Miserlis is an executive at a nonprofit organization that works to empower North County youth and their lives.
Last winter, my husband and I hiked through the most beautiful snow-covered valleys I have ever seen in Utah. The snowflakes were so light that they melted with a touch of your hand. The colors of the snow were iridescent, and when they reflected the sun, they appeared to the viewer like a rainbow. The purity of the snow and the beauty of our surroundings was something that awakened us deep within and made us happy to be alive. It was magical, and it was the worst.
DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) has a concept called “and,” which is based on the premise that two seemingly contradictory things can happen at the same time. My daughter had been living in a therapeutic boarding school, but a mental setback required her to transfer to a new, more advanced program. So we were surrounded by snow, living a life of chaos and serenity. The transition to a new program designed for kids with more serious treatment needs was not going well. On the day of the hike, my husband and I sat with our daughter in the same room where a week earlier she had become so erratic that staff had no choice but to physically restrain her. This human restraint, made by the arms of the adult now in charge of her care, was a necessary intervention to protect her from herself. For a full week, she tried her best to try to escape or hurt herself. She was testing her limits and our decision as parents to put her in a program designed for more intensive treatment.
Although she wanted to participate in a long-term program, I was skeptical. I didn’t believe further treatment would be beneficial. She always returned home sicker than before, more depressed and frustrated by yet another failed program, and struggling to understand why a solution to her pain remained hopelessly out of reach. We had relied on various specialists to keep her at home, so letting her go felt like a failure. We made the decision on a whim.
Our daughter spent the better part of a year in treatment and depression, and we were in danger of losing her. We were at a standstill until one afternoon, when my husband enthusiastically told me about the amazing day our daughter had had. “Guess what? She got out of bed, made herself some noodles, and even washed the bowl.” One bowl of noodles told me how serious the situation was. A few days later, a close friend of our daughter committed suicide. That was enough. Our daughter was enrolled in a long-term program within a week.
The plane trip to Utah brought a spark of life into her for the first time in months. Anxiety and depression were temporarily pushed aside by the adventure, and for a moment, we were living our old lives before the cycle of hospitalizations and endless pain began. The bruises on her arms and the tears streaming from the back of my eyes were the only evidence that anything was wrong. We were experiencing the excitement of visiting a new city. and We were the only two to come back.
On our first visit, she was eager to show us around town, and in a month she learned how to navigate Utah’s infamous grid system and showed us around like a local. She rolled out of bed and was living her best life. and Finding the courage to face the worst. Finding the middle ground in intense emotions helps us break the distorted mindset that things can only be either bad or good. This was always the case with my daughter, where black-and-white thinking prevented her from enjoying moments of joy when there was still so much pain and suffering inside.
Four months later, she enrolled in a more advanced program. Our family was at rock bottom, surrounded by beautiful things, yet struggling to find a compromise between life and education. and The journey of death, acceptance and transformation. I sit next to her and weave through both. She lives in Utah. and One day she will come home.
