Well, I haven’t done this in a while. It’s not that I haven’t had much to say; I’ve actually had a LOT to talk about, but as my kids get older, a lot of the things I have to talk about aren’t my things anymore. These kids that I carried, birthed, raised, are bona fide people now.
I don’t know how that happened.
But our stories are still very much intertwined. And there is a story that is moving me to write today.
Today is the anniversary of the worst day of my life.
I’m not saying that to be funny or even hyperbolic. It was, legitimately, the worst day of my life. It was worse than the day, six months before it, when I found out my Drama Queen had been shoplifting, which was the same day I found out she’d also been cutting herself. I thought that would be the worst day of my life. But there was one coming that was worse.
It was worse than the night on vacation, where I accused her of smoking pot in a bathroom of a restaurant. She let me search her in the bathroom and I found nothing. She got sick later that night, and we made her take a drug test the next morning.
You can get drug tests at CVS. Did you know? I didn’t.
It was negative, by the way.
It was worse than the days that followed, the quiet girl who used to be so vivacious, silently sulking down to dinner, silently sulking back upstairs.
It was worse than the day that her therapist told me, “maybe we should start thinking about medication,” and it was worse than the first appointment with the psychiatrist a month later, where my baby wouldn’t talk, but filled out a questionnaire, that left the doctor saying, “Oh, this is very bad,” and prescribing Prozac.
It was worse than giving her Prozac every night and not seeing anything change. Seeing her sad, argumentative, despondent.
It was worse than all that. On this day, last year, my beautiful 15 year old daughter, who has the same eyes as mine, who loves her puppy, who used to go fishing with her daddy, who once made a paper Christmas tree for her and her sister’s bedroom, tried to kill herself.
Pills. It was pills. Benadryl and Excedrin PM and I’m not even sure what else. I couldn’t wake her up. When I did get her up, she wasn’t making a lot of sense. She told me, “I don’t know why I’m so tired,” and I left her in her room and went downstairs to quietly fume about her horrible sleep patterns.
But my heart was beating out of my chest, and I KNEW it wasn’t horrible sleep patterns. And when I went back upstairs and grabbed her phone to look through her messages, she confessed it all. Well, she confessed the pills. ALL would come over the next weeks. ALL was a lot. ALL nearly killed me.
I called then county mental health line, and they said yes, I should bring her to the hospital. The woman on the phone said, “Oh, honey. I would. If it was my daughter, yes, I would.” Her voice was a hug when I really needed one.
So off to the hospital, where we stayed for 30-something hours in a safe room in the ER, waiting for a bed to open in a juvenile mental health ward. We finally got one in a hospital an hour away. The first time I ever rode in an ambulance, my daughter was strapped to a stretcher, being transported to a psych ward.
And then, you guys, I had to LEAVE HER THERE. Like, sign her in and hug her and go home. Without her. Leave her, with people I didn’t know, with people she didn’t know, in the hopes that they could help her. Because I very clearly could not.
When did we get to the point where mama couldn’t hug away all the bad?
I had to leave her. So I hugged her and I whispered in her ear, “please get better.” I told her I love her and her father and I cried the entire hour home.
She was there for a week. We visited her every day during visiting hours. Six pm to eight pm. Two hours a day. And we never knew who we’d find at visiting hours. Some days she was angry. Some days she was sad. Some days she was okay. Not great, but not terrible.
But every day I had to leave her again. And every day I cried the entire way home.
I cried because I was leaving her and I cried because, throughout the week, I was learning that I didn’t know my kid. Not at all. I thought I did, but now, with access to her phone, I realized that I was very wrong.
She was vaping nicotine, she was smoking pot, she was cutting herself and sending pictures of her arms to people. She talked to her friends about dying all the time.
Understand, that I saw NONE of this. The cutting and the shoplifting blindsided me, but I thought that was it. I wasn’t prepared for what I found on her phone. Or in her room. The amount of things that a teenager has access to that they can use to hurt themselves is astounding. It’s not something you’d ever even think of if you weren’t going through your teenagers things to try to find things they could hurt themselves with.
After a week, she was released with a new higher dose of Prozac, and a spot in an outpatient program near our house. After five weeks in the outpatient program, she went back to school. For four more weeks, she went to the outpatient program after school. It was a way to ease her back in.
She learned coping mechanisms. We stopped seeing her therapist, and switched psychiatrists. She started seeing a clinician in school. Her new psychiatrist switched her meds.
She stopped vaping, and when Covid happened and schools shut down, she no longer had access to pot.
Her grades improved, she started making plans for the future, she’s proud of the progress she’s made. She stopped hiding the scars on her arms, and will proudly tell anyone who asks about them, “I’m a recovering self-harmer.” The emphasis is on recovering.
Recovering. I feel like we’re all recovering. But, my god, are we in a different place on this December 5th than we were on last December 5th. I still struggle with trusting her. But I don’t have all our knives locked in a safe anymore. She goes to the mall with her friends, like any normal teenager would do, and when she gets home she shows me all her receipts and lets me go through her bags and pockets.
It’s astoundingly hard to build broken trust back up. Astoundingly.
But, she’s got a job. She bought herself a new skateboard. She’s doing online school because of Covid, and she is KILLING it. She’s got a boyfriend. She laughs all the time. She plays video games with her sister. She makes us all learn ridiculous TikTok dances so she can show her friends how cool her parents are.
Oh my baby girl. I missed her so much. I’m still so scared, and I’m still so broken. But the cracks are where the light shines through.
I’m so proud of her. She is kind and she is loving and she is so god damned strong. She is a straight up mother fucking warrior. She has never failed at anything before in her life. Except killing herself. And I’m thankful every day for that failure.
If you, or someone you know, is struggling, help is available. https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org