Riptide is the raw and revealing account of the author’s journey during the ten years her oldest daughter struggled with anorexia and bulimia, a battle that ended with her death at age 23 in February 2000. Motherhood is about nurturing and protecting your child, yet with eating disorders, as with any addiction complicated by mental illness, parents can feel frustrated with powerlessness and filled with guilt and fear as they watch their beloved child consumed by a condition that has life-threatening power. Eating disorders are rampant, with emaciated stars on the covers of tabloids and the modeling industry being challenged about unhealthy, unrealistic images of what is desirable. In the face of these ubiquitous images, obesity is at an all-time high among children and teens, driving more and younger children to “experiment” with anorectic and bulimic behaviors. That means more parents and caregivers need to understand how to cope and not only try to help these children, but also take care of themselves. Using her unique perspective as a mother and psychotherapist, Barbara Hale-Seubert vividly chronicles her rollercoaster of grief, fear, and powerlessness. Here, Hale-Seubert holds onto the hope that her daughter could salvage some form of a life not fully eclipsed by the disorder, while at the same time learning to surrender what was out of her control and embracing, once again, the grace and value in her own life. Riptide offers other parents the redemptive solace that comes with knowing that they aren’t alone in their struggles. " Riptide will benefit anyone who is dealing with a mentally ill or addicted family member. [Hale-Seubert] writes with genuine authenticity, warmth, compassion, and forgiveness — certainly for her daughter, and finally, for herself." —David Mandelbaum, PhD, family therapist "Barbara Hale-Seubert has captured something I’ve never seen someone do in writing: the rawness and genuine authenticity of a mother’s pain. In the course of her book, she unlocked that pain and gave mothers permission to acknowledge their own needs and reactions." —Carolyn Hodges, CEO, Nutrition Clinic and Sol Stone Center for Eating Disorders "A compelling, heart-wrenching journey into her family’s fatal ten-year odyssey. Miraculously, Barbara is able to tell her devastating story in a way that provides hope and guidance to others." —Doris Smeltzer, author, Andrea's Voice: Silenced by Bulimia "Barbara Hale-Seubert’s raw honesty opens the door for others to walk through. She gives us a space to feel — free of judgment — and a place to honor our pain. In doing so she gives us hope. By sharing her and Erin’s journey, she joins us in ours." —Mary Ellen Clausen, executive director, Ophelia's Place "A well-written and searingly honest account of a mother’s journey through loss and grief." —Frederic Luskin, PhD, author, Forgive for Good and Forgive for Love "Hale-Seubert tells the story of a mother's worst nightmare—a daughter's struggle against and ultimate defeat by anorexia and bulimia. . . . Readers may find Hale-Seubert's book painful to read, but they will have a hard time turning away from the author's stark, candid, courageous voice." — Kirkus Reviews (April 15, 2011) Barbara Hale-Seubert is a psychotherapist in practice with her husband, Andrew, and the parent of three surviving daughters and a stepson. She lives in Mansfield, Pennsylvania. As I opened the door of Erin’s apartment on a bright summer afternoon in 1999, I took a deep breath. My 22-year-old daughter lay on the daybed in her living room, bird-like legs stretched out over rumpled sheets. She was propped up on one elbow, drawing in a sketch pad, and her ankles were wrapped in thick white gauze and bandages. I tried not to grimace. I was used to scanning my daughter’s body for signs of deterioration, though it seemed impossible to imagine her more emaciated than she was. Functional starvation, if there was such a term, best described her condition. And now the meager flesh that remained on her ankles had been scalded a week ago when she’d dropped a pot of boiling water on the floor — undoubtedly because her arms no longer had the strength to lift it off the stove. I hadn’t realized it was quite this bad. Erin looked up at me. “They’re just not healing as fast as they should,” she said, her tone resigned. I glimpsed the edge of a raw open wound on one spindly leg. Erin was five feet tall and weighed about 60 pounds. How could her starving little body sustain the shock of these deep burns, much less keep her alive? Were painkillers at least softening the agony? The burns were bad, but I could handle that. Injuries heal. It was the rest of her that, over the past decade of brutal anorexia and depression, left me limp. I felt as though I’d washed up on the beach after alternately struggling to pull my daughter to shore and trying to free myself from a stranglehold that threatened to pull me under along with h