I was inside of Second Nature Wilderness Program (SNWP) and my parents would send me letters every week that would be brought by the therapist. Communication with the outside world, even my parents was a breath of fresh air that I could not gain from the physical exposure alone. I was in the book cliffs of Utah.
Arrived at Second Nature Wilderness Program Base Camp in Duchesne, Utah. The Monday I was supposed to have a chemistry quiz. I guess grades did not matter as much as my absolute obedience. I would be strip-searched, all belongings would be taken and put into a box, I would be given all new clothes to live an extended period of time in the woods.
Arrived on November 19th 2007
EARTH PHASE:
MONDAY-THURSDAY
FIRE PHASE:
THANKSGIVING-END DATE
Discharge Date: February 1st 2008
My father told me that I would not have been sent away if not for the diary because I wrote it all down for them to analyze and speculate on. It was my fault for wanting to be a writer, my greatest sorrow would come from my greatest joy; how was I to cope now?
I can barely write about it, even now. I feel my throat clench up and this needs to describe it all in some sort of unattainable perfection. I remember this feeling when I got my diary back after being there for the first eleven weeks -- I went to write all that I had not had a chance to since I had been away... and I couldn't? Words no longer seemed to profess the superficial take I portrayed in the letters my handwritten book contained.
When my diary was taken away from me. When all my teenage writings got looked over by a psych professional and withheld my own musings on events none of these experts were actually there for -- but they wanted to tell me how it happened. I could not accuse them of "gaslighting" my reality, since they were not maliciously or consciously altering the environment in order to cause a reaction inside of me. No, they were simply unconsciously projecting on events they were not there for, that I was -- and then holding me accountable to recount a version of events (which was a fantasy). They made full on pornos out of PG-rated teenage sexual interactions. They read between the lines in order to imagine a portrait that I was privately painting for my own future recollections. They made my artwork, their own.
I could not "blame" my parents for the environment that I did not have control over. I could not "blame" my parents for the rules they set, as they were good parents only holding onto reasons that suited them best. I could not "blame" my parents for their values, as I could not argue with the word of god, aka the Christian bible. I was to take responsibility as a sinner would before the feet of Jesus begging for mercy, taking on a full load of weight only for HIM to release me from the burden. The penance never seemed to end, I was deemed unworthy of being accepted back into the household for a variety of reasons.
Was home really the best place for me?
I could not fully blame myself either; in order to change behaviors, this cycle had to end. I could not beg for forgiveness from myself in the same way my parents wanted me to castrate my needs in order to be quiet better, to silent better, to be still. It felt like they were upset for my very existence as if they would be happier if I never caused any ripples in their pond. I never came back home from treatment.
The behaviors could not change under the environment I would be placed inside of; quite simply because my needs were not being met. How I survived is I needed to escape my fathers grip on me financially, and I was wounded. How was I expected to stand up and take on capitalism under these circumstances? I would have to get married, bet on my body to take me as far as I possibly could -- was it wrong to survive?
Being accountable is not the same as self-blame, and the environmental factors were not going to change, they were just as zero-tolerant and wanted tough love to be a cure-all when basic emotional needs were being dismissed as "attention-seeking behavior" that would be met with a grey stone in the face.
I was a child navigating the world and I there was no room for mistakes; I was to be punished as an adult if I wished to act like one -- and yet? No one could possibly see the last tears of childhood staining my face.
Was the solution incarceration to a mental institution and pills. How was removing my emotional responses going to fix anything when there was the reasoning behind these biological forces were pressed. A bad kid deserves hell, a bad kid does not deserve human rights, a bad kid does not deserve a home. My mother and father's words were full of potpourri while their actions stunk of shit. If the environment was not to change at home, and my need continuously dismissed? What was the point of this proper communication? So that I would obey at the first command? What was I? A dog?
I desired to be a writer, and I paid their enormous consequences for obeying my internal compass, which they said was broken.
When I follow my own conscience, I feel less burdened by the opinions of the world. I feel less emotionally attached to praise or crique that is not constructive to my growth. The type of construction they were doing was in vain, in their own names -- so that could live up to the dreams they had for me, not the ones I had for myself. I got mixed up in my parents, who was I if not for them and their mercy? I did my best to impress them and fell flat on my face.
Was that what my life was about? When my mental health was judged by the relationship to them in close proximity -- who wouldn't be mad under the constraint I was held under? Was I being unreasonable by exclaiming my own boundaries existed? Was I being unreasonable when I said these treatments were building me up like a machine instead of allowing me to process as a human being? They wanted to blame me for not living up to their standards when they could not live up to them either.
Maybe that's the most important lesson that I learned. My mother wanted to save me from an unplanned pregnancy due to her own insecurities. My mother cringed when others in the community gossiped about me, needing to separate herself from me in order not to be perceived as a whore. My mother's sins had been washed away by the blood of Christ; why address it any further?
I did not even understand why she was ranting and raving about how I could get pregnant from a blow job; the deed had never been done? There was no conversation, just statements of fear that did not influence my behavior the way it paralyzed her. The lack of anxiety I had was a coping mechanism deployed to survive the massive amount of projected shame and guilt being thrown at me like stones. I was the problem that was to be battered with grey stones thrown at my head, ignored, isolated -- to live with the lepers. My mother told me that I was unclean and banished me from the family.
It made her feel better.
To disconnect.
Can I blame my mother?
Can I blame my father?
Can I blame myself?
I can say that my parent's lack of accountability, refusing to understand their role in the family dynamics was resisted. They wanted only to see themselves under the holy light of god, they were children of the almighty -- their values and rules were a reflection of their religion. To question themselves, they would also be forced to question Christianity. And that was out of the equation. The extent of their face gave me an understanding of the depths of their pain. They held on to the idea of a savior in order to avoid themselves.
Can I blame them for having pain? They will reap what they sowed. Their sins come to light the more that I heal, the more I try and explain how I got to be institutionalized for such a long period of time in the first place. How can I blame them for having pain? How can I blame them for coping through the pain with religion? How can I blame them for being human and running around in circles? How can I blame them for being blind when they do not want to see?
I cannot force accountability on anyone,
I can only be accountable myself.
How can I blame myself for coping through pain by becoming the writer I once dreamed about being?
I am responsible.
I am free.
They said I would understand when I had a child.
And maybe that's exactly what I did.
