I am spread so thin, I am practically transparent.

I am a mother of two, a wife, a full professor, an administrator, a book group member, an activist, a dog owner, and now a blogger. So why add a blog? And why today when I have midterms to grade, a quiz to write, a house to clean, laundry to fold, taxes to prepare, memos to write? Because life is a hot mess and this week begs to be memorialized. Besides, I don’t have time to find and see a therapist.

On Monday, I received a call from the guidance counselor of my younger daughter.  Daughter Two is a fifth grader, has ADHD and serious anxiety, and has had a bad year for both academics and social relationships. She sleeps with a thermometer in her bedside drawer, just in case, and frequently gets sent home from school with vague symptoms that magically disappear once we are in the car. Sundays are hard as she starts anticipating school, and Monday mornings can be hellish. I had warned her last Sunday that I would not come get her again unless she had a fever or injury.

It was with considerable trepidation that I answered the call from her school: Daughter Two had expressed suicidal thoughts at school along with enough detail that she was considered high risk. She was being sent home immediately and should be seen by her provider or at an ER that day. She would not be allowed to return to school until she was cleared by a medical professional, and she would need to participate in a reentry conference at school before returning to the classroom.

I wish I could say that I responded admirably. I did not. I hung up the phone and started crying. But I was crying for me, not her. I cried because I had to leave work again, I cried because I felt manipulated, I cried because I realized that she has a new label, one that might be harder to look past, I cried because I realized that she will never be “normal,”  and I cried because I felt powerless to help.

My daughter’s psychiatrist cleared her and she returned to school two days later rejoining her class after her reentry conference. I went back to work. Later, when I picked her up, she asked what the principal meant about the “buddy” part of her reentry plan, and I had to explain that because the school considers her a suicide risk, she is no longer allowed to be alone at school. No hall pass without an adult. No bathroom breaks without a buddy or adult. No being released to walk to the public library down the street. Then I cried again because my funny, smart, sweet, headstrong, sensitive, stubborn girl is not going to grow out of this.

A few weeks ago I had requested a full psychoeducational evaluation because I had begun to suspect that ADHD and anxiety are only part of my daughter’s story. Suddenly her delayed speech, extreme sensory sensitivity, and inability to make or hold on to friends seemed to be part of a broader story.  On Friday, I attended the pre-evaluation planning meeting with the school psychologist, her teachers, the guidance counselor, and others. The psychologist interviewed us about her childhood, psychologist agreed with me that an autism diagnosis is probable.

How could we miss this for 11 years?