A Good Enough Father

One of my central preoccupations is my efficacy as a father in the context of having schizophrenia.

I have enjoyed many privileges that most fathers do not experience. I worked from home and balanced my PhD with being a stay-at-home dad. My ex-partner returned to work after her maternity leave, and I spent the four years that followed taking my daughter for long walks through the local forest. We developed a routine that worked for us and accommodated my condition. "Sleep when the baby sleeps" is actually quite good advice for someone in my situation. We traced the same route day after day for months: breakfast, a walk around the woods, and a nap under a tree.

This sounds idyllic, and in many ways it was. Older men would pass us and confide in me that they wished they had spent as much time with their children as I was spending with mine.

On one occasion, I spilt a coffee and burned my daughter's legs. We attended the Accident and Emergency department, where it became clear to me that my diagnosis was influencing my interactions with healthcare staff. I was not simply a father presenting after a tragic mistake. I was a case of "dad has schizophrenia, and his child is injured."

For several years, this rhythm sustained us. For the most part, I functioned under circumstances that would have been difficult for many people. Caring for a young child while working remotely and completing a PhD is demanding under the best of conditions.

While these were the best days of my life, bar none, they were not without challenges. We lived in a small one-bedroom bungalow. Our daughter slept in our bed. She cried in the night, as all infants do, and kicked and wriggled as a toddler. Sleep has always been one of the foundations of my stability. Spending long days caring for a young child while managing academic and professional responsibilities added a layer of stress that increased my vulnerability to psychosis.

As my daughter grew older and I approached the end of my PhD, the pressures that I had largely managed began to accumulate. My behaviour became increasingly disorganised, and the signs of a prodromal phase emerged.

This eventually led to a psychotic relapse. In the run-up, I would cry uncontrollably over dinner, uncertain whether the food was poisoned. I photographed bruises on my daughter's legs—bruises she had acquired simply by being three years old—believing I was documenting potential abuse that I could not prove. I began to suspect that my hair was being cut in my sleep, and that my belongings were being deliberately rearranged and hidden to destabilise me. Conversations with neighbours took on a familiar darkness, and beliefs that I was being gossiped about and surveilled took hold.

Eventually, I searched the house for cameras and listening devices, all the while maintaining the routines of the school run and attending my supervisory meetings.

The uncertainty eventually became too much to bear. I recognised that my relapse signs were present, the most obvious of which, in my case, is uncontrollable crying. I hugged my daughter and took myself to hospital, where I was assessed and sectioned.

My first psychotic episode was chaotic, confused, and agonising. My second was calmer—still difficult, but more controlled. I understood the psychiatric system, and I had visits from my daughter to look forward to. When granted leave, I would visit the hospital newsagent and buy magazines for her visits. We would sit together in the visitors' room and colour while I struggled with overvalued ideas that became increasingly difficult to distinguish from reality as evening approached.

Once I was discharged and placed on maintenance therapy, I noticed a significant difference in what I could manage. The school run became exhausting. Sleeping through much of the day became common. It became necessary to wear a mask of enthusiasm and positivity in the face of emotional blunting. People noticed the weight gain. People commented when I fell asleep during birthday parties. No one really knew or understood why.

Conversations about my illness became necessary, and it was important to frame them in an age-appropriate way. My daughter would ask what my tablets were for, and I would explain that I have schizophrenia, which means that "sometimes Daddy gets poorly."

As she grows older, those conversations will inevitably become more involved. We will have to talk about my condition, my decision to speak publicly about it, the realities of stigma, and the fact that she will ultimately decide for herself what she wishes to share with others.

I am fortunate that my daughter has a strong support network around her. She has a supportive mother and grandparents who provide her with opportunities, activities, and experiences that I cannot always offer. They take her on outings that provide social and intellectual enrichment. My own limitations are often accommodated by her surprisingly strong interest in simply resting and spending quiet time together, and so things largely work out.

I sometimes think back to an article written by the adult daughter of a man with schizophrenia and how she made sense of his illness. I project forward to a time when my own daughter may face similar questions and feelings, and I wonder how my condition will shape her journey through life.

It is my hope that, despite my illness, I will remain a good enough father.

At the same time, my inability to give her some of the things many fathers take for granted—day trips, holidays, endless energy—still troubles me.

I have found surprisingly few accounts online written by men with schizophrenia about their experiences of fatherhood. If anyone with schizophrenia who has young children happens to read this, my suggestion would be simple: build a life around what you can offer, rather than measuring yourself against what other fathers can.

Children do not need perfect fathers. They need fathers who keep showing up.