. Of course, we couldn’t move out before mid-June either, as Lily would be taking her GCSEs. The house would have to be on the market by early April to stand any chance of making the deadline.

More Panic.

Truth be told, every corner of the house contained a scene like the one above. We were still adjusting to living in a house less than half the size of our previous home, a house bought on the understanding that the kids would only be spending half of the week here, with half of their possessions stored at Simon’s place. Home-making had fallen victim to a court case in the first year here, to stress and mental health challenges, to Lily’s increasingly worrying behaviour and Ivy’s depression and anxiety. At times, I would beat myself up for not having managed to create the lovely home that I wanted, for failing to give my children the home they deserved. And yet, it was all too easy to forget the progress that I’d already made, despite the obstacles in my way. When we moved in, every single room was piled high with packing boxes. I joked with the kids that we’d be renaming the place Box Cottage. The washing machine didn’t fit under the counter and sat in the middle of the kitchen, boxes piled on top of it. A wardrobe wouldn’t fit up the narrow stairs and had to be abandoned in the garden, where it stood slowly rotting. We didn’t have a sofa, or beds, or wardrobes or any storage at all. Oh, and I had clearly underestimated the amount of space that the piano would take up in the living room, or wildly overestimated how big the living room actually was.

Panic Overload.

Single-handedly I chiselled out enough counter-top to fit the washing machine beneath, planned and built large IKEA wardrobes, found a secondhand sofa in a charity shop that would fit our tiny living room. The piles of boxes were gradually unpacked, even though some of them sat untouched for a full year before I was ready for them. A log-burner was paid for by instalments and fitted that first Summer, paying me back in the next Winter when the boiler broke and we had no heating. A ridiculous amount of flat-pack furniture was hauled up the stairs and assembled, our existing furniture heaved into different rooms. A new home was found for the piano with a local family. Pictures were hung on walls. A garden began to take shape, a log store was built from pallets. A rudimentary cabinet was built for a gap in the kitchen, shelves and hooks put up where needed, power tools and DIY gear beginning to overflow from the box I was keeping them in. If I stopped and assessed the situation, I had made so much progress from how things were when we moved in. Overwhelmed by how much still needed to be done, it was all too easy to forget how far I’d already come.

So much needed doing before the house could go on the market – the shower needed replacing, the back porch needed a leak fixing and a new ceiling, the render on the front extension needed some patches filling and repainting, the hall needed decorating, the broken decking out in the garden needed fixing or demolishing… not to mention the vast amount of decluttering, tidying and general prettifying that was desperately required. Nothing focuses the mind quite like a deadline though, and so suddenly workmen were hired to do the jobs that had been lurking for ages, while I scrambled to tackle the rest; trips to the tip, painting, tidying, cleaning, painting some more, weeding and strimming, buying light fittings and plants, taking bag after bag of donations to the charity shop or listing things on eBay. A month of sheer hard work and the house has been transformed.

Part of me couldn’t quite believe how capable I was proving to be, having only just turned the corner from severe depression. There was just no other option than to crack on with it, so that’s what I was doing – while also handling simultaneous EHCP and PIP applications for Lily. The other part of me couldn’t believe how much of a transformation was possible in such a short space of time. The house has begun to look and feel completely different. For the first time since we’d moved in, it feels like our home, comforting and sweet. Yes it’s small, but it does the job. We have all begun to appreciate it in a new way, enjoying the calmer, nicer atmosphere. Even the smallness feels cosy rather than cramped, with an awareness that living in such proximity has brought us closer. But it wasn’t just the house that has transformed. Many people have pointed out the link between our external spaces and our state of minds; a cluttered house is a sign of a cluttered mind. The hard work I’ve been putting in is rebuilding my confidence and strength; I’m proving to myself that I was capable, despite the lingering voice of abuse telling me that I’m useless, a failure. Decluttering is bringing a fresh clarity to my mind. Even just having made the decision to move has brought with it a newfound sense of hope and purpose rather than the fear and stagnation that I was stuck in. Can’t has become Can. And while it’s terrifying to leap into the unknown, leaving the lives we’ve created here behind in order to start over, I’ve already proven the basic fact to myself; I can do this.

The gentle art of leaf wine

Calm. Not just the popular app but a quality of life I’ve been craving. Gentleness. Quietness. Appreciation. Kindness. I’ve found myself seeking out tranquil videos on YouTube, the likes of Li Ziqi and Dianxi Xiaoge. It doesn’t matter that I can’t understand a word – in fact it seems to soothe my jangling nerves to not have to listen as someone endlessly rabbits on from the usual script; Hi guys, welcome to my channel, today we’re going to be looking at filling every available moment with meaningless chatter, don’t forget to like and subscribe!

I realise I’m trying to create a gentler life. I’ve always been drawn to bright colours and bohemian styling, but increasingly I’m replacing this with a more soothing, harmonious palette. Minimalism might be a step too far, but I’m drawn to the calm aesthetics and tranquil spaces that it espouses. I keep paring back, decluttering, discovering that the only thing I want more of is plants.

For a while now I’ve wondered about making my own videos as a form of appreciation for the gentle moments in life. I don’t have any specialist equipment or experience and I have no desire to appear on camera – yet my video watching has shown that there can be another way. Whether it’s Colette at Bealtaine Cottage talking to camera as she films her beautiful permaculture garden, or one of the many minimalist living vlogs that focus on food, design or gardening, I’ve found so much inspiration from videos that people have been brave enough to share. And it does seem like an act of bravery, given the number of trolls, haters and critics, people who don’t seem to care whether their words hurt or crush someone. Although there are a lot of people hoping to become famous YouTubers, not everyone shares that ambition. Some just want to create, or inspire, or share their knowledge.

It’s in that spirit that I’ve created my first video, about making hedgerow wine, a hobby I’ve had for several years now. So many people have asked me how to make wine that it seemed worthwhile to make a video on the subject. Not wanting to point a camera at my face while I jabber on about sterilising demijohns and the rules of foraging, I’ve aimed for the peaceful aesthetic that I’ve admired in others.

If you are tempted to try making leaf wine it needs to happen in Spring, while the leaves are soft and fresh, before they are too full of tannins. Most of the equipment can be found secondhand, or on Freecycle or similar, while Wilkinson’s/Wilko seem to be one of the few high street chains that carry wine and beer making equipment, such as yeast, citric acid etc. Leaf wines are one of the easiest and most reliable to make, and should be ready before Christmas – just please make sure you know which tree you’re taking the leaves from, use a reliable tree guide or ask a more experienced forager for help.

Moving on

Struggling, falling, crashing and breaking. Gluing the pieces of our fractured lives back together and carrying on somehow. Crawling back to the starting line, trying to rise, then inevitably getting knocked back down again. Each time thinking I’ve found my feet, can begin to build things up, only to be hit with another setback that brings everything crashing down again. This has been the debilitating pattern of the past five years, each fresh round feeling harder, bringing me down further. The last few months have seen another mental health crisis, the worst yet, this time brought on by struggling to deal with events at school. The Head of Pastoral lied on Lily’s school record in order to cover up his own failings, in a way that makes me look like the world’s scummiest mother – but the school insisted that they weren’t going to change it. Despite having to fight so hard for my children over the past five years, having struggled (and largely failed) to get the school to provide both the academic and pastoral support they both need, school are essentially saying “We think you’re scum.” The last straw, anyone?

Knowing that this teacher is deliberately lying and misrepresenting our conversation took me back emotionally to having to fight Simon’s lies and accusations in court, the ongoing struggle to clear my name, to have someone, anyone, actually look at the evidence and believe me. In these situations you’re not only left fighting the abuse, or the failings of the school in this case, you’re then left fighting the ensuing lies about the situation. It re-triggered the PTSD that I thought I was largely getting over; back to severe depression, anxiety attacks, insomnia, daily life slipping through my fingers as I was left unable to catch onto the threads that hold us together.

Of course, it’s not just dealing with school that’s brought this on. It’s the ongoing battle to heal the PTSD caused by Simon’s abuse. The daily 24/7 difficulties of having a teenager with autism, ADHD, epilepsy and gender issues. The realisation that likely myself and my younger daughter are also on the spectrum, struggling day to day in our own way. The relentless battle of being a single mother, coping alone with the responsibilities. The same reluctant mantra playing through my head: It’s just too much.

My GP urged me to challenge the school, make a formal complaint, but I simply didn’t have the energy – my own survival was of more importance. Nor do I have any faith in the school’s ability to respond with objectivity. As I fought to recover, the realisation grew that I’m just too tired. Life here is too hard – trying to heal from trauma, cope with illness after illness, handle two incredibly challenging teenagers while struggling on with the daily demands, no support, no back up plan. When I get sick, whether that’s my physical or mental health, it all falls apart. And realistically, there’s nothing I can do to change it – we can’t afford to move house here unless it’s to a worse area, even further from school. Unless, that is, I opt for something more radical; shifting us over 150 miles North, to be nearer family, in hopefully a better house (heck, I’m just hoping for a parking space somewhere near my front door!), a school for Ivy within walking distance – or at least closer than 11 miles away, and the chance for Lily to attend a specialist music course. I’ve ummed and ahhed and agonised, but ultimately it seems the best option; the fresh start I was planning when we moved from The House in the Sky over two years ago, but never got the chance to have. For several weeks I found myself saying “I think it’s for the best, but I can’t quite decide…” before realising that the decision had already been made, deep down, and just need to be spoken out loud.

We’re going to move.

The Accidental Runner

I’ve taken up running, entirely by accident. I’m not even sure how it happened. One minute I was a fervent anti-runner, would never have put the words fun and run in the same sentence… then quietly over Christmas, my body started whispering that maybe she might quite like to start running, much in the same way that she’d whispered earlier last year that she thought she’d really rather enjoy swimming. The swimming has been going -ahem- swimmingly, my face spontaneously breaking out into a grin when I enter the water and begin my old-lady-breaststroke 15 lap minimum. But running? Surely not. Running involved getting hot, sweaty, red-faced and out of breath, putting undue pressure on feet that had only just recovered from plantar fasciitis, and being seen in public wearing dodgy Lycra outfits. Yet my body remained quietly insistent that yes, running was what was required, and I know by now that it’s generally worth paying attention to what my body says she wants. It’s only taken me 46 years to understand this.

Apart from a brief spell of jogging in my teens, which was as much about wanting to get as close to Nature as I could in urban Liverpool as it was about actual exercise, I’ve never been running. Plus this time around it was Christmas, I was at my parents’ home in Liverpool without so much as a T-shirt or pair of trainers and with a large pile of chocolate to work my way through. As actual running was clearly not an option, I did the next best thing – reading about it. Firstly Anna McNuff’s The Pants of Perspective, an account of her solo run through New Zealand- literally all of New Zealand, from South to North. Crazy Lady. While impressive and inspiring in its own way – and kinda funny in that McNuff clearly isn’t a planner and the trip was alarmingly and refreshingly ad hoc rather than having been thrashed out in military detail beforehand – it didn’t have much relevance for a couch potato like me who’s not in the habit of tackling a mere 40k before breakfast. Bring on Bryony Gordon’s Eat, Drink, Run. Overweight and struggling with severe mental health issues, Gordon found herself running as a way of dealing with her depression… then, in her role as a journalist and mental health advocate, ended up chatting over-enthusiastically to several members of the Royal Family, and accidentally putting herself forward to run the London Marathon. Which meant that she really did have to take up running. Much more relatable. Not that McNuff’s book wasn’t enjoyable, just that it’s far easier for me to relate to someone who is completely unfit and falling apart and then takes up running by accident.

A Proper Running Shop was required to buy myself a decent pair of running shoes, realising that my “good” trainers were over twenty years old. The very nice man had me running on a treadmill to check my gait and found shoes with as much support as possible, given my previous injuries. Testing several pairs out in this way showed me that there really is a difference; with some of the shoes I felt flat-footed and landed heavily, while others felt much lighter and bouncy. Although blimey, they don’t come cheap. Terrified that I’d wasted a ridiculous amount of money on trainers that I’d never wear again, I signed myself up to the aptly named NHS Couch to 5k app, and the Red January programme run in association with Mind, the mental health charity, with the aim of exercising every day in January. Then on the 2nd January, I crept out into the grey light of dawn and with Sarah Millican’s reassuring voice in my ears, began my first run along the nearby cycle track. Or rather, my first walk. Week One had me walking for 90 seconds, running for 60 for repeated intervals. My Aldi fitness leggings began sliding down with every step, leaving me clutching the waistband so as not to get arrested for public decency offences. My other hand juggled my phone and water bottle. It was freezing out and I was nervous that I wouldn’t even manage Day One as I was so out of condition. But I made it, with an imaginary orchestra playing a triumphant Thus Spake Zarathustra behind me as the final seconds counted down (that one from 2001, A Space Odyssey.)

I’ve just completed Week 3 of the Couch to 5k app, now up to running three minutes at a time. My body is loving it, craving it even. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a rubbish runner, just as I’m a rubbish swimmer; I have no intention of entering any kind of 5k race or timing my personal bests. I’m just doing this for me. What I’ve realised is, it doesn’t matter whether or not I’m any good at it. Doing it anyway is what counts.

Fire-fighting and the Magic Button

“I’d like this year to have less fire-fighting,” I tell my counsellor. “I want things to be a bit calmer.”

She looks at me. “Is that realistic, given Lily’s difficulties?”

The impact of her words hits my chest like a punch. As ridiculous as it might seem to an outsider, I hadn’t actually considered that. I’d merely assumed that I was doing something wrong and that the stresses and emotional turmoil we endured over the last year could hopefully begin to fade away if I just tried harder, worked on myself, operated from a place of stronger mental health. Maybe meditating, drinking green smoothies, reading the right book; somehow there had to be a way of finding normality, of making everything okay. The Magic Button, in other words.

When you have a child with difficulties such as autism and ADHD, people look to you for the Magic Button. Teachers, grandparents, even going way back to kindergarten and crèche workers will all at some point sit you down and inform you that your child isn’t responding to them the way he/she should be, and is misbehaving (“making poor choices” in modern day teacher-speak) and so could you please give them the Magic Button? You know, the one key phrase or action that means your child will suddenly switch off their challenging behaviour and behave perfectly for them.

Over and over you explain that there’s no quick fix, no instant solution, no Magic Button. That you really have nothing to offer other than the general advice to try and keep a sense of humour, patience, very clear instructions etc, and that some days none of it will work. That Lily is genuinely not capable of holding it together 100% of the time, that 80% is pretty good and she just can’t manage that final 20%. They won’t accept that though. If she’s capable of “making the right choices” 80% of the time, surely she can do this 100% of the time? She just needs to make better choices, that’s all. So if you can give them the Magic Button, they can get her to 100%, tick all the boxes and go home happy.

“There is no Magic Button,” you find yourself explaining yet again. My God, you wish there was.

I hadn’t realised that I’d got into that same mindset myself. Expecting myself, or an as yet unknown professional to suddenly come up with the Magic Button that would “fix” Lily’s behaviour. If I found the right supplement, or therapist, or managed to explain things to her in the right way, it would all click into place and life would begin to flow more smoothly. It’s very hard to accept that this isn’t an option. Weirdly, it’s hard to accept that maybe I’m not actually doing anything wrong.

Of course, it’s impossible to tell how capable Lily really is. It seems that she can be intelligent and relatively capable when she wants to be, but demand avoidance and Oppositional Defiance Disorder combined with ADHD mean that it’s virtually impossible to motivate her when she’s not interested. Given that she still refuses to do any studying, despite her GCSEs rapidly approaching this year, it’s evident that her grades could be improved if she put even a tiny amount of effort in. But she won’t. And there’s the issue – do I accept that refusal as part of her condition, or do I continually fight against it? Similarly, should she accept that part of her make-up that leads her into stubborn refusals and defiance, or should she work to change it? Can it be changed, or even improved a little? I don’t have any answers, see-sawing between feeling sure that Lily needs pushing to do better, or wondering whether in fact she’s more disabled than anyone gives her credit for.

“It’s like trying to push a double decker bus up a hill,” I explained to the counsellor, describing how it felt to battle to support Lily every day. “Exhausting, demoralising and you can’t make any progress upwards, all you’re doing most of the time is trying to stop her from sliding back down the hill into the swamp.” The swamp – my fear for Lily, borne out by too many of the ASD/ADHD families we’ve met – of a child/teenager/adult who never comes out of their bedroom and spends their entire life playing computer games, rather than existing out in the real world in any meaningful way. So what? some people might say, the kind of just let them do what they want and keep them happy philosophy that I’ve learned doesn’t work with Lily. A life spent playing computer games in the bedroom is a life only half-lived – and when you know your child has more to offer than that, it’s heartbreaking to see their gifts go to waste. Lily could achieve a lot with her music, if she could manage to stay on track and put some effort in, particularly if this was backed up with the right educational support. And there goes the next major issue, the total lack of provision for autistic kids, which warrants an entire post in itself. Every single day brings the same battles over the basics; getting up on time, cleaning teeth, studying, bathing, chores, homework, getting off the computer, bedtime… “What happens if you just don’t?” one mother asked me. Then she won’t do them. She simply doesn’t get out of bed, misses school, smells bad and the mouldy dishes pile up in her bedroom while she builds her Minecraft empire late into the night. There’s choosing your battles and there’s what if all of it’s a battle? Because if you ease off, even a fraction, the bus starts to roll downhill, likely flattening you in the process. And then there’s the phone calls from school…

That week, the same quote keeps appearing in different guises. You can’t calm the storm, you can only calm yourself. You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to ride them. A sense of acceptance is beginning to form, the tiniest seed of realisation that needs to be nurtured; I need to detach. I can’t stop the storm, but I don’t need to hurl myself into the raging waters. If life is never going to be smooth or easy – if the firefighting is going to be endless – then I need to take a step back and find my anchors, develop the self care practices that are going to keep me calmer and help me cope better. I’m never going to be able to stop the stress from arriving, but perhaps I can try to create the space in my life to help me deal with it. A combination of detaching emotionally so that I’m not getting hurt on a personal level by whatever’s happening, while also vastly improving my own self care and support systems so as to be able to stand stronger and not crumble each time the storm hits. The image I have is of being able to watch the storm through a window, rather than battling to survive the elements in a tiny boat as I’m battered by wave after angry wave. That’s the idea, yet turning it into a reality remains an unknown quantity. Still, it feels that I’m sitting with the right questions at least, even if I don’t yet have the answers, nor the Magic Button. Perhaps the Magic Button was always the individual’s coping mechanisms, and not about the SEN child at all.

The trouble with CYPS

Another CYPS appointment; drive over 11 miles to school to collect Lily, drive 11 miles straight back to the clinic where the session is held. Sit in a waiting room where Heart FM is playing at full blast, in case Sarah, the therapist decides to involve me in the session. The chairs are ridiculously uncomfortable, the inane shouty DJ is giving me a headache and there’s nowhere to get a cup of tea. I wait for half an hour, trying to use the time to answer emails, before I’m summoned into the room. Sarah begins telling me about how she’s been learning about Lily’s interests and would I like to hear about what she’s been doing on the computer? I bite my tongue before I can point out that I live with Lily, that the computer is in the living room and therefore I get to see and hear what Lily is doing on the computer. Every. Single. Day.

Sarah tells me what Lily has been doing on the computer and asks me for my reaction. Lily’s computer use is highly problematic for us as a family; she becomes obsessive and addictive while on it, and entirely disregards all of the rules and agreements that we’ve made about it, namely that she needs to have done her homework, revision and any outstanding chores before using the computer. Time and again I’ve had to drag myself out of bed to tell her to get off the computer and go to bed, even after midnight. While gaming online, she yells, screams and swears at the top of her voice no matter how many times I intervene and tell her not to. If I try to turn the computer off, she physically fights me to stop me – the only thing I can do is then confiscate the entire thing when she’s at school. Rather than do what it takes to get the computer back – chores and homework (and by chores I literally mean one small task per day) – she then resorts to aggression or emotional blackmail such as threatening to kill herself if she doesn’t get it back. She switches it on as soon as she gets back from school, or first thing in the morning if there’s no school, and will remain on it all day and late into the night. If Ivy needs to use the computer for homework, there will be yet another fight. Lily will promise anything to get the computer/internet back when it’s in Time Out, but will never stick to those agreements. She has posted videos on YouTube in which she’s ranting, swearing and being aggressive, and refuses to take them down, has posted one in which she was improvising a flamethrower in Simon’s kitchen, and I narrowly managed to prevent her posting a video in which she cried hysterically while claiming she’d been diagnosed as a psychopath. She simply has no concept of the damage that she could cause for herself or others, that dodgy online stuff has a nasty habit of reappearing in the future, and so I’ve banned her from “vlogging” – yet another rule that she entirely disregards.

Sarah is aware that I’m broken, exhausted and struggling. She’s aware that computer use is a contentious issue. Yet she seems displeased when I respond through gritted teeth that while it’s great that Lily has for example made some music on the computer, she shouldn’t be playing on it unless she’s done her homework and her chores. She sends Lily out of the room and essentially tells me off, albeit couched in friendly therapist speak, for not managing to be enthusiastic about Lily’s computer use. That I’m too critical, I’m not affectionate enough, that she has a duty of care towards Lily and needs to ensure Lily is not subjected to emotional harm. Really? I think, Where the hell where you when Simon was subjecting the three of us to severe emotional and psychological abuse? How come all the evidence I’ve gathered, including the audio recording that Lily made of him being hugely abusive and attempting to alienate them from me has been entirely ignored by the authorities? Seriously, you’re going to insinuate that I’m being emotionally abusive because I can’t fake a happy face about Lily breaking the computer rules on a daily basis? Sarah goes on to point out that last week’s session was about addressing my needs and we’re now getting support from Early Help. Um – do you mean the session where I was kept waiting for over half an hour, feeling worthless because I’m evidently not important enough for anyone to speak to, and triggered because that’s the kind of thing Simon used to do? Also no – I’ve had a referral to Early Help. I’ve not had any actual help yet. So basically, nothing has changed since we first walked in to the clinic a month ago, yet Sarah is acting as if I’ve now had all the support in the world and the issue is that I’m just not patient and positive enough around Lily. Sarah also appears to have forgotten that she brokered a deal with Lily about her computer use during the last session, one which Lily has entirely disregarded; evidently Sarah is not going to hold Lily accountable for this, but rather is reinforcing Lily’s poor behavioural choices, making me look like the Bad Guy for insisting that Lily follows the rules.

Lily was referred by the pastoral team at her school as an emergency case. At the time she’d punched other kids at school, was acting aggressively and threatening members of staff, and was disruptive in class, claiming she could see people who weren’t there, or demons climbing up the walls. She had been self harming, and her behaviour was becoming more and more bizarre as she imitated characters from her favourite anime, literally living out her day as a fictional character. Also – and the part which seems to be continually overlooked – she had threatened me, firstly with a heavy stone pestle and then with the kitchen knife. What I find most disturbing – as well as the knife incident – is that she was deliberately faking having psychotic episodes. She didn’t really see people or demons, she was acting out. The self harm was carefully controlled, scratching rather than cutting, and displayed to others at school. In addition, the only time she ever shows me affection is when she wants something. Every time. If she starts cuddling up to me, I can feel myself getting tense because I know she’s about to demand something from me. Sarah was emphasising that Lily was a child with diagnoses, but then again she had Lily down as being 14. Lily will be 16 in three months. If she continues punching people and being aggressive, she’ll get arrested. If she continues acting out like a crazy person, she’ll be sectioned. It doesn’t matter to the police that she’s deeply immature or autistic, if she’s behaving like a menace to the public then they’ll take action against her – and as she will continue to be aggressive towards the arresting officer, the situation will spiral out of control. I suppose I’m lucky that we don’t have guns. In America, Lily would have been singled out as a potential school shooter. I’m not trying to make some kind of sick joke – she would literally be on the “concern” list, invited in for regular chats with the school counsellor as her behaviour has been so extreme.

If Lily was my partner, people would be urging me to leave her; the pathological lying, the aggression, the total lack of regard for other people. But she’s my child, therefore I’m expected to not even complain. The reality is that I need respite, it’s a lot easier to manage her behaviour if I’ve been able to take a break from caring for her 24/7. When you’re having to fight the same battles day in day out – over issues as simple as Lily cleaning her teeth, or taking a bath, never mind homework and computer use, it becomes exhausting and demoralising. When you’re dealing with aggression day in day out, it wears you down and erodes your self confidence. If I got a job at a specialist school for autistic children, I’d be given training and support. As a parent it’s a case of just getting on with it – or the offer of yet another parenting course in which you’re told to be positive and enthusiastic, or even to just give the kid exactly what they want to keep them quiet. Broke the computer again? Oh well, let’s buy you another one. I wish I was joking, but that’s what the advice on Challenging Behaviour workshops boils down to. Nobody ever works one-to-one with your child on a sustainable therapeutic basis; instead the onus is always put back on the parent; untrained, exhausted and demoralised, to somehow wave a magic wand and make it all better.

We should have had a referral to CYPS about seven years ago. It should have been automatic when Lily was referred to the Tavistock with gender dysphoria, but we were knocked back. We’ve had one six week block of art therapy for her about five years ago when the service was still CAMHS and Lily was newly diagnosed with ADHD, but several rebuttals since then. I’m aware that children’s services are woefully overstretched and underfunded, but I refuse to say that we’re “lucky” to have had the limited support that we’ve had. It’s a disgrace. Even before she’d met Lily, Sarah was hinting that perhaps talking therapy might not be appropriate and seeming very much like she wanted to take us off her case list before she’d even started, the easiest way of clearing out the waiting list. The trouble is there is nothing else. If CYPS don’t help us, it’s the end of the road, unless I pay for private therapy. Yet it’s clear that at the moment, I need therapy myself – if I go under, both of the kids go under, and I can’t pay for all of us at once. We might only get 8 sessions with CYPS, and Sarah is going to be moving away halfway through those, leaving Lily with someone else – my next fear is that we’ll get no further than essentially having two rounds of getting to know you sessions with two different therapists, and no actual progress will be made. In the meantime I’ve now had four occasions of leaving the CYPS clinic feeling utterly demoralised to the point of suicide. I’ve had to sit on a park bench, sobbing in public until I could calm down enough to drive us home, knowing that if I had a knife in my bag I’d be using it on my wrists. Each time, I’m left fighting to survive, building myself back up before trying to repair the additional damage that has been done to the relationship between Lily and me.

A recent documentary showed how nationwide CYPS is underfunded and overstretched, and that children and young people are repeatedly being turned away while their problems grow worse. As a parent it’s heartbreaking and terrifying to watch your child’s condition worsen week by week while not being able to get them the help they need – unless of course you can afford to pay for private treatment. Frustration and anger build as GPs refuse to even attempt to refer you to further services. Again and again you’re told that there’s nothing they can do, or that your child’s problems aren’t serious enough, while you watch your child slipping further down, further away, losing them a bit more each day. Your stress and anxiety build, until it reaches the point where you need help too, and your own ability to cope and support them diminishes. And because the “support,” if and when it arrives, has been so hard-won, you close your eyes and pretend that it’s fine, it’s making a difference, even when it’s not. You don’t dare complain for fear of losing everything. I’ve met countless families where this is the nightmare reality. Our kids are stressed and sick and left to get on with it. Our autistic kids are entirely ignored and unsupported. Meanwhile no one is taxing the rich or the corporations and the luxury goods market is at an all time high. A local aristocrat featured in a documentary about the wealth divide, shrugging her shoulders that “poor” people were just jealous of her lifestyle and needed to work harder (she herself had married into a titled family.) No. The system is stacked against us, social mobility becoming increasingly harder in a world of Zero Hours contracts, huge university fees, student loans, eye-wateringly expensive property prices and precious little job security, not to mention the nightmare that Universal Credit has been. But we’re not jealous of Cartier watches and polo ponies. We’re angry that our kids are being left to rot so that the rich can feel even richer.