Dreadlocks, Mac ‘n Cheese and Suicide

My dreadlock fantasy started over three years ago. It was an Inner Itch Of The Soul type of thing, a deep longing inside to find what the real me looks like. Plus, my hair was starting to really piss me off. All my life, people have admired my long blonde hair. The good-hair-gene landed on my head instead of my sister’s head. She and my mother have never hesitated to express their jealousy. In fact, my hair was the first thing my husband, John, noticed about me about 30 years ago, as he made eyes at me across the room.

Three years ago though, my kids were getting older and more active, my opinions, values and body were all changing and it became exceedingly difficult to muster the energy to deal with my mop of hair. The effort. The products. The time. The money. It started to dawn on me that my hair was a burden and not necessarily a true representation of who I was growing into…hopefully a more laid back, authentic and fuck-off-if-you-don’t-like-me kind of person.

Admitting that my signature mane was actually a pain in the ass took some time. I fought it. But this past winter I was whining about yet another impossible rat’s nest in my hair and John had to get the scissors and cut the snarl out. I had never mentioned my secret dreadlock fantasy to anyone, but found myself blurting, “That is IT, I swear to God, THIS is why I want dreadlocks!”

“That would be so cool, you should totally do it!” my endlessly supportive husband said. I’m not at all certain he realized how serious I was.

Fast forward six months and I decided to request dreadlocks for my birthday. I was turning 46 and was ready to commit to knotting up my hair. “It’s either this or I shave my head,” I said to my wide-eyed friends. “And if I hate the dreads or I look completely ridiculous, that’s what I’ll end up doing and I’ll have the world’s most expensive crew cut.”

In order to get my dreads, I had to schedule a consultation, wait two months, give up nine hours of my life and spend about $800. It’s a significant investment of time and money. And I was nervous. Steadfast? yes. Concerned? also yes. It was a risky move. But on the other hand, I couldn’t NOT try it.

So this week, on Tuesday, I was sitting in the salon chair while my stylist pulled my hair into locks and I got a notification from the New York Times that Kate Spade had been found dead from an apparent suicide. You’d think that we’d be desensitized to bat-shit-crazy headlines, but still, they can shock me. As the news spread, I found out she had a 13-year-old daughter.

I have a 13-year-old daughter.

A long time ago, I was a 13-year-old daughter and my mother was hospitalized for an attempted suicide. While I know nothing about the circumstances surrounding the Spade  family, the parallels shook me and took me, back in time.

It was an October afternoon in 1985. Our school bus dropped us off about a quarter of a mile away because we lived on a remote street. Being the oldest, I was in charge of my three younger siblings. My parents would warn me all the time, especially about my youngest brother, Nick (age six at the time, who tended to take off running), that sometimes idiot drivers just take the corner too fast. “Keep an eye on him!” they’d say. They never met us at the bus stop to help us get home safely. And fortunately for them, I was responsible and Nick never got run over.

The four of us trudged towards our house in the woods, probably kicking leaves and chattering about nothing much. One of us was surely claiming the downstairs bathroom or the last of the ice cream. It was cloudy and brisk, a typical autumn afternoon in New England. Most of the leaves were on the ground so I could see easily through the trees. I saw that Dad’s big brown Buick was parked at an odd angle in the driveway.

Why was the car like that? Why was one of the back doors open? Why was there a green suitcase on the driveway next to the car? Wait. Why is my mother being led by my dad to the car? Why is she in her bathrobe? Why is she crying?

As we approached the car, my dad told me to get the kids inside while he buckled my mother into the front seat. He threw the suitcase in the back and then followed me into the house.

“I have to take your mother to the hospital,” he whispered.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“She’s sick,” is all that he said, but he was the one that looked sick. Ashen face. Wild look in his eyes. Shaky. “Can you make dinner and watch them tonight, until I get back?”

I assured him, “Yeah Dad, it’s fine, I can make mac ‘n cheese for them.”

Dad hugged me and left.

That night the four of us kids huddled together, sitting where we were never allowed to sit (up on the half-wall). We ate dinner, skipped our homework and practicing and watched TV until Dad got home.

The next time I saw my mother was weeks later when we were able to visit her in the hospital. My younger sister, Anna, and I looked at each other when we saw the stark black and white metal sign above the double doors: “Psychiatric Ward.” The doors were closed. Anna and I knew what that sign meant because we were 13 and 11 and we read books and we watched movies. She and I held hands as we walked under that sign, through the doors and down the long hallway. It was silent. Some words are unspoken for a reason.

It’s funny that I can vividly remember our school pictures from that particular year. They look much different from all of the other years. Odd outfits. Hair not quite right. Bigger earrings than my mother would have allowed. And maybe just a titch of crazy in our eyes.

How is Kate Spade’s daughter doing, I wonder? My heart breaks for her, and for any 13-year-old daughter, including me, who is faced with the raw, unforgiving reality of their mother’s struggles and fragility. For me, decades later, even just simple mac ‘n cheese is rife with trauma. No one is immune from the tragedies of life. And this includes my 13-year-old. My profound hope is that I can hold her safe from this fact until she is past this tenuous and sensitive age.

All of it is so tricky though. Because later on in life, we get to this absurd point when we realize our insides don’t match our outsides. Perhaps life becomes less recognizable when our kids grow more independent and our bodies begin misbehaving. Maybe it has something to do with having 13-year-old daughters, or what happened to us when we were 13-year-old daughters. Who knows?

I think the truth is that while life transitions are unnerving, they can be downright terrifying if the family is affected by mental illness. And this could be exactly why I want to Be Here with you right now…so that we can navigate these significant and sacred days together.

And also? I do love my new dreadlocks.