Content warning: Contains reference to suicide.
The grief of watching your kid struggle with their mental health is a unique one, surpassed only by that one worse grief, the one I must whisper: suicide. Depression’s companion. It lurks, threatening, in the corner.
My kid cannot get out of bed. It has not just been days, but weeks, months, years. It started the year they turned 14 and continues now, four-and-a-half years later. The tide of darkness is usually broken in the evening by a smile, a joke, a willingness to help out around the house – only to engulf them once more when the sun rises.
Another TAFE course they started recently has proven to be too much. My kid lies in bed, defeated by the basic demands of life. Otherwise, they are watching videos. They watch videos on everything from philosophy to gender theory to urban design. They are self-educating, but this is not something they can show an employer. When they’re done trying, they game. Endless gaming. Their efforts are punctured by avoidance and deep loneliness. There is no dear friend to provide shelter from emotional storms or ordinary heartaches; there’s only me.
As each mammoth effort to do something falls apart, their dad and I begin to crumple
We have several diagnoses: ASD, ADHD. Some learning difficulties, but also deep insight and cleverness in other ways. They are bright and funny and sociable – overly intense, perhaps. And yet none of it coalesces. I imagine my kid would learn by doing. They are quite brilliant at maths. They care deeply for the underdog. They want to help the world, to make it better. But they are ashamed of their lack of final education. They can’t see the alternative pathways, that it’s okay to take time.
As each mammoth effort to do something falls apart, their dad and I begin to crumple. Their dad retreats. My anxiety is full-bodied. I have a dry mouth, I cannot swallow. I go to sleep feeling nauseous, and wake with my shoulders like a coathanger around my neck. My breathing catches. I bite my lip to keep the tears from flowing, but they do anyway. My face warps in distress. This is a panic attack that my own medication cannot quash.
What can we do to help our beloved? We have tried psychiatrists, doctors, psychologists, hands-off, hands-on, patience, impatience. Pull yourself together. Oh my god, I do understand, darling. Try to get outside. No? Okay then, I'll open the curtains and let the light in.
They have opinions. They shout. I shout back. Things are said that take days to recover from. We try again
As the biggest act of resistance to the gloom that embraces our house, each morning I try to get out of bed to help them. I set alarms, provide breakfast, meds. I gently encourage. Sometimes I win, and they try hard for a few weeks. Often I don’t, and I too go back to bed for a while to gain strength for the day. Sometimes I get angry and frustrated. They have opinions. They shout. I shout back. Things are said that take days to recover from. We try again.
“This is hard for us, too,” I say. I don’t say that I fear the worst, every day.
“How can you say that?” they shout. “How can you possibly know how terrible this is, how useless I am?”
This is how I did it when I was young, I want to say. Day by day, week by week, month by month. I was so afraid: of failure, of the abyss. So much anguish. But I kept at it, and now, decades later, I’m here. I did okay. I survived.
When I became a parent, I consciously chose to stay put so my kid would have one home, unlike the 10 that I had. One school, instead of five. Two loving parents, unlike my own warring pair. I wanted them to have self-determination, instead of being controlled. I wanted them to hear “yes” instead of “no”. To play and be curious, instead of being disciplined. I did my best to break the cycle of trauma.
But I cannot move their limbs to get them up. I cannot provide a feeling of success that will lead to the next win, that will lead them back to the world. I try so hard to make things better for them, but I can’t turn their neural pathways towards the light.
The most excruciating part of parenting has been my inability to shield them from this dogged monster. It’s the unique agony of a helpless bystander. It’s unbearable – but I must go on.
*Author's name has been changed.
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