We called time.
We've done the one thing we never thought we would do. We have handed over our son to the hospital, and have said that we cannot take him home.
The last few days have been more than we could bear. We are physically bruised, mentally broken, and completely exhausted. Our beautiful, kind son has become unrecognisable to us. His anorexic behaviour has been violent, nasty, and devious. As well as head butting, kicking and punching, he has bitten and pinched. He has deliberately stamped on my injured foot whilst maintaining a steely gaze into my eyes. He has tried to escape, tried to throw furniture at us, and has been 100% uncooperative.
We couldn't contemplate bringing him to London by train. As it is a bank holiday, the traffic is light, so we all got up at 6.30 to drive to London. The journey was horrific; I had to sit with my legs across Ollie's, holding his head and arms. He fought me the whole way. It took an hour and we both arrived bruised. On entering the hospital building, he landed a blow that completely winded my 6ft husband. A nurse helped us into the unit. The first thing Ollie did? He tried to escape.
We sat in a meeting room and explained that we cannot cope. We cannot keep Ollie safe. We cannot feed him, and cannot administer his meds, at all. We cannot wash him, or change his clothes without a huge fight. He will not lay down to sleep at night. He cannot be left for a moment. We cannot care for him; he will not be cuddled or comforted. We have no way of parenting him.
I'm trying to tell myself that this is not a failure. I'm trying to believe that handing his care to professionals is the best thing for Ollie. But I cannot fight the feeling that I have let him down, that I should be able to be his mum come what may. I hate the thought that I have abandoned him in his hour of greatest need. I walked away. I gave him up. I gave up on him.