The Edge of a Cliff

What would you expect to feel if you were blindfolded and walking toward the edge of a cliff? Does distressed—at the least—or absolutely terrified and panic stricken come to mind? You’d be right. No I have never physically been to the edge of a cliff — no rock climbing or extreme sports for me, but I have been to the edge of a cliff none the less and sometimes feel as though I will never be safely away from that edge.

I am the mother of a young woman diagnosed with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. My daughter Hannah was officially diagnosed three years ago as a senior in high school and these three years, challenging of course for Hannah have been equally challenging for her family. One of the worst moments in my life, and there have been a few, was the night Hannah came to us and told us she wanted to kill herself. 

I promise you this is something you never want to hear from anybody but can you imagine these words coming from the mouth of your beautiful, gifted 16 year old daughter? She didn’t know why she just knew she did.

It was the night before returning to school after Thanksgiving break 2012 and these words knocked the wind out of her father and me. Yes- this took us completely by surprise. Sure she was under pressure- her senior year and all of her high school years were filled advanced placement courses, never ending extracurricular activities, running her own charity, research at a local college’s genetics lab, college applications, being Valedictorian—who wouldn’t be stressed out? We talked and as much as we tried to convince her she was just feeling the stress of both senior year and getting over a debilitating bout with mononucleosis, we ultimately realized that she was in real trouble and our words were not the help she needed. 

Hannah was admitted to Holly Hill Psychiatric Hospital. The ride there was a blur- I do remember it being cold, and sitting in the backseat of the car with Hannah wrapped in a blanket, sobbing against me. The admitting process involved an evaluation by a social worker, endless questions to which the answers were shocking- yes she felt like this most of her life, yes she made a plan for how she would follow through with suicide, then came the decision to admit her.

We watched in a daze as the bag we were advised to bring with us if she were to be admitted was scrutinized, laces removed from sneakers, drawstrings removed from pajamas and sweatpants, clothing handed back to us that considered harmful in some way. The staff was understanding and caring. They tried their best to be comforting but there is no comforting a mother who just learned her child did not want to live. The hardest part was leaving her in the hands of strangers who we entrusted to “fix” her. We were allowed a few private moments together, all three of us hugging and crying before they escorted her to the teen ward. The social worker explained that we would not be able to see her for 24 hours. 

Those following 24 hours were filled with meetings at her school- teachers, administrators and the social worker liaison. Looking back this was the easy part. Little did I know, the following years beginning with her discharge from Holly Hill would be the most challenging for me.

Those of you who know me, whether in person or through facebook, know I have no shame in boasting of Hannah’s many accomplishments.  Although there may have been a few posts about mental illness awareness, I never acknowledged that Hannah suffers from these disorders. I spoke freely of her physical illnesses—her renal disorder, her cardiac problems, the constant battle with her ear infections and recurrent episodes of mononucleosis and pneumonia—but no mention of her anxiety and depression. 

What kept me from speaking of this? There is a stigma and shame that is attached to mental illness. We were all struggling with these diagnoses in our own way. Most importantly, Hannah was not ready to share too much at first.  If I am being completely honest, I felt disappointment, anger and embarrassment. I was angry at Hannah. 

Didn’t we give her everything she ever needed or wanted? How could she be so selfish to do this to us? My feelings evolved early on from anger to guilt and embarrassment that we somehow failed Hannah as her as parents. We were Mommy and Daddy, the two people in the world who were meant to keep protected, safe and happy. How could we have been so blindsided by this? Did we not even know our own daughter? I was ashamed that this girl of mine who was such a success in everything she did was in actuality failing at life. Three years later I now know nothing can be further from the truth. She was not selfish, she did not choose to feel this way, and this was not something she did to anger, embarrass or upset us. The hardest thing for me is that nothing can make it all better for her. 

Her physical problems all came with cures. She had surgery to correct her renal reflux, a cardiac ablation to burn out the pathway leading to her arrhythmia, ear tubes for the second time seems to have quelled her ear infections and rest and antibiotics take care of each bout with pneumonia, but there is no cure for mental illness. 

There is no cure for mental illness. There are medications and therapies to help Hannah, but her anxiety and depression are lifelong companions for all of us, which brings me to why I am now ready to openly write about this. 

Hannah has been my biggest teacher throughout this emotional journey. She has come to accept her diagnoses and she herself is able to speak openly about them. She has shown me that the most important way to getting rid of the shame and stigma of mental illness is to embrace it, talk about it and share your experience to help others. She has become involved with the National Alliance on Mental Illness and is bringing a chapter to Duke’s campus. She willingly speaks both in the community and on campus, advocates for, educates about and supports mental health awareness. Hannah continues to teach me how to handle her illness with grace and strength. 

She explains in her talks that depression is not feeling sad because things are bad; depression is a feeling of overwhelming despair even when things are good. She is strong, not because she no longer has these feelings but because she goes on despite them. Hannah was asked to share her experience for an upcoming event and the founder of the organization asked her if she had the option, would she choose to not have depression—an easy yes you would think. 

My daughter said no going on to explain she doesn’t like that she has it, but it is part of her. It has shaped her past and will continue to shape her future. It has taught her much about who she is and what kind of person she wants to be. As her mother, if I had the choice I would choose that she never know one day of despair but this is not a choice I can make. I am not at the point of embracing her depression as she has but I am able to honor her through my love, encouragement and support. If she can be so accepting and open, how can I help but do the same. Sending her off to college was difficult, there are still days that I worry if I don’t hear from her by a certain time, but the constant “how are you” texts are getting less and less. 

My cliff now feels as if there is a guard rail in front and I am backing further and further away from the edge. Earlier I used the word “fix” but I was wrong, there is no need to fix Hannah. She is a fighter and a survivor and I couldn’t ask for any more in a daughter.