Suicidal Ideation Hospitalization
From A Parent’s Eyes
I’m a parent to an 18-year-old teen navigating the challenges of mental illness whose first hospitalization was from suicidal ideation. Ryan, my child, was diagnosed with severe depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and a hint of autism around the age of 13. In addition, Ryan, who is very supportive of this blog, is also transgender, identifying with they/them and he/him pronouns. Their journey of self-discovery has been deeply intertwined with their mental health struggles, and it’s important to me to honor every part of who they are as I share this.
Looking back, I didn’t see the signs. My teen seemed pretty typical (if there’s such a thing)—they hated middle school, thought teachers were clueless, believed mom knew nothing, maintained good grades, had good friends and seemed social.
Of course, there were some bumps along the way. At age seven, Ryan endured my divorce from their dad. We downsized our home, switched schools, and I had to return to full-time work. Those were challenging transitions for a child, no doubt. As a parent, I sought counseling for Ryan and their sibling to help them cope, and at the time, it seemed we had weathered the storm.
But mental health isn’t that straightforward.
When Did The Suicidal Ideation Begin?
I wish I could point to a single “aha” moment when I realized Ryan was struggling with mental health challenges and suicidal ideation. I’ve spent countless hours searching for it in my brain but can’t pinpoint one. For us, the journey became undeniable with Ryan’s first suicidal ideation hospitalization hospitalization at age 13.
Ryan hadn’t physically harmed themselves (to my knowledge), but they had strong and persistent thoughts of self-harm. Hearing them voice those feelings marked the start of our long, difficult journey through the mental health system.
The First Hospitalization For Suicidal Ideation
This happened during the COVID lockdown—a time when kids were attending virtual school, and I was working remotely. We spent our days under the same roof, but it wasn’t until one afternoon that Ryan came to me with a heart-stopping confession: they didn’t feel safe with their own thoughts.
As a parent, I was shaken to my core. How do you respond to something like that? All I wanted to do was hold Ryan close and promise everything would be okay. Looking back, I now realize how brave my child was to share such vulnerable feelings with me.
My immediate instinct was to call our pediatrician. The doctor urged us to go directly to the hospital. After some consideration, we decided on VCU Medical Center, which I had heard had strong teen mental health services.
At the emergency room, Ryan was quickly placed in a room. They told the doctors, “I don’t feel safe with my own thoughts.” Hearing those words broke my heart. How could my child’s own mind betray them like this?
Because Ryan expressed unsafe thoughts, the doctors followed protocol and strongly recommended admission to an adolescent mental health facility. That’s when we learned about the harsh reality of mental health care: the waiting game.
The Waiting Game
Finding an available bed in a treatment facility isn’t as straightforward as I had naively assumed. The hospital social workers began calling around, searching for an open spot. Richmond has two facilities: VCU’s Virginia Treatment Center for Children (VTCC) and Chippenham Hospital’s Tucker Pavilion. Both were full.
The social worker explained that it could take days, even weeks, to find an open bed. They might even need to search beyond Richmond. Panic set in. How would I visit if Ryan was sent out of town? How would I manage work, school, and everything else?
After eight nerve-wracking hours, the social worker delivered good news: a bed had opened at VTCC. Relief flooded in, but it quickly gave way to new worries. What would happen next? Was Ryan in good hands?
Arrival at VTCC
Ryan had to be transported by ambulance for safety reasons. I followed behind in my car, overwhelmed by questions and emotions.
We arrived at VTCC around 1 a.m. Ryan, dressed in a hospital gown and fuzzy socks, was wheeled in on a stretcher. The brightly lit lobby felt cold and clinical. I was a mix of fear, sadness, and relief—terrified for Ryan but thankful they were in a place that could help.
The reality hit hard when it was time to say goodbye. I hugged Ryan tightly, not wanting to let go. Watching them walk down the sterile hallway to their room was gut-wrenching.
When I finally got home around 2 a.m., I was emotionally and physically drained. Sleep didn’t come easily—I couldn’t stop thinking about Ryan in a strange facility surrounded by strangers. It was the start of a long and uncertain road, but I had to hope it would lead to healing.
The Next Day
The following morning, my anxiety was through the roof as I waited for a call from VTCC. I tried to organize my thoughts and create a list of questions to ask, but my mind was swirling, unable to settle. The uncertainty of what lay ahead was suffocating.
In an effort to feel useful, I began packing clothes for Ryan to have during visitation. The restrictions surprised me—no hoodies or sweatpants with strings, no belts, nothing that could pose a safety risk. I found myself cutting the strings off of everything, wondering how something so small could matter so much. Comfy clothes were Ryan’s priority, but I didn’t even know how much to pack. The staff had told me the stay could last a few days, a week, or longer.
Finally, the call came from a social worker at VTCC. Her voice was kind, and that immediately gave me some comfort. She explained that she had met with Ryan and wanted to gather background information from me. For what felt like the sixth time in 24 hours, I recounted our story, each retelling feeling as emotionally draining as the first.
She also informed me that Ryan wanted only me, not their dad, to participate in the upcoming family meeting. I respected Ryan’s wishes, though it was a bittersweet reminder of the complex dynamics in our family.
First Visitation
When I arrived at VTCC for the first visitation, I was filled with nervous anticipation. The sterile environment was intimidating—I had to be buzzed in, and every step felt heavy. Other parents sat in the waiting room, their eyes briefly meeting mine before looking away, each of us consumed by our own fears.
Peggy, the front desk coordinator, walked me through the process. She scanned my ID, had me place all my belongings in a locker, and made sure my pockets were empty. After confirming with the staff and Ryan that they were ready to see me, she gathered a few other parents that were waiting, and together we navigated the maze of long, locked hallways.
The sound of each security door unlocking was jarring, echoing loudly through the empty corridors. Finally, I reached Ryan’s pod. As soon as I saw them, a wave of emotion hit me. Ryan didn’t smile, but I could see the relief in their eyes.
They were still in the hospital gown and fuzzy socks, but I had brought clothes for them to change into. It felt like such a small thing, but at that moment, it was all I could offer. Ryan was glad they had some of their clothes and it was one tiny way for me to care for my child in a situation that felt so far out of my control.
The Pod
The pod was a small living area shared by the patients, equipped with bolted-down furniture—a couch, a couple of chairs, a television, and a few metal tables with connecting chairs. Around ten bedrooms branched off from that common space, though I learned that new patients often didn’t sleep in their rooms right away.
Instead, mattresses were placed in the entryways of their rooms until the staff deemed it safe for them to sleep inside without constant supervision. Everything in the pod was designed with safety in mind, a stark reminder of why we were there.
Seven Days Later
Ryan spent seven days at VTCC before the staff recommended a transfer to the Crisis Stabilization Unit (CSU) at St. Joseph’s Villa. Beds there were often in high demand, but we were fortunate that one was available.
Ryan stayed at St. Joseph’s for two weeks, and during that time, I saw glimpses of hope. The therapists genuinely cared and worked tirelessly to help Ryan. There was a lot of group therapy and Ryan had a little more independence there. The staff at the CSU saw the same bright, brilliant young person I saw—a teen with a sharp mind and a promising future. Their compassion and dedication gave me a renewed sense of hope.
Two Weeks Later
When Ryan was discharged, things seemed to be improving. They appeared happier, their medications seemed to be working, and we had a plan in place for outpatient therapy and medication management. For the first time in a while, I felt like I had my child back—mentally and emotionally.
But as I would later learn, teen mental health is rarely a linear journey. This was only the beginning of what would become nine hospitalizations in less than four years for Ryan, each one more serious than the last.
Conclusion
Life for Ryan and our family has been messy, heartbreaking, and filled with uncertainty. But through it all, I’ve learned to treasure the small victories—Ryan’s bravery in sharing their struggles, the tireless dedication of mental health professionals, and the hope that healing, though challenging, is always possible. Please check out my Resources page for some Richmond, VA providers that were extremely helpful in our mental health journey
If you’re reading this, I want you to know you’re not alone. This blog is more than just my story—it’s a space to share the raw, honest truth about the complexities of teen mental health and self-discovery. My hope is that by documenting Ryan’s journey, I can create light for others who may feel lost in the darkness. Please follow along as we continue navigating this unpredictable road together. Never stop fighting for tomorrow.
In the Event Of An Emergency
If your child expresses thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please take them seriously. Below is a list of potential options:
- Contact your child’s doctor
- Reach out to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
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- Call: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
- Call or Text: 988
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- If the situation is critical, call 911 or go to the nearest emergency room.
