Last Chapter, Chana is struggling under the pressure of exams and shifts with her friends.
Ignorance is such bliss. Until it isn’t.
After Chana denied hurting herself, we didn’t think anything was wrong except for her anxiety around the social dynamics that were still happening at school.
A week or so after our meeting with her teacher, I set an appointment for Chana to meet with the therapist. She told me she “didn’t need it” but decided she would go because her teacher encouraged her.
I am also a therapist in our neighborhood, and although I didn’t recognize the name of the therapist her teacher suggested, it didn’t really mean anything. I live in a very big neighborhood; I certainly couldn’t be aware of everyone. I was hopeful that things would be ok when I dropped her off for that first session.
She went a couple of times. Each time she seemed ok afterwards even though she wasn’t sure if it was really helping. Her one big complaint was that she thought the therapist was reading too much into what she was sharing, but she was willing to keep going. I was quick to agree. She was fine, after all, she told us she was.
She had a notebook that her therapist wanted her to bring to sessions. She shared with me some of the things she wrote, “Hashem Loves Me,” “I am OK,” “I Am Loveable.”
Ok. All true. Not what I would call real therapy, but, since Chana convinced me that she didn’t really need real therapy, this type of “therapy” was fine.
After a couple of more sessions, she decided the sessions weren’t helpful. She was due to work as a junior counselor at a sleep-away camp that summer, so Chana asked if she could put therapy on hold and reassess the situation when she came home.
When she came back from camp, she said she didn’t like that therapist, she wasn’t really helpful. But she was willing to try and meet with someone else.
I contacted this therapist and told her Chana was not continuing with her.
All she said was, “Please find someone else for her. She is not doing well. Not at all.” I pushed her for clarification. All she said was “Chana should tell you.” I pressed more, “If she is in danger, you must let me know.”
“Well, not danger dangerous. Speak to Chana.” (At this point, I would just like to note that Chana was just 17. Her therapist could have, should have told me what was happening, but, more on that later.)
Of course, Chana looked genuinely shocked. She denied knowing what the therapist was talking about, “Mommy, I told you she blows things out of proportion! That’s why I don’t want to go back!”
At this point I asked her if she was harming herself. She vehemently denied she was. She offered to try and meet with another therapist, but she “didn’t really think she needed to.”
I found another reputable therapist; someone known for having success with teen girls.
I made the appointment; she told me that she wanted to meet with me and my husband first. At that meeting we told her all that we knew about Chana. She even asked us if she was hurting herself. I emphatically told her that she wasn’t. After all, I had asked her and she told me no.
Chana started seeing this new therapist. She went four or five times. As with the first therapist, she came to me and told me she didn’t “really like her, and she wasn’t finding it helpful.” She told me she was “doing great.” And at the time I agreed with her. She did seem ok. She seemed great.
When I told this therapist that Chana was temporarily stopping, she hesitated. She told me she didn’t think stopping was a good idea, like the previous therapist she also told me she felt that Chana really needed to continue… I asked her if Chana was in danger. She told me that I needed to speak to her. It was Chanukah at this time. I planned on looking for someone after Chanukah.
In the meantime, I spoke with her. Again, her look of shock and confusion was enough for me to believe that she was ok. Was I in denial? (Probably.) Was she a really good actress? (Most definitely.) I trusted her, since she had promised us she would tell us if something was wrong or she was in crisis.
Even now, a few years after this all started, I am horrified, ashamed and feel so guilty over my gullibility and the power of denial. Could I have prevented what was to be if I had just pushed more in the beginning? My denial over recognizing these signs and the guilt because of it is something that I continue to grapple with, even today. I think I will forever.
Because then the bliss ended.
One morning I woke up to find a message on my phone from Chana. Chana described how she had started cutting herself. She was scared. She no longer felt she could handle it. She loved us and she didn’t want to hurt us. She needed our help.
I went to her room. I hugged her and promised her that we would do everything to get her help. As a therapist I had a connection to one of the best (and most importantly, reputable) child psychiatrists in the area. I forwarded her the message. She agreed to see her later in the week.
I was a nervous, ashamed and guilty wreck. How could I have missed this? How could the therapists not tell me? But I couldn’t dwell on the past. I needed to move forward.
At that initial meeting with the psychiatrist, we made a plan. I would take away everything Chana used to hurt herself. I was told to go through her room and bathroom, forcing myself to think beyond the obvious, to consider any place she might have hidden something dangerous.
Chana was to start meds. We were given the name of a top therapist in the neighborhood. The psychiatrist had asked her to make time for us. Luckily, she did.
The ride home from the psychiatrist was eerily reminiscent of that car ride home from the gastro appointment the year before. However, this time I stayed quiet, consumed by overthinking of shock, sadness, and self-blame. I was even angry. Angry at these therapists who just told me “To find someone else.” At Chana for denying how bad things were. Angry at myself for not seeing what was happening before my eyes.
When we got home, I asked Chana to give me what she had. Then I started to go through everything. Drawer by drawer. Through her closet, sifting through her sweaters, Shabbos clothes and pajamas. Checking every pocket. Going through everything in her bathroom. Moving tchotchkes in her room to see what was hidden underneath. I couldn’t believe all the nooks and crannies she found to hide all of this. The pit in my stomach grew and grew with each tool I found.
She started therapy with this new therapist. Again, my husband and I met with her first. I spent most of the session crying. Mad, disappointed, guilty and ashamed. My self-recrimination was high. The therapist encouraged me to focus on the present and the future. To think about what we could do to help her now.
She started bi-weekly therapy. She met with the psychiatrist again. The meds were helping. She was calmer. She seemed relieved. I spent a lot of time talking to her. Asking her what I could do to help her. She didn’t know (or maybe didn’t want to tell me?). My questions, which were (selfishly) motivated to allay my anxiety, only made her more upset.
I was reeling. I didn’t know what to do with all of this. While literally paralyzed with fear, I had the adrenaline-fueled nervous energy. I knew I needed to do something.
And with that, I was forced to slam the door shut on my ignorance and false bliss…