Adrienne called out my name. “Debbie, the Cambridge Police are asking for you at the front desk.”
I froze, and my mind went immediately to Farah. What had happened? What trouble was she in?
I met the officers in the reception area, and they asked if there was somewhere we could sit down. Adrienne knew just what to do. She led us to the front meeting room and sat with me.
“Are you Farah’s mother?”
“Yes. What has happened?”
The officer had tears in her eyes. “Ma’am, I am so sorry to inform you that Farah has died.”
In an instant, the world changed. I was in shock. That sparsely furnished meeting room in a nonprofit office took on a new and permanent meaning. It would always be the place where I learned my daughter had died by suicide.
Farah’s life was complicated. It was shaped by trauma on many levels, including racism, addiction, and a brain health disorder. It was also defined by an immense capacity for love, creativity, athleticism, and humor, and by her ability to touch people’s hearts.
She was a biracial woman born in 1976, only nine years after the Supreme Court struck down laws banning interracial marriage. Interracial couples were often met with anger, and their children were subjected to the indignities of racism, especially in the South.
Farah was born to young parents from Arkansas and Kansas who had both experienced poverty, brain health disorders, and violence. As her mother, I saw how the cruelty of racism shaped my daughter and hurt her, and how it deepened an already unsettled mind.
When she was 11, Farah discovered her talent for basketball. She went on to play at Loyola University Chicago on a scholarship. But for someone with a brain health disorder, that incredible talent was also a liability. Growing up in poverty and as a person of color, she had to find a way out, and achievement became that way out. It also brought its own pressures.
Along with poverty and racism, Farah experienced sexual assault. The trauma happened while her brain was still developing, and it changed her permanently. It was the beginning of a life of never feeling safe and secure in her own skin. For a white, middle-class person, the outcome might have been different. For Farah, it became a struggle she could not overcome. She became tired.
As an adolescent, Farah became a regular consumer of psychological services, and those services were never adequate. She was institutionalized for the first time at 13, which set a devastating course of events in motion. The answer to “her problem” was to warehouse her, rather than effectively treat her brain health disorder and her trauma.
What about her parents? What were we doing? We were listening to the doctors. That, too, relates to poverty. Parenting styles often reflect socioeconomic status, and families with fewer resources tend to place more trust in doctors and institutions.
Farah graduated from high school and went to college to play basketball, where her brain health became more compromised. It wasn’t only her brain health. It was also the disease of addiction, which she inherited from my side of the family. She became deeply addicted to alcohol and drugs, which brought even more complications.
When addiction took hold, Farah learned firsthand that people of color are treated differently. She could not support herself and had to rely on government programs for both her physical and mental health care. People of color are overrepresented among those whose care comes through underfunded public systems. Farah needed certain medications to manage her brain health disorder, medications that are also misused recreationally. At every emergency room and doctor’s visit, she had to face being viewed as a drug-seeking person of color.
In her late 20s and 30s, Farah went to treatment several times and strung together short periods of sobriety. During those times, her love of music, art, and poetry surfaced, both as a way to make a living and as a way to feel good about herself.
She taught herself guitar, harmonica, drums, and piano, and mastered them all. She loved music. Her greatest gift was as a singer-songwriter. Her voice was unique, and the depth of her music moved and inspired everyone who heard it. She wrote hundreds of songs.
Two years before she died, she began a lasting walk in recovery that included working with others trying to stay sober. There were moments of real happiness in those two years, but the impact of her early life was never far from her mind.
Even in recovery, Farah was hospitalized and subjected to dehumanizing treatment by an inadequate system of care, the system that people without insurance or financial means are expected to accept. Her last hospitalization was the one that broke the camel’s back.
In her early 30s, she had been diagnosed with a dissociative disorder. One weekend, she suddenly left. We had to enlist law enforcement to find her and get her to safety, but that “safety” is what ultimately took her from us.
She ended up in an emergency room in Mason City, Iowa, a place with little experience caring for people of color, people with addiction, or people with brain health disorders. She told me she overheard a nurse say, “Let’s put a sign on her that says ‘Not welcome in Iowa.’” They refused to care for her.
I drove to Mason City right away to pick her up. On the four-hour drive home, she was quiet. She was sober, but quiet. When we got back, I asked her to spend the night with me.
“No, Mom,” she said. “You snore.”
I took her home. She looked at me and said, “I will never go to another hospital or psychiatric unit.” I told her I understood, and that we would figure it out together.
I left her that evening around 5:00 p.m. Early the next morning, Farah died by suicide. Her AA sponsor found her and called the police, who brought the news to me in that meeting room.
The news was devastating beyond words. And yet, in a way, I understood. She was tired.
Farah’s life was profoundly affected by the complications of brain health disorders. She was born at the intersection of poverty, racism, brain health disorders, and addiction, to young parents who struggled with those same burdens.
But that is not all she was. Farah left a legacy of love in her art and her music. She left this world loved by many.
Call her by her name. Farah.
If you or someone you love is struggling, call or text 988 to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
As she entered her late 20s and 30s, she went to treatment several times and put together a string of short amounts of sobriety. During these times her love of music, art, and poetry surfaced as ways for her to make a living and to feel good about herself. She taught herself how to play guitar, harmonica, drums, and piano and mastered these. She loved music. Her ultimate talent was as a singer-songwriter. Her voice was unique, and her music's depth moved and inspired all who listened. She wrote hundreds of songs. Ultimately, two years before she died, she began a permanent walk in recovery which included working with others trying to stay sober. There were moments of happiness in these two years, but the impact of her early years were never far from her mind.
Even in recovery, she was hospitalized and subjected to de-humanizing treatment through a system of care that is inadequate. It is the system of care people without insurance and financial means must be satisfied with. Her last hospitalization was what “broke the camel’s back.” In her early 30s, she was diagnosed with dissociative disorder and one weekend she suddenly took off. We had to enlist the help of law enforcement to locate her and get her to safety, but the safety caused her to permanently leave us. She wound up in an emergency room in Mason City, Iowa where there is little experience with people of color, addiction, and brain disorders. She told me she overhead a nurse says, “let’s put a sign on her that says ‘not welcome in Iowa’.” They refused to care for her. I immediately drove to Mason City to pick her up. On the way back, she was quiet. She was sober, but quiet. After the four-hour drive home, I asked her to come spend the night with me and she said, “no Mom, you snore.” I took her home and she looked at me and said, “I will never go to another hospital or psychiatric unit.” I told her I understood, that we would figure it out. I left her that evening about 5:00 p.m. and at 4:00 a.m. the next morning, she had died by hanging. Her AA sponsor discovered her body and she is the one who sent the police to their intersection with me in the meeting room where they shared the details of her death. The news the police came to share that day was not welcome news and it was beyond devastating, but it was understandable because she was tired. Farah’s life was greatly affected by the complications of brain health disorders. She was born at an intersection of poverty, racism, brain health disorders, and addiction to young parents who, themselves, suffered these same maladies. Farah left a legacy of love in her art and music and she left this world loved by many.