Free The Girl Behind the Door by John Brooks Page A

her—musical instruments, chess, modern dance.
    As protective as she was about her writing, she trusted me to read and edit. It was a delicate balance to be her mentor without offending her and risk turning her away from her gift or from me. I didn’t want her to give up on things so easily.
    Late one evening when Casey was thirteen, she was struggling with an English assignment. As I lay in bed drifting off to a Frontline story on PBS about Saddam Hussein and WMDs, she shuffled into our bedroom in her UGG boots, Igor trotting behind. She inched up to the bed and shoved a wrinkled mass of paper at me as though it were toxic waste. “Can you read this? I know it totally sucks.”
    I hated to see her beat herself up like that. “Honey, what’s it about?”
    â€œIt’s an essay for English on the Eiffel Tower,” which came out in a rapid-fire staccato: ItsanessayforEnglishontheEiffelTower .
    I corrected a few minor typos and punctuation errors before affixing my smiley face at the end with my verdict— Wow! —returning the finished piece to her as she sat at her desk. She grabbed the paper, crinkling it in her fist. I winced as I kissed the top of her head, wet from her evening shower, and left her alone to process my remarks.
    Near midnight, shrieks echoed from the other side of the house—Erika and Casey at war. I had to investigate. Stepping into her room, I saw Casey at her desk, her shoulders heaving from choking sobs, while Erika stood over her with hands on hips, a disgusted look on her face. Igor lay on Casey’s bed, shivering.
    Erika quivered with outrage. “Why do you do this to yourself, Casey! Why!” It looked like she was on the verge of tears herself. “You’re going back to therapy, young lady! I’ve had it!”
    Casey picked her head up, tears streaming down her face. “Stop it, Mom! Therapy is stupid and useless! If you try to take me again I’ll kill myself!”
    Oh brother. Teen girl dramatics .
    Erika turned to me, her nose inches from my face. “Your daughter just ripped up her English homework that she spent all evening on!” Had she saved the paper on her computer? No.
    â€œWhat? Casey!” I was exasperated. Did she have some kind of self-destructive impulse? Despite all of her bluster and pride, the slightest disapproving tone from me hit her like a sledgehammer.
    â€œDad, don’t you know how much I hate myself? You just make me feel worse!” Her words were a cold slap in the face. Her reaction to stress and adversity was always out of proportion to the circumstances. What had we done to induce this kind of self-loathing, or was this just part of growing up?
    The self-loathing became more evident as she made her way through middle school and increasingly turned her rage inward, the hyperbole becoming ever more strident.
    â€œYou make me feel like I’m subhuman!”
    I couldn’t tell what was normal anymore or what should have sounded the alarm bells. We just wanted Casey to be like the other kids, so we looked for signs of “normalness” and they were there in abundance.
    The vast majority of the time, she was still delightful, happy, and charming, a good student who would have made any parent proud. The professionals had to be right. She was just a bit of a drama queen like a lot of teenage girls. So it was easy for me to overlook her more troublesome behavior.
    Since taking her out of therapy with Dr. Darnell, we had turned back to our friends, and once again they reassured us that there was no reason to panic. We were good parents and Casey was a good girl. This was fairly normal—though irritating—behavior for a middle schooler. That’s what I wanted to hear, and I found that people were eager to tell us what we wanted to hear.
    Still, we’d laid down the marker of consequences for bad behavior and had to make good on our threats. Erika was adamant that Casey go