There are no words to describe the ripping feeling that accompanies the horror that was yesterday.
Yesterday, I watched as my beautiful, vibrant, energetic, 14 year old daughter was removed by ambulance from the school campus and taken to a mental health facility for a mandatory 72 hour hold. You see, that’s what they do when a student makes it known that they have suicidal “thoughts” — not tendencies, thoughts.
Through tears and agonizing pain, I followed the ambulance to the hospital. I sat with her as she was admitted, trying to keep both my spirits and hers as high as possible. But the pain that I felt riding alone behind that ambulance, knowing that inside was MY baby, MY little girl … my most valuable possession … cannot be described in mere words. Tears had to suffice for this journey.
She didn’t want to go, but felt that she needed to in order to get the help she so desperately needs. I knew that she was cutting; nothing major, just small wounds to her arms and legs. Why did I wait to get her help? Could I have prevented things from going this far if I had only stepped up and done something about it? Should I be blaming myself?
Too many questions and, so far, so few answers.
At least when I left her, she was upbeat. Scared, I’m sure, but she wasn’t crying. That was my job.
I guess I should consider myself lucky: I only had to follow the ambulance, not a hearse.
