‘My teenage girl took her own life after a huge row’
Jenetta Barry, 63, from Oxford, blamed herself after Jenny’s suicide aged 16 – but her charity has now helped thousands of people
‘It was an almighty row. Brewing for months, it ended with my furious 16-year-old daughter yelling, “You’ve f **** d up my life and you’ve f **** d up my friendships. I can’t live like this, Mum, don’t make me do this!” Then she slammed her bedroom door in my face.
The date was 10 October 2005 and it was the last time I saw my daughter alive. Within half an hour of our argument, on that clear, blue-sky day, my beautiful, much-loved teenager went into her en-suite bathroom and took her own life. Her death was the most shattering thing a mother can possibly endure. And it very nearly broke me.
Jenny was my third child, a longed-for girl. When she was born in 1989, I already had two sons – Stuart, seven, and Neil, four – from my first marriage. My second husband, Dave, and I wanted a child together. We were over the moon to have a daughter. I bought pink everything and dreamt of us having a special bond.
Screamed hysterically
As a baby, she was restless and she was a challenging toddler. Once, for no apparent reason, she screamed hysterically on the pavement for 30 minutes while I struggled to console her. Jenny’s little sister, Catherine, arrived in 1993. Perhaps she felt she’d been usurped as “Daddy’s princess”. But generally, our family life in Africa was happy – full of friends, fun and animals. Outwardly, Jenny seemed smiley, inquisitive. I worked as a sales motivational speaker, while Dave’s job in sales often took him away from home.
I had no inkling Jenny was unhappy until she hit puberty. “I don’t fit in, Mum,” she cried, convinced she’d been swapped as a baby, never feeling she belonged.
At 13, Jenny confessed to having secretly felt suicidal for most of her life, even saying she’d tried choking herself to death with her hands at seven. I was knocked for six.
I booked a GP appointment, but the doctor was initially dismissive. “You’re such a happy, bubbly girl,” she said, looking at my daughter’s lovely face. She did refer her to a psychiatrist, who recommended Jenny be admitted to hospital.
I was relieved to be taken seriously. But it did Jenny’s mental health no good. There,
she befriended other, very troubled young people.
One night, she made her first serious attempt on her own life. The hospital – wrongly, I now realise – treated this as bad behaviour and “expelled” her. There was a method. I think they wanted to break her then rebuild her. I felt I’d let her down by sending her there.
Jenny, who now dressed as a Goth and had developed an eating disorder, thought she might be bipolar. But in Africa, they’re reluctant to diagnose children under 18, not wishing them to be labelled. Jenny was given antidepressants.
Six weeks later, she crawled into my bed at night hallucinating. She’d made another attempt on her life and spent the next four days in hospital.
Hell-bent on ending it
“No one listens to me,” she cried. “No one understands. I don’t feel like everyone else.”
There followed another incident not long afterwards – Jenny seemed hell-bent on ending her life.
Things seemed to get better when we took a family holiday to Kenya in 2004. Jenny shed her Goth clothes, swam in the sea and seemed happier. But back home, problems returned and stress levels were high, with Dave and I separating that same year.
When Jenny turned 16, we had family over. But instead of joining in the celebrations, she vanished. We
‘I can’t live like this Mum, don’t make me do this!’
eventually found her alone in the fields, overwhelmed with anxiety and anguish. Her behaviour spiralled. She grew manipulative and argumentative. I feared for her safety but every time I tried reasoning with her, we rowed. The threat of another attempt on her life was ever-present.
So one night, at my wit’s end, I wrote her a letter. I explained this was “tough love” and she needed to respect the house rules and join in family life. I made a scroll with a ribbon and delivered it to her door with her favourite smoothie.
I prayed the letter would help. Instead, it incensed her and led to that fateful, ugly row where she blamed me for “f ***** g up” everything. Then she began packing her bags to leave home. I tried distracting myself by texting a friend. But with growing unease, after 20 minutes I went into Jenny’s bedroom. It had been totally trashed. Our dog was at the end of the bed but no Jenny. With dread, I entered her bathroom. There she was – lifeless.
I leapt towards her. Panic flooded me. How do I revive her? Do I run down the road for help or do I stay and try to save her?
I rang a friend then ran from house to house begging for help. Our housekeeper Nellie, meanwhile, had fetched someone, and by the time I returned this neighbour was leaving Jenny’s room, shocked. “How is your daughter dead?” she shouted at me. It was then I knew for certain… she was gone. I staggered outside, collapsing in a daze. Then I beat my hands against the garage,
“I’ve killed her,” I cried. “It was me.”
Someone needed to explain to the policeman, who’d arrived along with an ambulance, that I wasn’t a murderer. They sedated me and in a blur I watched the mortuary men take Jenny’s body away.
Part of me was desperate to bring her back, yet there was relief too. She could no longer hurt herself, she was “safe” now and no longer my responsibility. On her fourth attempt to kill herself, she had succeeded.
Somehow, we planned a church memorial service and cremation, followed by a “celebration of her life” ceremony in our garden. We scattered her ashes a month later in a beautiful spot on the reef edge in Mombasa. In the months and years that followed, I suffered several suicidal thoughts myself. Now
I felt exactly as Jenny had – alone and with no one understanding my pain.
On the second anniversary of her death, when Jenny would have been 18, I hit rock-bottom. Catherine, my youngest child, had chosen to live with her father, so now I’d lost both daughters. I’d failed at motherhood. I booked a trip to see my brother in Oxford and planned on ending my life while staying in a B&B, so no one I loved would have to discover me. But at the last minute, my brother unexpectedly rang. That jolted me to life. I knew I couldn’t cause more devastation. I had to find strength and some sense among this agony. I needed to confront my grief and guilt,
and begin healing for my other children.
IF YOU NEED TO TALK TO
YOU SOMEONE,
CAN CALL THE SAMARITANS ANYTIME ON
116 123
Such a taboo
I began researching methods to get through my loss. Instead of feeling Jenny killing herself was unreasonable, I tried to understand it. Talking about suicide is such a taboo, but I believe it’s important not to shy away from using certain language. My daughter killed herself – I can say that now.
I put in intense work, emotionally and spiritually. I realised the day Jenny died – 10 October – was World Mental Health Day. It felt like a sign and I set up a charity, World Jenny’s Day, promoting awareness of mental health. Over time, I’ve accepted that my loss let me live with purpose.
I’ve helped thousands avoid suicide, teaching them it is not the answer. I give tools to manage mental health, encouraging openhearted understanding rather than judgement. I like to think Jenny’s unique energy never left but reformed in new ways, to help others. I lost my daughter yet, hopefully, by helping people lead lives without suicide, I can stop others losing their loved ones in this shattering way.