'Ever Feel Like Dying?'

The (mental health) struggle in rural Iowa is real

My child, in what used to be his favorite hoodie.

Last week, I tried to get my son help. I called our rural hospital here in Creston — the one that boasts about being a top critical access facility — only to be told they weren’t accepting any mental health patients. No therapist. No counselor. No referral. Just an apologetic sounding voice on the phone. No help.

This is what we’re up against.

My child is fourteen. He’s brilliant, quiet, and kind. A people pleaser, great at masking. He has always been a deep thinker, the kind of kid who notices small things, which are the big things. Lately, though, he’s been pulling away. He posts cryptic quotes. He avoids eye contact. Sits in the dark. The kid who used to run back to me for “just one more hug” over and over doesn’t want hugs anymore.

So I taught him something new: the “hand hug.” We place our palms together and wrap our thumbs around each other’s hand. It makes him smirk. It’s not much, but it’s still touch. It’s still connection.

I wasn’t going to write this. But, I’m scared.

I remember what it was like to be his age and feel that kind of ache.

And because when I was in seventh grade, my best friend died by suicide.

I have started the deconstruction of our Barbie attire for an English paper-pieced mini-quilt.

Janine was high-functioning, funny, full of light. She was popular, a cheerleader. When we were young girls, we played Barbies for what felt like every weekend forever. We built entire worlds out of plastic furniture and imagination. She was the person I talked to about everything, except maybe the things that mattered most. Because at that age, none of us had the language for what was going on beneath the surface.

When she died, no one talked about it. I remember being told we were going to say it was a car accident because the manner in which she ended her life was too much. And even though I went to school, the grief took me out. It still does. Like when I sat in a quiet theatre as Barbie asked her friends, “Do you guys ever feel like dying?”

This kind of grief never goes away, but if we are lucky, we learn to manage it. However, decades later, as I watch my son, that old grief feels brand new. When he doesn't respond, when he’s unreachable, I crumble quietly behind a locked bathroom door.

Anyone who has been in my shoes knows the feeling of being caught between the two impossible places of not wanting to overreact and not wanting to miss the signs.

I’ll never write off his behavior as “teenage stuff” even if it is. But I’ve lived through what happens when that assumption is wrong.

So I keep showing up. I lay on the floor beside him when he can’t move. I listen. I offer his favorite chocolate ice cream even when I know he’ll say no. I give him space. I teach him that silence doesn’t scare me.

And on the days he can’t accept a hug, I offer a hand.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. I wish that meant more than hashtags. I wish our system worked. I wish there was space - not just in hospitals, but in our culture - for the kind of care so many people need.

If you or someone you love is struggling, there is help. Don’t wait.

Resources:

• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — Call or text 988

• Crisis Text Line — Text HOME to 741741

• NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) — nami.org

• The Trevor Project (LGBTQIA+ support) — Call 1-866-488-7386 or text START to 678678 - thetrevorproject.org

• Iowa Warm Line (for non-crisis support): 1-844-775-9276

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​Sarah Scull is a member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative, a statewide network of journalists, authors, poets, and musicians. Based in Creston, Iowa, Sarah is the writer behind The Piecemaker, where she shares her musings as a West Coast transplant, mother, and Midwest maker.