Two years

Yesterday was 2 years since the girl's suicide attempt. So much has happened since then.
When I brought the girl back home with me after the nightmare of those first 6 weeks, I didn't have any idea what was going to happen. I was so afraid - afraid she would try again, afraid she would never completely be herself again, afraid I would never see her happy again. I was just so afraid.

And when her therapist told me she was going to discharge her because she wasn't making any progress, I was angry. "Her treatment isn't effective, so we're not going to treat her at all any more." What? No one would say that to a cancer patient! This has just as much potential to be fatal!
And when therapist after therapist failed to grasp Social Anxiety Disorder, I felt like there was no place to turn.

Family members railed against homeschooling her, convinced she just had to learn to deal with things. (That really hurt. Not any more - now I stay away from those people as much as I can.)

After taking a class from the wonderful people at NAMI, I finally began to understand mental illness better, hers and mine. I learned new ways to fight for her, and how to accept things that scared me.

I saw my first glimmer of hope 2 months after she returned. A dog came into her life. That dog helped the girl finally start clawing her way back from the darkness. When that dog got sick and died, I was afraid the girl would, too. She didn't.

The girl is strong. She's a fighter. Recently, she tried to go back to public school. She wants to go to prom. It didn't work, but we're not giving up. Our new GP is running a bunch of tests. She said that certain medical issues can exacerbate mental illness, so she's checking for those things. We're looking for yet another new therapist.

Does the girl still cut? Yes. Cutting is an addiction. It's hard to stop. Does it scare me? Absolutely. But she's not suicidal. She has plans for the future, and we need to get this all figured out so she can achieve her goals. We're still working hard at getting the issues under control.
At least we know what the issues are. At least she's working with me. This will be a lifelong struggle, but she's equal to the task.

It's been 2 years. Last night, after I tucked her little sister into bed, the girl came in and grinned sheepishly at me. She felt silly, but she asked me to tuck her in, too. We snuggled and giggled for several minutes, and she drifted off to sleep with a smile on her lips.

Summer

Self harming is an addiction. If you've never experienced it, it might be hard to imagine. But if you have, then you know. 

Cutters, sex addicts, alcoholics - even if you learn to control it, it never totally goes away. 

About two weeks into her summer, she started telling me she wanted to come home. She didn't want me to talk to her dad about it though. She was worried about hurting his feelings. I was concerned, but I try to respect her wishes. 

Sometimes I regret that. 

She came home at the end of the summer with literally dozens of new scars, in two rows down her right arm. Easily fifty new marks. And that's not even counting the ones on her legs. 

When I asked her how old they were, she said two and three weeks. 

I knew she was struggling. I heard it in her voice when she called me. And she called me a lot. Sometimes three or four times a day, even when she was doing stuff. 

The thing is, I did end up telling him that she was struggling. I asked him to make sure she took her meds (which he did). 

But, according to her, he never noticed or mentioned the new cuts. Which means, in her mind anyway, that he still isn't seeing her. 

Several of the times she called me, she told me she just wants to be normal. She thinks her dad would be more present for her if she was. It makes me wonder what he says to her. I worry that he rides her about being normal - or at least about acting normal. 

She's a good, smart, caring person. She happens to have crippling social anxiety. It's part of who she is. We're trying to help her deal with it as best she can, but it's not something she can help. She doesn't choose this. It just is. Making her feel even worse about it is counterproductive. 

My heart breaks when she tells me how much she hates herself, that she wishes she were someone else. That she wishes she were normal. 

My dear, sweet girl - nobody is normal. I hope she understands this, and soon.