Mental Illness in a Family - Chapter One

My journey began quietly, with the arrival of my baby girl. She was sweet and beautiful, though perhaps a bit more colicky than I had hoped.

After two miscarriages, there was a profound sense of relief as I held her in my arms. Named after my beloved mother, who had passed away several years earlier, the moment was bittersweet. On one hand, I felt incredibly blessed to honor her memory by giving my daughter her name. On the other hand, I felt an aching sadness that my mother wouldn’t be here to meet her granddaughter.

Chana, as we named her, was the third child in our busy household – a place full of after-school chaos, homework, dinner, bath time, and bedtime. Life was a whirlwind, and there was little time for stillness.

Like our other children, Chana reached her milestones a little later than expected, but there was one area where she stood out: her speech. By the time she was crawling, she could already say “cookie,” which was both impressive and a little startling. Aside from that, things were pretty much as expected – no surprises, no major challenges.

Chana attended the same school from kindergarten through eighth grade, where she made many friends.

However, her transition to high school was much more difficult than we anticipated. She wanted to attend a particular school – one that her friends were going to. We thought there was no reason why she wouldn’t get in; after all, we seemed to fit the profile of the kind of family the school accepted. We pushed, we advocated, we wrote letters, and we called. Our friends, too, rallied behind her. But when the rejection letter came, it was devastating.

This, I now see, was one of those pivotal moments when Hashem provides a refuah before the makkah, a concept I’ll explain more fully later.

In the end, Chana went to a different high school – one where she didn’t know most of the girls. A few were familiar faces, but most were strangers. Still, her sunny disposition and natural warmth quickly helped her make new friends. Within no time, she was well-established, fitting in and thriving.

Then came COVID.

The isolation and frustration of the pandemic hit Chana hard. The relationships she had started to form were abruptly severed, replaced by phone calls and Zoom meetings. It was a difficult time for her, and she retreated to her room for a while. At the time, I didn’t think much of it – didn’t everyone’s kids go through a tough time with lockdowns?

When school resumed, it was far from smooth sailing. But Chana found her footing again and, by mid-year, was more or less back to her usual self.

Living just a minute away from school meant her friends were often at our house, hanging out during lunch breaks, after school, or whenever. It became a regular sight to see them lounging on the couch, laughing hysterically in her room, or cooking in my kitchen (thankfully, always cleaning up afterward!).

In many ways, Chana was the polar opposite of our older daughter, Batsheva. Batsheva, reserved and a bit shy, was content with a quiet life at home, reading books and spending time by herself. She had a small circle of friends, but she didn’t need much beyond that. I used to joke that if Chana had been my first child, I might have worried about Batsheva’s quiet nature!

Chana, on the other hand, was a bright light. She was the social one, the life of the party, the one whose friends filled our home. She was excelling at school and had so much potential. I looked around at some of my friends whose children were struggling and I felt so grateful, thinking, “We’re doing okay. We’ve dodged the bullet.”

But as with many stories, things don’t always stay the same. What follows is a chapter I never could have anticipated. It is a story of tears, fear, confusion, and a deep sense of questioning my own choices as a mother.

In my mind, there’s a “before,” a “during,” and a hopeful “after.”

Where are we now?

I want to say we’re still in the “during.”

Because there have been so many “befores” setbacks.

Before we knew she was struggling with depression.

Before we realized she was hurting herself.

Before the first doctor appointments, when we naively thought it would be a passing phase.

Before the hospitalization.

Before she returned to school.

Before outpatient treatment began.

Before she almost ended it all.

Before another inpatient facility.

Before she almost ended it all again.

Before yet another facility.

Then, a more stable before – when she seemed to be doing well. Living independently, serving in Sherut Leumi, taking care of a kitten, and looking happy.

I could and still see cracks in her “doing well,” caring for the kitten when it became too much for her and it “accidently” escaped. The commitment to working in the gan had many ups and downs for her. Days where she sent me tons of pictures of her adorable students, and far too many days when it was just too much and she needed to stay in bed.

Then came another potentially horrible day, when once again we believed she had committed suicide – only because a series of events happened to align in a way that made it seem plausible – until we eventually came to understand it was all just miscommunications that had fueled our fear.

Now she’s working in a facility where she is helping others who are in the same place she was.

Will there be another before? Who knows? But, for now things are calm, with faint hope of long-term stability.

But for every “before,” there has been a “during” – a time of struggle and growth – and then an “after,” even if the “after” was only a glimmer of hope.

And through it all, we’ve changed. We’ve learned about our own strengths, about true friendship, about the importance of community, and about the complex relationship we have with each other and with ourselves.

This is our story – my story of hope, fear, sadness, and yes, shame. Not just because of her illness, but because of the shame and isolation that come with having a child who suffers from mental illness. In some ways the stigma around mental illness was just too much, if not harder than the illness itself.

I am sharing my journey, whether you are silently facing your own struggles, or blissfully unaware of what mental illness looks like in a family. My hope is that by sharing this story, I can offer comfort, light, and a sense of connection to others who may feel alone.