PARENTING | MENTAL HEALTH

I Never Saw the Signs of My Daughter’s Suicide Attempt and I Let Her Sleep

Nine hours of anger can be life or death

Trigger warning: *This piece contains references to suicide*

I rounded the corner and spotted my daughter weaving as she walked into the apartment complex.

Filthy, she decided to come ‘home’ for an unexpected visit.

Or, so I thought.

I sighed.

My mind and my body were tired.

I selfishly, I suppose, resented her and her actions.

Love was not a question; of course, I loved my daughter.

A few months prior, The State of Florida had offered her an option to learn parenting skills. When she gave birth, she was deemed unfit due to her unstable living conditions and lack of psychiatric care, along with her baby’s father.

Rightfully so, rightfully so.

They were an awful mix of volatility. Small combustible outbursts occurred daily. They had no right to bring a child into the world. But, they did, and stepping up to the plate to prove capabilities would take hard work and lots of time.

Everything happened in a blur. The birth triggered fights, tears, continual police presence, and lies. The baby was placed with paternal family members for foster care.

His recommended hip scan for a breeched birth was ignored.

Cereal added to his unsterilized bottles was the woman’s solution to stop him from crying. She was making him sick and grey-skinned. He lost weight. Naturally, he cried even more due to his inability to properly digest oat flakes at 10 days old.

My grandson was placed in my care at 7 weeks old. Driven to help him and my daughter, I set up shop for them. A new crib, furnishings from Good Will, the Salvation Army, and Habitat for Humanity, made for an affordable temporary home.

The State plan required a two-bedroom apartment. My daughter had her own separate room. The baby and I would share the other bedroom. It was my job to teach her what healthy and stable moms do to care for a baby.

She was neither healthy nor stable.

This newly created nest would be my daughter’s safe place to continue on her new path, with her baby, upon State approval.

And so I had some hope as I agreed to the Family Court's offer, albeit a tad reluctantly, to help my daughter plod through her case plan with the State.

Instead of milestones, each phase of the case plan was a hurdle for her.

Stumbling blocks.

In theory, I would only stay long enough to jump-start her new life. She would successfully learn how to mother in 180 days. Practice and theory often clash much like mothers and daughters.

The light dimmed as to when I would return to my married life, and home, an hour and a half south.

The first week was tricky, but I was patient. I awakened her for nighttime feedings. Though I prepared his bottle, she fed it to him in my room. A comfy chair in the corner was a perfect perch for them.

By week two, my patience waned. Annoyance seeped through. More often than not, I was doing what she was supposed to be doing, bathing, refilling bottles, and changing diapers. My responsibilities crept into the nighttime feedings. It was challenging to hide my agitation. I wasn’t always successful.

By week three, she was gone.

Her preference was to be with him. The pull from the father of her child prevailed.

Once a mom’s heartbreak maxes out, resignation sets in. No one imagines bringing a child into the world to see them homeless. I controlled nothing and offered her everything. Nothing I did was good enough for her.

She was happy with her boyfriend in a tent, with zero responsibilities, and partying.

Yes, she was happy in the most unstable way a person who ignores mental health help could imagine.

I took the baby for his hip scan, updated all of his well-visits, and took him to the family court sessions. I would see her there, and we acted as if this was normal.

It was not normal and we both knew it.

Deep down inside, the girl who was raised in a different world was aware of how wrong her lifestyle choices were in a high-risk environment. I could see it in her eyes though logic remained unreachable.

The hidden cracks cropped up on the outside.

She stopped in randomly to take a shower, eat, and sleep. There wasn’t much interaction between her and her son beyond a few Facebook-worthy pics.

What a wonderful mother, I am! Look at my baby.

And then she was gone.

Sometimes for weeks.

It was just the baby and me.

I was tired, so very tired. I understood loneliness with great clarity.

Our only real outings included a trip to the supermarket. And, one day, upon our return from the store, my grandson and I rounded the corner and spotted my daughter weaving as she ambled into the apartment complex.

Filthy, she decided to come ‘home’ for an unexpected visit.

I was pissed. Annoyed. Agitated. Angry. Sad. Tired and used.

I felt used because I was used. There I was at 53 years old, raising this infant, even if only for the proposed 180 days, while she played house in the woods. My own emotional wellness eroded.

How dare she come back drunk?

Life is just one big party, isn’t it?

Haha haha, ha.

I gave her a ride to where our apartment was situated. Her words slurred, and her lips operated as if she had been stung by a swarm of bees. Her bloated face and garbled speech were the best she could muster. Her matted hair fell in front of her eyes.

I couldn’t talk to her.

Her presentation sickened me.

My reaction to my own daughter sickened me more.

She wobbled into her room and went to bed. I unloaded the groceries and the baby and ignored her closed door.

The darkness of night took hold, and my anger and disgust slowly dissipated. Had it been 9 hours? She normally grazed and ate every few hours, regardless.

An immediate pit in my stomach grew as my fear escalated.

I stood outside her bedroom door and listened.

Nothing.

The baby slept.

I stood there, listened to nothingness, and hesitated. Poking the lion’s cage is my least favorite thing to do.

Do I have to risk it or can I let her sleep? I didn’t want more drama.

I slowly pushed open her door. The darkness didn’t prevent me from seeing her form lying across the bed, as if she had never moved. My heart stopped and I held my breath, anticipating the worst.

Dear God, what now? I was afraid to touch her. My own daughter.

I crept in and shook her gently.

Oh my God.

I shook her more vigorously. A faint moan. She peered at me through slits of puffy eyelids.

Are you okay? You’ve been asleep for 9 hours!

“No.”

She still slurred and no drunken state could possibly last this long.

I made out the words, “Seroquel, the rest of the bottle, he doesn’t love me, I think 20 to 30 pills.” My heart dropped.

“I wanted to scare him.”

I called 911.

I pulled her to a sitting position. Startled, she stumbled into the bathroom. Violent vomiting continued as the 6 EMTs careened into the lot with sirens wailing. They crowded into the tiny space with her.

The baby never woke.

As I watched them load her into the rescue truck, I locked the door and stared at their departure.

The red lights, quieted sirens, disappeared out of the complex. She was safe now. I thanked God. She has a purpose and will live to fulfill it.

I try not to revisit this memory.

I try not to wonder.

What ifs are the hardest. What if I didn’t try to rouse her? How would I live with myself? What would I tell her son?

Each time my mind travels there, to that ugly side of what could have been, I remind myself that she lived through it. She never wanted to actually die.

She wanted him to save her.

He didn’t, though.

A mom’s love is not to be reckoned with, at least not mine. I still have her son. 180 days rolled into almost 5 years. I love him and I love my daughter.

I always will.

Love.

Indisputable and unbreakable, even through the hardest of tests.

If you know someone who needs assistance with their mental illness, let love guide your decisions. If you suspect drug or alcohol abuse, don’t hesitate to reach out for help. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

Call for help.

Hotlines, other than 911 in emergencies, will give you the support and information to guide you.

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• This story was originally published by Your Tango and has since been edited for Medium publication.

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