An Escape

It has been years since all of this happened, and I will try to tell it as accurately as possible, but details fade. Memories become corrupted. On top of that, it is now proven that depression slowly obliterates the brain, and it's basic functions, like memory. So, I will do my best.

 Now, a decade ago I wrote a book about the broad strokes of the year that closed out my childhood. I never published it and have repeatedly meant to revisit, revise, and release it, but each time I question whether or not I really need to put those thoughts and memories out there. I don't think I do, so, though it does set up what follows, I won't necessarily fill you in. All you need to know is that shortly after, and partially because of, the events in that book

I had been kicked out of school.

I was fourteen, and it was the end of my freshmen year of high school. I had been having a particularly rough go at it all, often lashing out in any number of ways, that, again, I don't feel the need to retread (use your imagination if you find it important). 

1.

There was a letter I had written out of frustration and anger, which made a number of empty threats, and had found its way to the principal. It was May of 1998 and school shootings were blossoming all over the country. Schools were taking any precaution they could to prevent these horrors (save for providing emotionally safe environments or any attempt to actually face the root causes of the issue, such as dismantling paid lunch/breakfast systems, or providing free licensed therapists for kids who may need more than an ill prepared guidance counselor, or actively rooting out bullying, but that's a whole other bag of shit to shovel through). Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of dollars were being spent nationwide on metal detectors, guards, undercover police officers, clear backpacks, signage, and expelling students that schools believed displayed troubling behavior. A reactionary response instead of a precautionary one. God bless America.

So, when they got ahold of that letter, boy howdy, was I fucked.

I was sat at a large table in the principal's office with my mother, the guidance counselor, the principal, the vice principal, and a few others. I remember feeling nothing. Just the heat of the situation. I remember trying to explain that I didn't mean anything literally. That it was all bullshit. That I was angry. But they believed they had to take the threats seriously. I also believe that since I had long been a thorn in the side of many of the teachers and administrators there (I was poor, I wore makeup and dresses and ripped clothing, I fought, I came in high and left to get high, etc., etc.) that this seemed to be as good an excuse as any to get rid of me.

At some point during the meeting I remember dissociating (as I have been prone to do throughout my life, and especially in times of stress) and the next thing I remember is my mother and I being led out of the office quickly by a woman I only kind of knew but was certainly on my side, and who I will refer to as "Miss O". My mother and I got in our van and sped out of the parking lot. We drove toward Saratoga Hospital, a half hour or so away.

I remember staring out the window. Seeing myself in the side mirror. The late May air on my face. Not serenity, not emptiness, but somewhere in between. Another day to live through, like all of the others.

On the trip I learned that the school wanted me arrested. They had called the state police during the meeting. I had already been arrested once that year (and questioned more than a handful of times about various things) and there was a distinct possibility that I may be sent to a home if it worked in the school's favor (it surely would have). During the meeting Miss O had quietly phoned Saratoga Hospital's MHU (at the time the Behavioral Health Units were "Mental Health Units") and was attempting to reserve a bed for me. The idea being that if I were safe in the MHU, I couldn't be arrested. It was the best of two shitty options, and to this day I thank her for it. We had sped out of the parking lot explicitly to beat the cops. Another moment of my mother's support that it took me years to comprehend, and for the rest of my life I will be grateful for.

The bed reservation at Saratoga fell through. Why? I don't remember. It may have been an age issue. Mental health at this time was still widely considered unimportant, and especially among children and teens. Kids were often considered to be brats, not sick. Because of this there were few options for people my age at the time. At some point Miss O had also arrived at the hospital, attempting to work with my mother on coming up with a plan to both keep me away from the cops and to get me the help I very obviously needed. 

A call was put in to Four Winds, a mental rehabilitation facility on the other side of town. I had heard of it vaguely, as I was friends with a number of foster children who had been shoved around varying aspects of the system, but I wasn't entirely clear on what it was.

Four Winds didn't have a bed available at the moment, but they believed one may be opening up that afternoon. 

So off we went. If we were pulled over on the way, it was over. If we made it, I was safe.

I remember walking into the administration building and thinking it looked like any number of model homes my parents had looked at while I was growing up. Sterile. Pseudo-comfortable. Silent. Over the next six hours or so we sat in waiting room after waiting room. I was interviewed, re-interviewed and re-interviewed. We filled out form, after form, after form. The amount of bureaucracy astounded me. I was bored, tired, hungry, drained. Now that the heat had disappeared from the situation, I was back to ambivalence. 

Finally, around nine or ten p.m., A case worker brought us to a unit. The compound (campus, whatever you want to call it) was eight or nine brown buildings situated in a circle with a large field in the middle. The unit I was brought to was an adult unit, where I would stay until a bed in the teen unit opened up. Again, the best option in a series of shitty options. The case worker brought me to the kitchen of the unit and gave me a small box of cereal, milk, and a bowl. I ate my dinner, and then the counselor, my mother, and I went to the rec room to hammer out the last few details, mostly unit specific. Visiting hours, unit rules, that sort of thing. The caseworker stepped out to give us privacy.

My mother was very strong throughout the entire process and in my opinion, knowing that I was finally going to be getting the level of help necessary probably helped to reinforce her, but as we came to the end of the process, the weight of it all began to become apparent on both of us. She told me she would be back the next day to visit and bring me clothes. We hugged. She told me everything was going to be okay, and to be strong, and to use the time wisely. To accept the help. 

When she left, I was alone there and could feel the panic of the unfamiliar situation, the alien ambiguity of what was happening to me, the hundreds of unknown variables surrounding me. I am someone who needs as much data as possible. As many answers as possible. As much understanding of any given moment as possible. This moment, standing alone in the rec room of the adult unit in a mental rehab after an emotionally exhausting day, I began to fight a panic attack. The first one I had ever fought on my own. Without friends near me. Without family. I remember catching my breath. Squeezing my hands. I remember trying to hide it.

There were no beds open for me in that adult unit. I was handed blankets, and was put in a small room with padded mats on the floor, ceiling, and walls. This was my room until a bed opened up.

When the door closed and the lights were out I remember laying on the cold padded floor, under the blanket and trying my goddamned best to not make any noise while I cried.

I was alone.