To protect your identity.

in #parenting4 years ago (edited)

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Dear Mr. Scott ****,
[to protect your identity of course]

I have never met you. Perhaps we saw each other's faces in passing if you did visit any of the five placements that I resided during the timeframe of 2007-2012. Otherwise we could have passed each other on the streets and never been any the wiser. I do not expect you to recognize my face, nor my name. I did not expect you to have thought much more of me after you finished working with my family. I was just a part of your job. You, on the other hand, played a pivotal role in the direction of my life. I am writing to you so that you can have insight on my life and hopefully it will help you understand the flip side of this industry. Truthfully you are the gatekeeper and your role is to guide parents in making the best choices. I ask that conversation between all members of the family comes first before sending children away for what could be -- the rest of their life. I hope my story helps you become a better educational consultant. That is why I am writing to you; it’s a side of the story that is not commonly told. And I fear that others need to hear this story as well.

Currently, I am far removed from the landscape of residential treatment centers and reside inside graduate school. Initially, I had planned to pen these letters after I could place ‘doctor’ in front of my name; however, I had a baby last year. And in order to fully heal, I had to write to you now. I was written “impact letters” going into treatment; It was in these letters when my parents confirmed my suspicions. They indeed had been reading and monitoring my diaries. It was very difficult when I realized that my own vulnerabilities had got me here. It had been happening long before you got involved; rather since the moment I received my first leather bound beauty when I was ten. My parents used my writings to keep track of me rather than their words.

These letters and the time spent inside the walls of various treatment facilities over the years did in fact impact me. I was shown how I impacted others when I initially received this “help” -- and I wanted to pay it forward. I wanted to fully explain to you -- how this time impacted me --- perhaps we reside in some parallel universe. Getting impact letters seems second nature to myself; I understand this may be new to you.

This letter is not to blame you. This is not a letter from a spiteful teenage girl who threw a fit because her parents read her diaries. This is a letter from an educated woman who has thoroughly thought through her time spent in treatment. This is a letter from a parent. This is a letter from a girl who you impacted first hand. This is a letter from a girl who wanted to be a writer. This is a letter from the girl you’ve never spoken too -- yet changed my life so thoroughly.

I have begun to understand that this is a system, one that you quite frankly have never lived inside of. Many that work inside the treatment centers do not understand the otherside -- the perspective that I saw and viewed. Seeing and watching from the outside is a much different experience, valid nevertheless; just different. On November 19th, 2007 my life changed forever, all of my rights were stripped from me --- and I never lived with my family again. At sixteen years old I left my home state in a moment and never came back. They said it was for my own good.

I disagreed then; I still disagree, and here is why.

The treatment industry is a volatile industry, as you know there is not one “perfect” fit for any child. I went to five different treatment centers, second nature included twice. Ultimately the services are provided as a last resort for those who can afford the price. Yet many who can afford the price, do not utilize it as a last resort. It is a paradox. As my parents stated, “they wanted to arrest me from a bad path.” One that they indeed “caught onto early” -- as if this was breast cancer and the mammogram was my own writings. I was not a drug addict, in fact I smoked weed a few times. The last time I smoked weed before getting sent away was on the roof of my parents house. The first two times I smoked, it was at the country club. My dad was raised in absolute poverty, he viewed that all his problems could be eradicated through a good job and money. The way he saw life was different than a child of my privilege. The true problem wasn’t me smoking weed, or me drinking -- or even me sneaking out. The truth of why I got sent away is two fold: firstly my family could not communicate and was a toxic environment to live inside of. And secondly my parents perception of me was very skewed (since all they knew of me is what they read).

I did not get away with much as a teen. After I made the error of smoking on the roof -- my mother must have found my stash. I came back hours later to find it gone, missing, my mother acting normal. Days passed, my sibling knew nothing. This weed was not mine, I had borrowed the pipe and the weed from my neighbor friend. I was getting really anxious because she was looking for it back -- and I had no idea where it was. I came to the conclusion that the only logical explanation was my parents taking it. I called them both to my room to confront them, it took five minutes before they broke. They said, “okay fine -- we took your weed and you are not getting it back.” They didn’t even talk to me about my behavior, or ask me why? I think they thought they already knew. I was an addict, and if they didn’t act fast -- heroin would be gallivanting down my veins.

The truth is, I’ve never used heroin and never will. I remember breaking down in tears when my dad sent me a book about the girl from Delaware who died from heroin, her parents wrote a book on her life. He attached a note saying something to the effect that he didn’t want this to be me. I was already struggling to fit in inside the walls of treatment. It felt like an extreme reaction. Here I was, the girls teasing me that I didn’t deserve to be here compared to my dad sending me books about heroin was bad. He let fear run rampant and the industry fed off of it.

And even if I did use heroin -- the point of this is that with such swift and heavy forced treatment of a child is trauma inducing itself; the psychological trauma of being removed from a household wrecks havoc in the lives of my peers. I speak for them too -- sometimes the golden standard, the best of the best; can backfire. And it has, and it does. Send children away pragmatically and with their consent; otherwise, it is worse than jail. It a jailhouse inside the matrix -- to prevent crimes from happening before they do. Fear itself is a homewrecker. What teens need their parents to hear them, to listen to them -- to really hear the emotional saga that is behind all these negative behaviors.

My father and mother began worrying about my mental health status the moment I was born. I had colic and my sister did not. It was a common comparison that I lived with during my short time at home. It was mentioned a lot when we spoke to the doctors -- “she was born with a raging fire inside her”, my mother used to say.

The truth was that I had colic and my sister did not.

However, the pattern and positioning of my behavior was based off of that -- and that mental illness ran in our family. They were looking for it. They wanted to catch it early, as if that could help? They were truly worried I was going down a bad path since ten, when I first started meds with my pediatrician. Later, Dr. Macintosh took over that role and it was during that time frame that I was diagnosed with a learning disability (on top of ADHD/Bipolar). And needed to be properly educated at school (costing $25k per year) that would cater to this type of child. I was given so many tests and taken to so many doctors --- that of course I would be diagnosed given my parents assertions. I was additionally at a school that hyperfocused on this type of behavior. Everyone was monitoring me. And I leaned on this “learning disability” diagnosis heavily as my reasoning for not studying. The doctors did not have enough information to recognize that my behaviors were a result of the environment I was living inside of. And if given enough tests with the right doctors, I could be “proven” to have anything. However, I felt voiceless.

I felt like I couldn’t tell my parents my full story, in fear of them telling ON me. They consistently refused to listen, instead they felt like they could control. I did not feel safe to trust them with my story. I didn’t want to get her in trouble, I knew she was being raped too. I just wanted to heal on my own; I didn’t want to make a situation worse by my parents informing her parents of “what happened”. I just wanted to move on. I wanted my choice to be respected. I did not want to push this issue legally, or even confront her parents. I was too worried about what it was look like -- I didn’t want to be seen as gay. I felt so much shame. I was fearful it was her father that was raping her. I knew that her actions that she was taking out on me were reflections of what she had been through. E’s (the girl who molested me) father had gotten a mural painted of his young child, nude and as a mermaid outside of his bathroom. These were the warning signs my parents missed, as they ironically let me spend the nights at this house repetitively. For how strict they were, they missed the glowing red flag. I know they saw the naked murals, her parents had taken them inside their bedroom to show them ALL their paintings. Including the ones of them having sex in a pool that decorated their room.

Also, much of the facts were hyper-focused in wrong lighting. I could paint the story of a child emotionally struggling due to a genetic mental illness that lurked inside her genes; as my parents saw me. Or, I could tell a story of a child who began being molested beginning at age nine. When I was missing school in the fifth grade, when I was “acting out”, when I was livid and rageful at my parents. You see, I couldn’t tell my parents. You want to know why? There was one time in the early days when I had a much older friend in the neighborhood. We had all gotten together to play truth or dare. I had been dared to take off my clothes and roll around in my underwear. I felt really ashamed and called my parents together to talk to them about this moment. Yes, I called the family meeting. I told them to promise to not tell J's mom (as she was one of my only friends at the time). I still wanted to play with her; I just really wanted to express myself. I didn’t want them to think I was a snitch who just told her parents. I was looking for guidance on how to handle the situation myself. My dad laughed, “of course we are going to tell J's parents.” And he did. And I lost a friend. And knew I couldn’t trust them about my real secret, even though I was dying to tell someone.

All I wanted was to really talk with them. I even had to self-edit these stories out of my journals and writings. I couldn’t use my own emotional coping strategy to handle these events, because I was far too scared of getting in trouble. Even back then, I knew they were reading my writings. They were too eager to solve all my problems, ground me, or yell at me for these “irrational” moments. Their perspective was that sexual abuse could be “fixed” with the right therapist and heavy intense treatment. Or maybe they would have thought that if I did indeed tell them. The truth of what happened came out during wilderness with Lisa. However, I wasn’t ready to process it then. And I didn’t. Therapy doesn't work unless the person wants help. I didn’t want help. Instead I just suffered trying to find a way out, trying to find out the way in which I “belonged” in my new peer group.

All I wanted was space and time to process in my own way. Perhaps in some ways I got just that? Common to popular opinion, I was not a kid who ran off the rails. I was not a kid that did not have “an off switch”. I was a child acting upon trauma and reacting as if I did not have a modicum of an outlet. And I didn’t. I could barely understand what was happening to myself; how could I have ever explained that to a therapist? Even Lisa? I couldn’t wrap my head around the situation, and during the treatment years I let others decide what was wrong FOR me. I could have ended up on disability if I wasn’t strong enough to get help on my own accord.

When I was ten I lost the boundary of self. I learned from another that I could not control what others did to my body. Soon after I learned that I did not even own the words or expressions that came out of my fingers. Nothing was mine, and I felt that viscerally. I couldn’t write about the things that were truly eating me alive inside for fear they would be read. So when I was in highschool I wrote about my “adventures”; sneaking out of the house, getting drunk and high with my friends. I only did this a few times. It was very difficult to write about these events as my parents were always monitoring. Yet, I wanted to write about that freedom I felt. So I did, carefully (I thought). I was so careful that I gave those “summer diaries” to my best friend Alex at the time. I knew my parents read my diaries, giving her those kept her name out of my parents lips. Unfortunately, they had already read them. And after I left, they noticed they were missing. They had all my instant messages printed off, they read all my writings, they listened to my phone calls. I was a criminal living in my own home for years before I went away. I never felt loved or understood. Those who professed to love me and know me the most kept me drugged up on pharmaceuticals for behaviors that were raw and real -- not imaginary and “out of the blue”.

I just needed the freedom. I need freedom to write. I needed freedom to actually process a lot of these events in my life. Altering my voice and self silencing due to this boundary invasion. And in a lot of ways I found that freedom by drinking and sneaking out of the house. You see, I couldn’t trap it down (my emotions, my rage) -- I had to express it somehow. And sure, it came out in negative behaviors. However, I have much compassion towards my younger self. I felt suffocated by the rigidity of my parents rules and regulations. I felt like I couldn’t escape them during the day. So I found a way out during the night. They said they did it to “help me”, yet I don’t really think they knew what they were doing. Truly they were acting out of fear and irrationality. And the sad part about this whole event is that they never sat down and talked to me about what they were reading.

They never said, hey -- “we found out you were sneaking out or smoking weed.” They couldn’t; as they would have to confess they were reading my diaries. Fearful that I would stop writing and give them data -- they didn’t want to confront the situation. Also -- they said they didn’t know what my reaction would be. However, the pattern continued and I slowly realized this problem was not me. The two biggest examples would be -- My parents chose not to tell me about their divorce, even as I sat in treatment -- as they “were concerned about my reaction.” So, I found out six months after it was finalized and long after my siblings had known about the situation. And second my mother hid her engagement ring in 2016 and my sister found it six months afterwards by mistake. That is how we found out she was engaged; she didn’t want to tell us “due to my sister’s reaction.” It was a pattern, perhaps unrecognized at the time.

Instead they grounded me in obscure methods and ways. You see, I was chronically grounded, as I was chronically in time-out in my toddler years. It was for benign issues. My parents never picked their fights well. For example, my shower would be checked at night for water (to verify that I indeed showered). If the floor was not wet -- grounded. Yet they didn’t blink an eye at letting me spend the night with parents who had nude murals on their walls. There was a pattern of the “punishment” not matching the behavior. I protested, I did. If I didn’t it felt as if all dignity would be stripped from me. And ultimately I became a “problem child”. And my parents ultimately did not know how to parent. Honestly, they had their own issues -- and I highlighted a lot of them. This is not to say that I was not a difficult child. This is not to announce how in fact I was a perfect child. This letter is to highlight that what you heard of me --- was not the full story. This letter could be a warning letter to others; I know that my parents are not alone in their fears and anxieties looking to others to give them solutions. You along with many others in my parents life (including the infamous Dr. Macintosh) helped guide them towards treatment centers before real family therapy. A psychiatrist is not a family therapist, they have a completely different set of education and set of skills. It’s unfortunate that the most extreme option was taken before I had really “gone down a bad path.” Being that I was a virgin and had a limited amount of information about drugs really hurt during the nearly five years I spent inside treatment centers.

I am grateful for my experience, as I know many others have never witnessed the views that I have seen. I am grateful to have learned about my calling in life through these really difficult times. I am grateful to have met Lisa, and I am grateful to have gotten out of my toxic house. Yet, it did not have to happen like that first. I could have turned out much differently if it wasn’t for my own strength and fortitude. Treatment was tough on me, and the words I’d need to convey would create a novella. That’s not even the important part. The reason I write this to you is so that you could add one question to your repertoire, “Have you talked to your child? Have you REALLY talked to your child.” and if they haven’t; I do hope that you could refer to a great family therapist first.

There is a time and place for treatment centers. Again, the services are provided as a last resort for those who can afford the price. Yet many who can afford the price, do not utilize it as a last resort. It is a paradox. And my hope for you as the gatekeeper, is to separate those children from those who really need it from those children whose parents really need it. Communication goes a long way. I wish I would have gotten that, first.

I hope this letter finds you well,
@laurabell

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I think we never truly grasp the experiences we have in the moment and the lessons only come from reflection and introspection I'm sure it wasn't something you wanted then, but I guess you can see its all helping lead you to who you actually wanted to become all along the journey is a winding road.

This was hands down the hardest post I've written thus far. It wasn't something I wanted then -- but I have learned and am so grateful to be where I am today. If I had to choose -- I would choose this route, even though it sucks. It's just that I need to pen my anger, I need to write about my feelings -- I need to express. I think that's the beauty of what I've been doing lately? Not sure where it will lead, but it is so wonderful.

I feel you, growth is never done in ones comfort zone, its always going to suck! Trust the process, let it out, you never know where it will lead not only for yourself but for others who discover your voice

I am realizing my voice is powerful — as is everyones. Thank you for your continued support! It means so much to me.

Glad you finding your voice a lot of people have lost or never discovered theirs! I enjoy reading your thoughts and picking your brain hope to see you around for a long while you come

I am on HIVE for the long haul; wherever that takes me!