I ended the last chapter with us taking Chana home after her failed suicide attempt. We didn’t have a strong plan, so we had to think of something.
Every time I’ve been discharged from the hospital – either after having a baby or because a child was hospitalized (Baruch Hashem, not very often) – you get a discharge letter. The instructions are pretty clear: what to expect, what is considered an emergency, when to just call the doctor, prescriptions, etc.
When your child gets discharged after a suicide attempt, the directions are a lot murkier. It almost felt like a pass-the-potato kind of game. The hospital said they needed to discharge her to a proper inpatient, high-risk adult psych ward. The proper inpatient high-risk psych ward said she wasn’t a real risk. So, we were sent back to the regular hospital, which claimed they no longer had to readmit her.
It felt almost as exhausting as the Shabbos we had just spent in the hospital.
So with the paltry list of instructions – “constant supervision, follow up with her private psychiatrist as soon as possible, look into some kind of treatment” – we walked into our apartment and went to bed.
Not very helpful at all.
There wasn’t much more clarity the next morning either.
What were we supposed to do?
Part of the issue was that once Chana turned eighteen and aged out of pediatric care, the structure was totally different. When you are under eighteen, there are inpatient facilities that help kids who may not be actively suicidal but are still at risk and need major medication adjustments and/or major support.
Once you are eighteen, the services change. For an adult to be admitted to an inpatient facility, they need to be an active danger to themselves – or to others – because of their illness. There are some day treatment programs and open inpatient wards, but to this day I don’t understand the balance between being sick enough, but not too sick, to be admitted.
But for now, our daughter was home.
I found myself living in an alternate universe.
Talking with the mothers of most of Chana’s friends, I heard about how the girls were blossoming. They were still in their seminary year – going out with friends and just having a good time. Chana was home. She still saw her friends, but they never really went anywhere. Chana preferred to stay home, and I preferred it as well. I believed that the cocoon of our house would keep her safe. There were times she did go out, but I could never really be sure whether she had a good time or if these outings made her more upset.
I would nod, smile, and ask all the “right” questions. I never wanted anyone to feel bad for me.
This was one of the alternate universes I lived in.
Then there was the other one – the one where people didn’t know what was happening. General acquaintances, some I was friendlier with than others. Those were the hardest people to be around.
I remember being at a kiddush. It was for a friend of mine; I don’t actually remember what it was for. I stood a bit to the side, chatting briefly, dying to go home. Then Sarah came over. Her daughter, Tzippy, had been in school with Chana until eighth grade. They had been really good friends, and seeing Sarah reminded me of how nice that friendship had been.
“Sarah, how are you?”
“Great, baruch Hashem. You?”
“Doing well. Nothing new.”
Yeah, right.
“How’s Tzippy?”
“She’s doing well. Finishing up her year in seminary. She really liked it. It was really good for her.”
“Nice.”
“How’s Chana?”
“Fine. Good.”
“Really? That’s great. Tzippy told me no one has seen her around lately. That she’s in some program studying psychology or something. Where? What’s it called?”
“Oh gosh, I can never remember. It’s up north. I feel so stupid – must be having a senior moment.”
My heart started racing. Would this be enough?
“Oh good. I’m so glad. It’s not like she had a nervous breakdown or something.”
“Oh no! That would be crazy!”
I excused myself.
That was so weird. Why would she say that? Why would she even think that?
I was shaking as I left the house and walked home.
This was my greatest fear coming to life at a kiddush on a regular Shabbos afternoon. I wanted to protect Chana. I wanted to protect myself. I also thought it was probably the stupidest thing someone could have said. What would she think if she knew it was true?
I found myself in other situations like that as well. Even now, a few years later, these moments still crop up. I struggle between letting her do what she needs to do and my own shame about what she is actually doing.
A few months ago, she started wearing pants.
We live in a very frum neighborhood, where women and girls wearing pants is not accepted. When she first told me over WhatsApp, I didn’t really know what to say. Here was my chance to flex my unconditional acceptance of her – not just talking the talk, but walking the walk. I had talked about this kind of thing for years.
Way before I ever knew what Chana was going to do, I sat in my self-righteous and judgmental place, quietly critical of parents who were openly critical and unaccepting of their own children who no longer met community and family standards. It was so easy to say they were failing as parents when they couldn’t accept what their child was doing. Of course I would never be that way.
But here I was, staring at a WhatsApp message that was testing me.
I wrote and deleted several messages. When I reread them, I saw how many subtle, passive-aggressive statements I was trying to slip in – statements that would, at best, be confusing for Chana and, at worst, damaging to our relationship. Finally, I wrote, “It’s okay, Chana. Nothing has changed for me.”
I could almost feel her relief in her simple heart response.
At that point, she was still wearing a skirt when she came home and when she was around my younger boys. I told her I appreciated her sensitivity, as I thought it would be confusing for them. On one level, yes, it would be confusing – but I wouldn’t be truthful if I didn’t acknowledge how her wearing a skirt in our neighborhood allowed me to live this dual existence.
I didn’t have to think about how she was externally changing her appearance. I was embarrassed. I was so relieved that I could continue living this lie.
About six weeks ago, she was going to the mall before heading back to her old place. At that point, she was still wearing skirts whenever she went out, but that day she didn’t have one with her. As I drove her to the train, she said she hoped she wouldn’t see anyone she knew.
“Mommy, I guess I just need to daven that I don’t run into anyone I know.”
I had mixed feelings. Part of me didn’t want her to see anyone; another part of me did. I wanted her to run into someone and maybe feel the embarrassment that I constantly carried, and maybe then she would go back to dressing the way I believed she should.
I told her she needed to make her own decision. She told me she was nervous. I am embarrassed to admit that I was almost giddy at the thought that she might be embarrassed enough to change her ways.
Later, she called me when she got to her meeting. I asked if she had run into anyone. She told me no. I replied with a “baruch Hashem.”
“Why are you even asking me this?” she asked. “Are you embarrassed?”
Was it projecting? Or did she really feel my deepest feelings?
I felt so guilty. Why didn’t I focus on her desire to daven? What was this really about?
About a month ago, she needed to go out with my daughter. They were going to the store.
She told me she didn’t have a skirt and asked what I thought she should do.
I so, so, so wanted to lend her one from my closet. I so, so, so wanted her to want one. But here was my moment. Did I truly unconditionally accept her? If I did, this was my chance to prove it – to her and to myself.
“You know, Chana,” I said, “skirts are an iffy area of halacha anyway. You should do what you feel comfortable doing. It’s all good.”
I so, so, so wanted her to ask for a skirt. But instead, I got a smile of relief, and she went out to the store.
Would she meet someone? Would she care if she did?
Who knows? Why did I care?
This was the last vestige of my dual existence, and it was slowly eroding away.
It’s been several weeks since that exchange. Several outings to Jerusalem. To the mall. To the shopping areas in our neighborhood.
My dual existence is long gone. What’s been replaced is a strong pride of true unconditional acceptance.