Six weeks ago today I woke up in my own bed after living out an all-consuming, nightmarish 24 hours. My husband had gone back to work for the day, a desperate attempt to concentrate on something other than the painful reality of our new life. My daughter’s room was empty, but the memory of her tearful confession, her once bright blue eyes wide with confusion and clouded with sadness, lingered. It haunted me as I stood in the doorway silently staring at the spot where I found her sitting on the floor, clutching the once full chemical bottle she had intentionally put to her lips. Behind another door my son slept away the remains of a lazy summer, his innocence stolen and replaced by the reality of what a mental health crisis can do to a person, to a family.
Six weeks is barely enough time to learn the ropes of a new job, let alone the skills of a new life. Yet my girl pushes through, trudging ever forward without knowing what awaits on the other side, or even if the end reward will be worth it. At 15, what prior experience does she have to tell herself that “this too shall pass,” that in five or ten years time her life will be so different these weeks and months will be merely a raindrop in an ocean?
Could it be, in the end, there won’t be anything waiting for her at all? Is that what she was thinking last week, when she tossed aside rational thoughts and went straight for the loophole in this whole journey? When feelings of hopelessness, devastation, frustration, and an utter loss of control consumed her, she found an easy way out, stumbling upon the quickest solution to truly feel her pain; the wire on the back of a picture frame became the paintbrush, her arms the canvas.
But this weekend is different. The pain is overwhelming, a month ago he promised her that before leaving for college he will drop off a baseball hat she can keep as a reminder of their friendship. She is desperate to hold on to the thinnest sinew of connection, her heart begging for acceptance, unable to let go of a dream. She said her good-bye last week, placing a gift bag on his doorstep, she dropped off the drawing she sketched for him along with a note. She receives nothing in return but the pain of rejection and the knowledge that he has departed for his future without a backward glance in her direction, her only reminder of him being the fading, angry scratch marks on her arms.
She wants to cut, but there is nothing available to injure herself with. It’s like when we start a new diet. You still crave the cookies, but you get them out of the house so you can’t eat them. You’ll have to choose something else instead, hopefully something healthier to snack on, something better for your mind and body. Even though she cannot physically manifest her pain on the outside, she suffers from within. The tears flow, and with them the hopeless, whimpering sounds of grief tumble down the stairs and into my ears.
As a parent, you feel helpless. From the moment your child is placed in your arms, you want nothing more than to protect and nurture, your single purpose now focused on the physical and emotional safety of this tiny human. It hurts your soul to watch your child’s heart suffer a beating, and know that there is nothing you can say or do to make the pain dissipate. But just as the clouds eventually part, or the dawn breaks for a new day, she finds the strength to move forward. She spends time writing in her journal, drawing, watching TV shows with her father and me; she goes to a bonfire with a few friends. Slowly, she is forced to replace the destructive craving with something else.
Most friends and family know that my daughter has always been a singer, able to carry a tune on pitch since preschool. In the days before depression moved in, she would sing constantly, our own in-home stereo with commercial free mixes of show tunes, modern hits, folk songs, and 80s favorites. As the pandemic took away her activities, her friends, and her hobbies, depression slowly took away her voice. She sings along with her bops in the car, but it’s not the same. She used to sing when she was content, unashamed, at peace, when no one was looking.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard her sing on her own, yet last night something else filters through her open door, out into the loft and down to where I sit. Instead of tears and pain, it is the beautiful, melodic tone of her voice, softly accompanying something she must be listening to through her headphones. It is a magical moment for me, though she may not yet recognize any significance.
This girl is my hero, whether she takes a thousand steps forward or back. This girl is strong, whether she realizes it or not. She will make it through this difficult time, even if she can’t yet comprehend what awaits her at the end of the journey. This girl is my daughter, and I am beyond proud of who she is now, and the woman she has yet to become.
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