Just when it seemed as though the storm had finally passed, the sun broke through for my daughter. After her exams, she found her place at a creative school—an art academy at vocational level where admission was far from guaranteed. She had to prove herself. With a beautiful portfolio filled with creative work, she won over the teachers and was accepted. From that moment on, everything seemed to fall into place. At that school, she not only discovered her artistic voice but also found two wonderful friends. These girls understood her, shared her passion for art and creativity, and together they formed a close-knit trio. The energy between them was electric, as if they constantly inspired one another to go further, to dive deeper into their creativity. My daughter finally felt at ease in her own skin again. Her radiant smile and the sparkle in her eyes were proof that she was finding herself. She had also found a boyfriend, someone who supported her and encouraged her growth. And the file from her previous psychologist, once such a heavy burden, was now closed with a positive report. Everything pointed toward her being on the right path. She was doing incredibly well, and as a mother, I felt a deep, quiet sense of peace. At last, there was a period in which my daughter could blossom the way I had always known she could. It was a sunny time, a period where everything seemed to align—but as is so often the case, appearances can be deceiving.
The friendship that had once caused so much pain began to resurface, like stubborn weeds finding their way back through cracks in the ground. This friend, now in a gender transition process and struggling with deep depression, found their way back into my daughter’s life. Together, they decided to travel to a distant country, where my daughter’s boyfriend was living at the time. It felt like an adventure, a temporary escape from reality, but that reality soon caught up with them. Later, I learned that this friend—now living as male—had bought and used LSD there, a choice that filled me with fear. The relationship with her boyfriend ended, and her bond with this friend grew stronger than ever. As a mother—and especially as what I call a “Worst mother”—I felt in every fiber of my being that this friendship was doing her more harm than good. Relationships like that can build you up or break you down, and I watched as my daughter was slowly being broken. The shed in the backyard, once a place filled with innocent memories, became a refuge for smoking weed, a place where she withdrew into her own world. She told me she felt depressed again and wanted to return to therapy. That led to sessions at Altrecht, where Wordfather, she, and I went together. In those moments, things still seemed okay between us, as if we were, despite everything, still a unit. Even just before the sessions, we could laugh together—small moments of connection that gave me hope. But she was firm about one thing: the file from her previous psychologist was not to be shared with Altrecht. It felt as though she was hiding something, something she herself wasn’t ready to face.
She wanted an exemption from school, just like her friend had taken a year off for therapy. At first, I tried to support her. I wanted to believe this would help. But as the conversations continued, it became increasingly clear to me that the smoking and her involvement with this friend were only pulling her further away from herself. I fought with everything I had to keep her connected to school, hoping it would remain a lifeline, something she could return to when things stabilized. Eventually, she received the exemption she had hoped for, but the path to it was anything but smooth. Communication with the municipality, which handled the exemption, was confusing and frustrating. At one point, I discovered that an important appointment had taken place without my knowledge. Apparently, I had missed an email announcing it, but even more strangely, I had never confirmed the appointment in the system. Still, it had gone ahead without anyone—neither the school nor the municipality—bothering to call me or inform me. It felt as though I was being excluded from the process, as if my role as a parent no longer mattered. Because of the confusion and lack of clear communication, the municipality referred me to the local support team, as if that would somehow resolve everything. I went to the first meeting reluctantly, unsure of what to expect. It was immediately clear that there was a lot going on—too much, really, to fit into a single conversation. Instead of the clarity and support I had hoped for, I received only a vague recommendation: therapy.
They advised me to go back into therapy, as though that were the answer to everything. But I felt a deep resistance. I had already had so much therapy, spent so many hours talking, analyzing, digging into my past and my emotions. What I needed now was rest. Space to process, space to breathe without constantly having to work on myself. But no one seemed to understand that. The frustration and anger built up inside me like lava in a volcano on the verge of eruption. Everything was going wrong, and this friend of my daughter’s played far too large a role in it. I had always had my doubts, but now, seeing his Instagram posts under a name disturbingly close to that of a terrible illness, I reached my limit. That name, combined with photos of his taped chest, struck something deep inside me. How was I supposed to process that, knowing there are women who lose their breasts to cancer with pain and grief? How could he—and my daughter, under his influence—not see that? My anger pushed me to contact his father, not only to express my concerns about those disturbing posts, but also to talk about the growing distance between my daughter and me. What had once been so close now felt like sand slipping through my fingers.
Instead of understanding, I was met with my daughter’s anger. She felt betrayed, as if I had crossed a line by involving her friend and his father. It escalated even further when this friend told her that I had lied about a skull tattoo she wanted to get. He claimed I had already known about it, while in reality I was hearing about it for the first time. She had never shown me anything, never told me. The idea that she believed I had lied cut deeply. It felt as though the distance between us was growing wider and deeper with each passing day. Wordfather played his part in this dynamic, as he always did. He refused to cooperate in any effort to restore contact and fully supported her decisions—whether about school or her friendship with this boy. Meanwhile, the shed, once just a shed, became a hangout spot where she smoked and withdrew further into herself. I wanted to talk to her, really talk, so I sent her a message: “I’m coming to the shed to talk,” I wrote, hoping it might open the door to an honest conversation. Instead, I received an email from Wordfather—short, firm, and threatening legal action if I came near the shed. And just like that, I found myself back in the same vicious cycle. A place where problems never truly disappeared, where they were only temporarily softened, never resolved. Or perhaps, if I’m completely honest, they were only getting worse. It felt as though I was sinking deeper into a swamp of misunderstanding and conflict, with no way out in sight. ❤️
Geef een reactie