Chana is home. She is not really stable, and neither am I.
The goal right now is simple: keep her safe. Keep her on some sort of schedule. Never allow her to be alone for more than ten minutes at a time.
She can go to school, but I must drive her there and drive her home. By this point, her school is no longer a two-minute walk away, but a drive across town.
When she is in her room, I knock and check in every ten to fifteen minutes, unless she leaves her door open.
Then comes the question of showering.
She says she needs to shave. Internally, I think she is crazy for even asking me to hand her a razor. She tells me she is doing better. That I don’t have to worry.
I call the psychiatrist. She tells me I can give her the razor. That we need to try to treat her as normally as possible, even under this not-in-any-way-shape-or-form normal situation. So, when she showers, I give her what she needs if she wants to shave. When she is done, I get everything back.
What the psychiatrist does not tell me is what I am supposed to do while she is in the shower.
Am I supposed to fold laundry? Cook dinner? WhatsApp a friend? Cry? Panic? Sit outside the bathroom door with my ear pressed against it, straining to hear if anything is happening?
Instead, I wander around the apartment, wringing my hands. I can’t do anything except wonder what she is actually doing in there.
When she comes out, do I secretly check the razor? Look for signs of self-harm? Blood anywhere?
This is emotionally and mentally exhausting. I am completely lost on this side of the equation – learning how to contain her while trying to contain myself, and still show up for the rest of my life.
At the encouragement of her therapy team, we decide we need to inform the school. The only information they have is what the morah told us the previous spring, and I would love to keep it that way. I am already holding onto the vestiges of insecurity from when she wasn’t immediately accepted to the school. Will they think less of her? Less of us? Regret accepting her?
Chana is furious when we tell her we’re meeting with the principal. She doesn’t want “the whole school to know” about her “issues.” She’s fine. She’s doing everything everyone has asked of her. She’s no longer hurting herself.
“What’s the point?” she demands. “Are you trying to make everyone feel bad for me? Jeez, what do you want from me?”
I know this is rhetorical, so I keep my mouth shut.
We hold firm. The school needs to know. It is the only responsible thing to do. We arrange a meeting with the principal, her teacher, and the guidance counselor.
As a child, I was never sent to the principal’s office. I don’t even think I knew exactly where it was. But here I am, sitting across from her desk, hands sweaty, voice shaking, shame already flooding my cheeks as I explain what has been happening.
They are shocked by the severity of our reality. Shocked that “one of the top girls is suffering like this.” The guidance counselor tells us that, unfortunately, Chana is not the first girl she has seen in this situation. They promise to keep an eye on her.
Their kindness undoes me. The tears come quickly. Once again, I fall into self-accusation: How did I miss this? The principal validates my feelings and assures me that she is part of the team. Chana will get through this.
With this extra layer of support, the task seems doable. I convince myself that all she needs is a little more supervision, a little more compassion, a little more attention – and everything will be fine.
She takes her medication on time, morning and night. She goes to sleep at a reasonable hour and wakes up on time. She goes to school, though she’s annoyed she can no longer walk with her friends – even though she used to beg me for rides every morning.
At a follow-up appointment, Chana tells the doctor she’s really okay. She doesn’t have access to anything she shouldn’t. The near-constant supervision is helping. She feels safe. No longer alone in her pain.
For a couple of weeks, this becomes the new normal. I almost forget how life used to be. I tell myself this was just a small bump in the road, getting smaller with each passing day.
Then came that motzaei Shabbos.
My phone rings. The psychiatrist’s name appears on the screen. Embarrassed, I answer, assuming it’s about an unpaid bill.
It isn’t.
She gets right to the point. Chana is not doing well. Her “doing great” was a façade. She has a plan to overdose that night once we go to sleep. Even now, more than two years later, my stomach still turns as I write this. She has barely kept herself from doing something irreversible.
I sit down.
What happened to being past the worst of it? What happened to the bump in the road disappearing?
“You have a choice,” the psychiatrist says. “You can go to the ER tonight, where they’ll hold her until I get there in the morning. Or you can stay home, sleep in Chana’s room, and meet me at the hospital first thing.”
We go into Chana’s room and decide together. She wants to stay home.
That night, I lie beside her in her double bed. Her medication knocks her out. I watch the clock. I try to sleep. Morning can’t come fast enough.
We arrive at the hospital before the psychiatrist.
The conclusion is unavoidable. Home is no longer safe. She can’t be at school, and I cannot maintain twenty-four-hour surveillance – not with other children, a home, and a full caseload of clients.
Chana needs inpatient care.
The next bed won’t be available until early the following week. Until then, my husband and I take shifts. The only break we allow ourselves is when her medication puts her to sleep. Her door stays open. The glances into her room continue. I sleep beside her.
Early next week cannot come fast enough.
In the meantime, I take her to the mall to buy pajamas. Friends drop off a care package. It reminds me of a few months earlier, packing her suitcase for camp. I try to pretend this is the same thing, but even my denial isn’t that strong.
I zip the suitcase closed with tears in my eyes.
The drive is silent and heavy. Sending our daughter away feels surreal.
After intake, my husband and I have to leave. Visiting days won’t begin until erev Shabbos.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I feel relieved.
For now, I don’t have to be responsible for her safety. I don’t have to manage her medication, her sleep, her showers.
For now, it is my turn to rest.
To be continued.