The following is a true story of a fifteen year old girl suffering from depression. I was called to the hospital to see her on Christmas day some years ago. It was the first time we met; it begins with my entry into her hospital room:
The hospital staff had given her something to make her vomit, and she still had some vomit on her coarse blond hair. They followed the vomiting with activated charcoal, which she also vomited, leaving a heavy black ring around her mouth. Streaks of black charcoal were embedded in her hair, which competed with the black mascara that ran in streaks down her cheeks. There was dried blood around her right nostril, most likely from a tube they put into her stomach through her nose.
“Hi, Wendy,” I said. “Sorry to meet you here on Christmas Day. May I please sit down?”
I stood by the bed for a few seconds, but it seemed like an hour before she turned her head and said almost with surprise, “You have to ask me if you can sit down?” Then before I could respond she motioned to the only chair in the room and said, “Be my guest.” She emphasized “guest” and enjoyed her tone of sarcasm as she paused and heightened the unease by saying, “Would you like me to fix you a drink?”
“No. I’m fine,” I said, thinking that I never had a 15-year-old girl offer to fix me a drink before. I wondered what she meant to convey with that remark.
She immediately read the bewilderment on my face. She turned; sat up on the edge of the bed; and laughed a hollow, sad laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “And please forgive the way I look.”
“No apology needed,” I answered. “I understand you’ve been through a lot since you came to this place.”
She glared at me, rejecting any compassion extended her way. She was intent on keeping her room charged with the anger she was feeling inside.
Then she lashed out, “How would you know? You were probably home having dinner with your perfect little family. How many perfect children do you and your perfect little wife have?”
Oh, she was trying to be a tough one, but I knew not to take the bait. Not showing any inkling of anger, I replied, “As a matter of fact we were having breakfast when Nurse Nellie called. Since then, I have been worried about you.”
“Why would you worry about me?” she asked, incredulous at the very thought of an adult caring about her plight.
“Well, I guess that’s the kind of guy I am, and besides, it’s my job. Now, can you tell me what you’re doing here?”
“I got scared and called 911.”
“You called 911?” I asked.
“Yes, I didn’t really want to die” she explained.
“Goodness no, no one wants to die.”
“Well, I did. Or I mean I thought I did. But I really didn’t. I guess I’m confused. Do we have to talk about this?”
“No, I could just go home and be with my perfect family and you could stay here and be confused. But before I go, please tell me why a beautiful girl would think about ending her life, even if she didn’t want to.”
“Well, last night was Christmas Eve, and my boyfriend left me,” she began without hesitation.
“Your boyfriend left you on Christmas Eve?”
“Yes,” she was starting to cry now. “He had to go see his children, and he wouldn’t take me along. I told him I would be glad to be with him. I had no place to go anyhow.”
“Couldn’t you have just stayed with your folks?”
“See, I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Wendy said, sensing in me the apparent trouble she faced in communicating with other adults in her life. “My folks are divorced, and I was living with my mom until she got married this summer. I didn’t like her new husband, so I moved in with my boyfriend.”
“How old is your boyfriend?”
“Well, he had his birthday last month and he was 35. I bought him a new watch.”
“What did your dad say when you moved in with a man almost his own age?” I asked, hardly believing the story that was unfolding.
“He didn’t care.” Wendy said. “I wanted to live with dad, but he said I couldn’t because with his new baby, there wasn’t room.”
“Your dad didn’t care?” I replied, controlling myself to keep from shouting.
“No, he didn’t care. Don’t you think if you have a daughter you should care about her?”
“I certainly do! How can a man do that to his own daughter? What on earth is wrong with him?” I replied indignantly. I wasn’t really trying to take her side, or convince her of anything. But I have to admit I lost all objectivity. I wanted not to believe this outrageous tale, but I knew something had driven her to try and take her life on Christmas Eve.
“I’m sorry, Wendy,” I quickly added, trying to keep the conversation as open ended as possible. “I shouldn’t have said that about your father. Maybe there are some reasons we don’t understand. Maybe…” But I could not think of a single reason to excuse this abominable behavior.
“It’s okay,” Wendy said, trying to console me in my outrage. “That’s just the way he is.”
It’s hard to imagine that teens must face such family situations at a time in their lives when they need parental support the most. I had just come from a Christmas brunch where there were several sets of parents for two generations of children. And this girl, Wendy, couldn’t find one parent who cared. And that made her angry and depressed enough to try and take her life.
You can read the rest of Wendy’s story and learn more about teen depression in Messengers in Denim. I just wanted to tell you a story about how bad things can be for some kids, and how important it is that we parents and other adults in their lives give them the love and support they need. If we don’t they will seek it else-where, and often find themselves in serious trouble.
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BTW, I still need more input from you, your friends, and families about what makes parenting so difficult! If you can forward this request to your contacts I would appreciate it. Please have them send me their thoughts as comments below, or direct to me at par.donahue@comcast.net.