She was always the quiet one, happy to be apart from the others. Her teachers often remarked on how well behaved and polite she was, but when it came to discussing her introverted nature, it was done in cautious tones.
"Surely, she is a different child at home?" they'd say.
"No", we'd reply in unison, a solid barrier between this child and whatever might threaten her. "She's just shy".

It was more than shyness. We could never discuss that in mixed company. Her silence was learned, formed from endless hours of being pushed aside and ignored. Her father couldn't be interrupted once Sports Center came on; his eyes glazed over at the television screen until she dare speak. Her words were met with anger, a spanking, a "So God help me ..." She became the paint on the walls, the padding sound of bare feet on carpeting, the worn ends of the La-Z-Boy rocking in the corner of the living room.

When he returned her  to us on Sunday evenings, she was wholly defeated.

Years of court appearances, mediation and paperwork usher in a new definition of family. We retreat to the safety of the Atlantic, hugging the shoreline, burying our hearts deep into the sand. The pain lifts like morning fog; all at once there and then ... nothing.

And now she teeters on the precipice of that strange chasm between girl and woman, staring down the faces of what could be and what might have been. She battles demons we cannot see, evidenced by the ribbons of pink and purple hovering above her bones. Bravery and fortitude are her mantle, every action carefully weighed and considered before a step forward. The nets that lie in wait to catch her look like snares, a trap to weigh her down with codependency and shame.

She walks on. She walks alone.

My husband and I  huddle together in the dark hours, whispering solutions to problems we don't fully understand. Those Sunday evenings of regret and apologies are long behind us, but their affects are ever present. Desperation and empty threats are our only arsenal. We attack, then retreat to lick our wounds.

She was oh so little once, with impossibly blue eyes and blonde ringlets. I'd swaddle her wriggly body and sing her to sleep, pausing to nuzzle her fat cheeks or kiss her rosebud nose. The power of motherhood is strongest when they are so new. A touch of the hand, an enveloping pair of arms, some milk - all perfect remedies for whatever ails your child.

"This is the hardest thing," my husband says with a sigh. "The reality has sunk in that no matter how much she's hurting, there is nothing - nothing - that you or I can do to make it go away".
And we huddle together in the darkness once more, buoying each other through the tidal waves of madness.

I remember researching color therapy last year, before we brought her home. I chose the lightest, least obnoxious turquoise for her bedroom walls. I bought bedding, pillows, rugs, lamps, and "accessories". Every teenager that passed me in Target that day was subject to questioning. I wanted to make sure that when we brought her home, the room sent a clear message that everything was going to be okay. 

I didn't look at the receipt at the check-out. I swiped my card and stared longingly at the Starbucks a few feet away. I smiled at everyone that passed me, their plastic red carts filled to the brim with reusable grocery bags and abnormally obedient children, slurping on Icee's. I pretended to care about what the cashier was saying. He's my favorite cashier, after all, the one who scans all my coupons correctly and tells me about his dietary habits. I really do enjoy our chats.

The day we picked up our daughter from the hospital - the mental hospital, adjacent to a drug & alcohol rehabilitation center - I was smiling. I smiled at all those parents and children and friendly, geriatric Target cashiers so no one would ask me what was wrong. I smiled because my perception of humanity is that no one really cares what you're going through. I smiled to keep the screams locked tightly behind straight teeth and bright eyes.

It's been a little over one year since that first trip to and from the hospital. She had others in the weeks to follow, each one worse than its predecessor. I felt like I was failing as a mother. Or, I was failing at Google searches. Wasn't there some natural, folk remedy online? A handy, printable pdf from webMD would have sufficed. 

There was a breaking point where I couldn't think straight, and I needed help. Keeping up the illusion that everything was "fine" was exhausting. Swallowing my pride, I reached out to new friends and neighbors. I spoke up during bible study and asked, begged, for prayers. I put our family on prayer lists. Old friends were pulled closer, and heavily leaned into.

I didn't expect the response that I received, in negative and positive ways. 

People I didn't expect to care about our family reached out and sat with us in the hospital. They visited my daughter. They contacted patient advocates. They walked me through the rough process of understanding what our new "normal" was going to look like from now on. Those people were few and far between in comparison to the dozens that shut us out. A new reality enveloped us like fog, changing my perception of ... well, everything.

We are nowhere near out of the woods. I would love to report to you that everything is fine, we haven't had any hiccups along the way and we are surrounded by angels who fart $100 bills. 

We're not fine. 
We're tired and broken and healing and sleep deprived.
We're resentful, we're cautious, we're hopeful, we're determined to get through this as a family.

This is what they don't tell you when you're signing the release papers, or shifting in your seat in the psychologist's office:
People want you to keep up appearances. They rely on you to maintain their picture of who you are. You are not allowed to break character. You are not allowed to throw up any flares. If you need help, it must be delegated to a community service organization. When you run into your people at Target - SMILE. Keep up the illusion that everything is fine.

... because then they can keep up their own illusion.

It's all bullshit, and I'm not doing it anymore.