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Notizbuch

This is my story...

My name is Maria, I am 61 years old, and I am writing to tell you my story. The person affected is my husband, with whom I live and have two wonderful daughters.

My story

My name is Maria, I am 61 years old, I work as a nurse, and my husband has been suffering from depression for three years. He spent almost two years, with interruptions, in psychiatric clinics.

When my husband was admitted to the psychiatric clinic in mid-April 2021 and then isolated due to aggression, I was denied information about his condition because he had not said that I could have information. For a week, my daughters and I were left alone and we did not know how he was doing. After I was given the power of attorney, I was then given sparse information.

I visited my husband every other day for the first four months, whenever possible, but no one from the clinic ever asked me how we were doing at home. “We take great care of our patients' families and talk to them regularly”... that's what the hospital's mission statement on their website said. But I felt completely alone. Even his siblings weren't supporting me and the kids anymore. They kept saying I should take him home and everything would be fine. Luckily, I was able to go to work, because at least everyone there understood my situation.

 

Before I had my husband transferred to another psychiatric clinic at the beginning of September 2021, the senior physician told me that I was to blame for his depression and that I no longer wanted him. I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a huge precipice and couldn't understand anything anymore. Instead of receiving help, I was knocked down.

At the new clinic, I initially had the feeling that they would also take care of my well-being, but because of COVID-19, I was only allowed to meet my husband outside the clinic. This meant that I had no contact with anyone at the clinic and had to continue to cope on my own. I worked, tried to visit my husband as often as possible, and at the same time be there for our daughters. At that time, one of my daughters was in the LAP phase, which made things even more difficult for her. That meant I had very little time left for myself. The psychologist I saw during this time was not much help to me. She just said that I shouldn't blame myself and that it was his life. So I was left on my own.

 

After another three months, I had to take him home because the insurance company refused to pay any more. Both our children and I were at our wits' end. He spent most of his time in bed and wasn't interested in anything, not even our daughter's vocational qualification. His siblings hardly ever came to visit him, and when they did, it was only when I wasn't there. The only place where I could talk about my story from time to time was at work. There, I always received support. It was a very difficult time, and I hoped to find help somewhere. No one really wanted to comment on it, or they sent me some websites.

 

At the beginning of May 22, he had to be rushed to the hospital again because he was expressing suicidal thoughts. Now we were left alone again for the next four months, without anyone from the hospital ever asking how we were doing at home.

At the end of September 22, he came home again, the difficult phase continued, and support was still lacking. It got to the point where his siblings interfered in our lives and accused me of not caring enough about him. They said I should finally stop working so that I could be there for my husband 100%. They checked the refrigerator and said he didn't have enough to eat. They also went after the children and told them that they weren't taking enough care of their father. At that time, our younger daughter bought a pony, which became an anchor for her and helped her to process/understand the situation. His siblings accused her of being useless and told her she should see a psychiatrist instead of wasting her time with a pony.

Things almost escalated between my husband's siblings and me and the children. We tried to deal with the situation without professional help.

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On January 23, my husband went back to the psychiatric clinic to finally undergo the long-overdue electroconvulsive therapy. His depression improved rapidly and he is actively participating in life again.  But here, too, it was another nine months alone at home, with no one from the clinic asking how things were going at home. To them, I was just the person who came to visit and took him for a little walk.

It seems to me that people assume that if the sick person is receiving treatment, their relatives will automatically feel good or at least better. No one thinks about the fact that the relatives are also suffering, that their lives are changing too, and that they are confronted with difficult situations.

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My wish is that people should be made more aware that relatives also need support. It would have helped me a lot if I had been able to talk to others about my situation.

 

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