A mother's story

Our nightmare began in 1980. My son was at high school when his behaviour began to change: through his drawings he showed a certain amount of hatred for his dad. I went to our GP and he felt the behaviour was related to his age and it was just a stage he was going through, which I accepted. However, his behaviour did not improve. In fact, it got steadily worse. I remember the last holiday we went on as a family - I was in the laundry room when I heard someone shouting and using the most disgusting language. When I left I realised that the shouting was coming from our caravan: it was my son shouting at my husband. We felt so embarrassed and sickened that we packed up and went straight home.

Eventually, our GP made a psychiatrist's appointment and we were referred to the social work department. The social worker said it was me who had something wrong and not my son. I attended the psychiatrist's appointments myself as my son refused to go. The psychiatrist suggested that the whole family spend a week together in the family unit at a psychiatric hospital: my son would go on his own for one week and the rest of the family would join him for the second week.

My husband had a responsible job in a factory and my daughter was at college, which made it difficult to take time off but we all agreed to go as we would have done anything to help my son. We took him to hospital and he was shown round by one of the nurses. After being shown around he said that he didn't want to stay and as he couldn't be forced, we all returned home. I thought that he had blown his chance for help. We struggled on, on our own, and things just got steadily worse.

We moved to a bigger house, then as well as coping with my son's illness my husband was made redundant and the cottage we were moving into needed extensive renovations. My husband eventually got a new job, and my son started to become violent towards me. He would demand money and take it out of my purse, demanding more and more as he could never get enough.

The violence was terrible: he would grab me round the throat and suddenly stop and apologise; he made holes in the walls and doors of the house; and the language he used towards me was disgusting. I was too frightened to tell the GP about this as I thought that he would be put into prison. To make matters worse he lost the few nice friends he had and, anyone being better than no one, he made friends with two nasty lads. I spent all my time looking for him.

It got to the point where I was living in fear of my own son. I would hide from him in the garden or walk around the streets in my slippers until my husband came home. My husband also began to get abuse and we got to the point where we were locking our bedroom door at night. During this time we couldn't have felt lower. It was worse than any nightmare and although I loved my son, I also felt like I hated him so much.

After five years, things came to a head one night. My son was running around outside the house berserk: he was knocking on a local girl's door and she phoned the police. I also phoned the police and it was the doctor who phoned the hospital. My husband and I were both in tears: we imagined that he would be put in a straight jacket. He was taken away in an ambulance. My poor husband broke down at court as my son was being sectioned. He was told to pull himself together.

My son was in hospital for three months and during that time we visited him every day as well as running our business. However, we were asked to stay away for a while as we were upsetting him too much. We stayed away for three weeks, phoning twice a day. We were asked endless questions by doctors and were given no explanations as to what was wrong. However, we knew that our son was in the best place and the staff were very kind. Later, we would visit him regularly, taking him out for runs and we would take some of of the other patients with us if we went for a coffee to the cafe.

Eventually he was given a diagnosis of schizophrenia. We were devastated: it was like a death sentence. It felt as if we were grieving and I suppose we are still grieving inwardly. It has taken a long time for the correct combination of medication to be found with lots more downs along the way. There has been a massive change in my son since he's been on medication: he is a pleasure to be around now; we are not ashamed to take him out; he has a fantastic sense of humour; and is very friendly. He lives in supported accommodation and comes home to visit us every Friday and returns to his flat on the Monday.

I would like to urge other carers to get support for themselves ( though it was years before I realized I was a “carer”). Never be discouraged or disheartened. If you're determined and look ahead, there is help and plenty of information out there. I have found that the National Schizophrenia Fellowship (Scotland) (now called Support in Mind Scotland) has been a great support and I would urge others to pluck up the courage to go to a carers' group.

Getting in touch with Fife Families Support Project was my lifeline. What I found really wonderful were the home visits. My husband and I were able to relax and talk to the Carers Officer about what we were going through. He was also a valuable source of information.

Although it took me a while to pluck up the courage to go to a support group I am now at my happiest when attending the local meetings . We have become very close and special friends. There is such understanding, such a close bond. This is all part of my life now.