THE HIDDEN CHILDREN
By M. K.
Courtesy of Family First Magazine
I remember, nearly ten years ago, strolling down the avenue with my two little children side by side in their stroller. I was so proud—a wonderful husband, two
beautiful children and another on the way. I was just like you.
My husband and I invested everything in our children as they came, one after the other, each more special than the previous one. There was no amount of time that was too much to spend with them, no amount of energy too much to devote to them.
And when I tell you what happened next, you might wonder about our shalom bayis, but I’ll tell you that this too was very good. My husband and I had, and bli ayin hara still have, the blessings of mutual respect. We still enjoy each other’s company after nearly ten years of marriage, just as we did as newlyweds.
We were successful parents, thriving in our professional and learning lives but never letting the children take a back seat to those aspirations. We were stable, happy, and well liked.
But mental illness doesn’t seem to take these things into account.
When our oldest daughter suddenly began exhibiting signs of severe anxiety along with extremely aggressive behaviors, it was not my worst nightmare. It couldn’t have been, because I’d never considered the possibility of such a thing happening to me. We took her to a psychiatrist. Me? In a psychiatrist’s office? There was no family history. Or was there? Suddenly, innocent family traits in various relatives began taking on nuanced meaning.
The official diagnosis was obsessive-compulsive disorder and anxiety disorder, with a host of aggressive-impulsive behaviors as well. Oh, and ADD as a tiny cherry on top of the mental-disorder cake.
This was the first hole in the armor of my life.
My son, third in the line of our children came next. I thought that I would faint when my little boy told me that he finds himself checking things again and again, and that he’s always nervous that people won’t answer Amen to his brachos so he repeats them numerous times. He began picking at his arms, that beautiful baby skin that I had caressed now full of blemishes.
What was happening to my family?
We took them to the top clinic, nearly two hours from our home. We spared no expense and relied on many favors from our family and friends so we could bring our children back to us.
They both started a variety of medications. As someone who pursues alternative health vigorously, these medications were difficult for me—for all of us—to stomach.
The joy I had once felt pouring out of every part of me when I spent time with my children was dead. I was consumed with worry. Would my children ever get better? Who would marry them? How would they manage in life? Would they be on medication forever? How would we swing this financially? What about our three other children? How would we parent the rest of our children effectively when so much of our energy was devoted to these two children?
The list of questions was endless; the answers--elusive.
My world was crumbling around me, but I couldn’t even reach out a hand to ask someone to pull me up, because I was afraid of revealing what was not supposed to be revealed. My husband and I were alone, trapped under a thousand-ton rock with no one to extricate us.
On the outside, life had to appear hunky-dory.
“Are you sending your daughter to sleep away camp this year?” my friend asked.
“Hmmm,” I answered. “I have to think about it. I am not sure if we can afford it this year.”
What I couldn’t tell her was that I wasn’t sure that my daughter could manage her anxiety or her meds on her own. I was afraid that her symptoms would be exacerbated in a camp setting. I was torn between exposing her and protecting her.
Many mornings I would wake up and close my eyes again. Please Hashem, I’d whisper, Tell me this was only a dream. Who would have imagined the pain that awaited me when I davened last Rosh Hashana? It seemed too much to bear. I’d go on with life, but sometimes it was like walking though a five foot snowdrift.
All this, we suffered alone. I found myself jealous of women who had special needs children. No, I don’t ask Hashem for this nisayon (I have enough!), but there is a communal awareness when it comes to these holy neshamos. There is support, there is love, there is respite for the parents. While we have a wonderfully supportive Rav and doctor, and our parents have been amazing beyond words, the beautiful community network that is usually available for frum Yidden is absent. I want to shout from a mountaintop, “I have special needs children, too!” But reality keeps me quiet.
Somehow, the word hasn’t gotten out that we also desperately need help. We didn’t ask for this, and contrary to misinformation, we didn’t cause it either. Yet I haven’t had anyone call me to say, “I’d like to send you some girls from our after school program to help you out.” Nobody offers to babysit my anxiety ridden nine year old daughter or my six year old son who has violent outbursts. How could they? Vacations for my husband and I are no longer. Financial assistance is simply unavailable. And emotional support—how can we ever find it when our children are hidden?
Baruch Hashem, my children are climbing out from under their pile of problems. They are wonderful, productive special children. They have gained strength through their trials, and I am so proud of them. With hard work and determination, the treatment options available today can hand these children back their lives. With time, I am realizing that they may be great not in spite of their struggles, but because of them. And on most days, I have faith that our children will find their appropriate zivugim, even when they are told to come out of hiding.
But there are setbacks, and each one is like another knife in my heart. Again? I cry into my pillow. Things were looking so much better. I need to battle the towering snowdrifts again? There are days when everything looks so, so black. And somehow, Hashem pulls me out of bed and helps me to get over each hurdle. Yet, so often, I am met with another unexpected one.
I know that Hashem only gives us nisyonos that we can handle. And I am climbing the ladder, one tiny step at a time. I will never, ever give up on my children and I know that Hashem will never, ever give up on me. And the strength, compassion, and empathy that I am gaining from this process is making me a better and wiser servant of Hashem.
I am learning to become me though this process. For so many years I lived only for my family, and my identity melted into my children until you couldn’t even find it. But when life throws you this many curveballs, you have to keep your head on straight. So I’m rediscovering myself. I found a writing coach who helps me understand myself and put my feelings on paper. I’m learning how to play an instrument that I’ve always wanted to play. My husband and I try to get to a restaurant for a brief evening out much more often.
I don’t do these things to run away from the pain, because this pain is so vast there is no real escape. Instead I am trying to fill myself up with things that can bring me joy when life seems so bleak. I think that for parents of hidden children, the key is finding some way to deal with the pain.
Because I know that you are out there—you with the hidden children. And hiding hurts so much, even though we have no choice but to do just that. If it helps any, I am here for you. We all share the same hiding place.
Mothers who are in similar situations can reach the author anonymously through the Mishpacha Magazine office
Mindel (the author) would like to put together an online support group for mothers of children with certain mental disorders. Any mothers interested in joining can contact her at