Make up and Crayons

I am overcome. It is simple and it is beautiful and I cry as I watch her.

My oldest daughter is riding her bike in the court yard where we live. The bike is too small for her and her helmet is off-center, but she pedals hard through the trees.

She is at that time where she is still a child but you can see teenage-hood following close behind. Her "Cream Soda" pink BMX bike and skirt that she bought in the adult section of Old Navy contradict each other. The time where she can be wearing lip gloss and swinging on a tire swing.

She has had a hard life and has a sensitivity and kindness of a child that has experienced such a life. She has moved too many times, been to too many schools and daycare. She has been going through the beginnings of puberty for a couple of years already. She has been through marriage, divorce, and marriage. She watch her mother crumble and put herself together again. She had one of the most important people in her life die.

She is just like me. Not just in the way she looks and talks, or in the way she moves, but she has inherited my illness.

She had a hard time coming into this world. She was a month early, and had to spend some time in the hospital. She was a good baby, but her anger became apparent early. Her dad and I were fighting all the time and she saw things that a child shouldn't see. I left him suddenly one night, and took her and her sister to a friends. She was only two at the time and her life was never consistent, never solid, and all of her behavior problems I thought were related to the divorce and my inability to be a good mother.

Good Friday, two years ago, I received phone call early in the morning. Her grandfather was in an ambulance coming to the city. He had had a heart attack and wasn't expected to live. They were very close. She changed a work-aholic into a toe-nail painting gentleman. He took care of her. Her was a buffer between me and her dad. He supported us financially when we couldn't take care of ourselves. He cosigned on our mortgage so we could have a place to live.

She was distraught for weeks. Her sister also mourned, but my oldest was devastated. She fell behind in school, and never wanted to leave her room. She sat in the dark and played video games unless we made her leave. She cried a lot.

One weekend she was at her dad's about two hours away. I was asking her how she was doing and I could tell she was not well.

"I want to die mom."

Time stopped. She was only eight and after a long discussion I found out that not only did she truly want to die, but she had a plan on how to do it.

My husband, Paul, figured out what we were talking about and got dressed and had his keys in his hand even though I was still on the phone.

She wanted to die so she could go and see her grandpa. She knew that she would be leaving us but the pain here was too much for her to bear and wanted to leave this earth. After spending a long time on the phone with her I spoke to her dad. He comes from a farm background where all problems can be fixed with hard work and a band aid, but did his best to understand it. I know that even now he thinks that she can just get over it, but respects me enough believe what I tell him.

As soon as she came home, we took her to our doctor. There is a huge waiting list for child psychiatrists, but we have a smart family doctor. They do not make antidepressants for children, so all they get is a lower does of adult medicines. As side effect of taking some of these medicines is suicide. One of the theories is that the child finally has enough energy to kill themselves.

She made it through. She started leaving her room and making friends. She is doing better in school. She is still sensitive and thoughtful but I think that is part of her nature. She is sad that she has lost her grandfather but she can cope with her life.

Today I watched my beautiful daughter ride her bike. She is a success story. I know that she is going to have adjustments in her meds and go through bad times, but she is living proof that there is hope for all of us.

Hope for a normal life.