I think it is important to talk a bit about my internal process. This story with Chana isn’t just about Chana. It is also about my growth as a person and as her mother. I knew that for Chana to get better, I had to change how I showed up as her mother.
With my therapist, I began to tap into my resentment of Chana. I had worked very hard throughout my parenting to be a different mother than my own. My mother was an unhappy woman for much of her life. She lived with the disappointment of not achieving the professional goals she wanted, having been taught that women of her era could only be a nurse, teacher, or secretary. She was brilliant. She chose nursing, a distant second to the doctor she had wanted to be.
There was very little I could do to make her happy with me. She had her own ideas of what success looked like, and they were not things I was good at. I was not an athlete. I was not the best student. I worked hard and did reasonably well, but I never earned the straight A’s she wanted.
There was also no room for emotion or sensitivity. I was branded “too sensitive” from a very young age, a badge of shame I wore for many years. It wasn’t until therapy that I learned that when my mother told me, “You are very…,” it wasn’t because I truly was. It was because she didn’t have the tools to manage what I was experiencing – or who I was.
Once I understood this, I was determined to raise our children differently. Emotions were expressed. Feelings were acknowledged. I wanted our kids to know there was nothing unsafe to discuss with us.
Over time, I realized that my resentment of Chana stemmed from jealousy – jealousy that she had been given the space and permission to feel throughout her childhood. I had never sent a child to their room or shamed them for their feelings, so how could she get so sick in my house? What had I done wrong? Where had I failed her?
Not only that, I was taking care of her in every way possible. How could she not get better? And yes, on some deep level, I believed she owed it to me to get better.
So, when we were finally on that long drive home from the hospital, I told myself I would do whatever I could to make sure we stayed on track.
She was going to go back to school.
She was going to be with her friends again. She was going to apply for seminary.
She was going to graduate.
She was going to go into shidduchim.
She was going to get married.
She was going to move forward with her life.
And this terrible, devastating, life-altering stretch of months was going to be behind us.
I imagined her room full of friends and my sink full of dishes.
That is not exactly what happened.
When she came home, her friends called. One even came over. There was some laughter, but she seemed a bit off.
First-time-home jitters, I told myself.
She asked to stay home from school until after Pesach. We were already close to Rosh Chodesh Nissan. I threw myself into Pesach preparations. Chana helped a bit. She spent time with friends – enough for me to believe she was okay, and enough for her to believe it too.
She returned to seeing her old therapist. The safe was no longer in use. Life felt good.
Seder night was pleasant. The first day of Chol HaMoed passed uneventfully.
I don’t remember if it was the second or third day of Chol HaMoed when I read the text. She had left her phone in the car while running to the bathroom. It wasn’t locked. My curiosity – fear – took over.
I read the message.
My heart sank.
She had told her therapist that she had started cutting again, “just once or twice.”
I didn’t know what to do with this information. I wasn’t supposed to know. I wasn’t supposed to have read her phone. I was supposed to respect her privacy. I was supposed to believe in her.
They had told her in the hospital that there might be some relapse at first, that once or twice wasn’t necessarily alarming. I clung to that. I smiled. I tried to forget what I had read.
I panicked. I spoke to my husband. We didn’t know what to do, so we did nothing – or at least nothing obvious. We stayed vigilant. We watched. We supported. I became her chauffeur to and from school. I knocked on her door more often, just to check in.
It was strange. She looked happy. She was studying for finals. She was spending time with friends more than ever. She seemed to be thriving.
So, I let her be. I didn’t look at her phone again, even though I desperately wanted to.
Some readers may believe this was wrong or irresponsible. But her therapist cautioned us that hovering too much could make things worse. We used our best judgment and tried to remain supportive and available, hoping she would come to us if she needed to.
At one point, I sat down with her under the guise of “just checking in.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked, acknowledging how hard it must be to reenter real life after the cocoon of the hospital.
“Fine.”
“Really fine?”
“Yes. A little stressful, but Rivka is helping a lot.”
“You tell her everything?”
“Yes.”
“If you ever need, I’m here too.”
“I know.”
I walked away hopeful that she was sharing what she needed to with her therapist and psychiatrist.
Even with all my concerns, there was still a lot of positivity. But beneath it lay an ambivalence she struggled with daily. She would agree to go out with friends and then tell me afterward, “I didn’t really want to go. I just didn’t want to upset her.”
My instinct was always to jump in – to help her cancel, to offer an excuse. Sometimes she called them back. Sometimes she didn’t.
Eventually, we developed a system. She would go out, and after an hour or so I would call and tell her she needed to come home. That was her safety net.
I was happy to do it. I was taking care of her.
Only later did I realize that I may have been sabotaging her return to normalcy. By stepping in every time, I was reinforcing the people-pleasing that caused her so much pain. Helping occasionally was one thing. Becoming her crutch was another. We needed to untangle this dependency.
The opportunity came sooner than I expected.
We were planning a trip to Ikea to buy a new closet – time meant just for us. My older son overheard and asked to come along.
Chana smiled brightly. “Sure! I’d love that.”
He ran to get dressed. She turned to me and whispered, “I really don’t want him to come.”
“So why did you say yes?”
“Because I felt bad.”
Everything in me wanted to step in. But this was the pattern.
I encouraged her to talk to him herself. I validated her fear that he might be disappointed, but reminded her that this day had been planned for the two of us.
She wanted me to do it for her. I told her I couldn’t.
She never said anything directly. When he walked into the kitchen, he saw her face and told her he wouldn’t go.
So, he didn’t.
Chana was an incredible actress.
Her high school graduation was another example. Everyone was happy. Every time she went to the bathroom, my heart raced. I tracked how long she was gone. Each time she emerged looking relaxed, and I exhaled.
After graduation, she asked if I would drive her and a few friends to the Kotel. It was 11:30 p.m., and they were buzzing with excitement. When we arrived, they were practically jumping with joy. We davened. They took pictures. Then more pictures.
I was struck by how happy they looked – especially Chana. I let myself believe that maybe we were finally past this, that life was returning to what she wanted and what I wanted for her.
Only a few weeks later, she showed me a diary entry that told a very different story about that night – and about so many others.
To be continued