Earlier in this blog, I mentioned an “awakening” I had before receiving the gospel. I’d like to share about that now.
It began in 9th grade, October 10th, the day before my 14th birthday, when my guidance counselor called me into her office.
The dialogue went a little something like this:
“How are things going?”
“I’m okay.”
(silence)
“Is school treating you well?”
“Fine.”
(silence)
“Any relationships?”
“Um, I don’t have a boyfriend right now?“ (beat) “I hang out with my friends?”
(silence)
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“No. Is there something wrong?”
The guidance counselor proceeded to tell me that two of my friends had visited her concerned about the fact that I had been doing some cutting on my ankles and wrists.
I should probably take a moment to admit that I was really a big wannabe. I’m not proud of it. I didn’t “wannabe” someone accomplished or bright or pretty. Well, of course, I wanted to be those things. When I was convinced that I could never be any of those things, however, I wanted to be…cool.
What qualified someone to be “cool?” Well, in my high school, there were a lot of things that could make you “cool.” There were cool kids who were friends with everyone and did well in their classes or excelled in a sport or other extra-curricular activity. There were cool funny guys who made people laugh or pretty girls whom everyone wanted to date or befriend.
Then there were the rest of us who never felt they could measure up to those standards. So we, who came in all shapes and sizes, tried different means of being cool. The easiest way, it seemed, was to pretend that you didn’t really care about anything.
My previous school year, 8th grade, was rough. I was a new girl at the school, homely, with a limited wardrobe, and lacking social skills. As a result, I was severely picked on in the hallways and lunchroom for the first two months or so until people finally got bored and found someone else to torment. Some of the boys on the bus loved sexually harassing girls, and I was one of their favorite victims.
Life sucked for the first part of 8th grade.
Even after the bullying and harassment died down and I found success in schoolwork, choir, and a few friends, the memory of the pain was seared into me. I still audibly gasp a little when a young woman tells me she’s in the 8th grade. To me, 8th grade was hell. The whole school year is stained for me with memories of suicide poems, death wishes, and dreading the bus and the hallway.
At the end of that school year, I determined that someday I would be cooler, prettier, and care less. I put “sun” in my hair so I was golden blonde and spent the summer staying up late, swimming at the pool all day and tanning, hanging out with friends, and limiting my diet to about a meal a day. I listened to Pink Floyd and knew the lyrics to popular nasty rap songs. I got stoned once on a hash joint with some friends, and had a mental list of every drug I’d be willing to try.
Teenage boys (who had cars!) would tell me I was so “fine.” My first kiss happened on July 4th, when I was buzzed from drinking a wine cooler after a long day of tanning and not eating much. I didn’t even know the guy’s name.
At the start of my 9th grade year, just a month or so before my 14th birthday, I was 5’6 ½”, blonde, tan, and weighed about 100 pounds. I went to the occasional keg party with friends, smoked when I could get away with it, snuck beers at night when I sat down to homework, and I had had a couple of boyfriends. I went from being a straight–A student in the National Junior Honor Society and a choir star to being someone who rarely completed homework, hid from my family, and showed disrespect to my teachers.
I was a mess.
To any youths who may stumble upon this blog, please let me assure you, this was a very unhappy time. I no longer had a vision of my possible future. I no longer saw myself as capable of anything worthwhile. I was just piling on armor to protect me from potentially cruel classmates, my family, or anyone or anything else that could hurt me. The armor wasn’t reliable, though. Any hurtful word from family or peers would send me spiraling down into self-mutilation, substance abuse, or suicidal thoughts.
This brings me back to my encounter with the guidance counselor the day before my 14th birthday.
After she explained that my friends had “outed” me for self-mutilation, she suggested I talk to a therapist at the mental hospital. I reluctantly agreed to, and by bedtime I was encouraged to check myself into the adolescent ward. I again agreed to, not because I felt that I needed it, but because I didn’t want to go home that night knowing that my family thought I should be in a mental hospital.
I consider my willingness to commit myself in order to avoid being guilted for not committing myself one of the greatest ironies of my life.
It was also an extremely important event in my life.
I will try to be somewhat concise about my two months in “rehab” (the term we all affectionately used for our new home, because we thought that it sounded cooler than “inpatient in an adolescent psych ward”). It is necessary to give some detail, however.
First, I met some of the saddest people I’ve ever met, most of whom considered themselves “cool.” I find it easiest to just list them (by fictional name) in the interest of time.
There were the following:
Joe, a 16 year old male with cystic fibrosis, who became my boyfriend for a few weeks. Despite being warned that he was giving himself 6 months to live if he continued using drugs, he never took the hospital seriously and went AWOL at least twice. He was also an unpredictable, manipulative boyfriend.
Marie, a 14 year old girl who had done practically every drug in the book and had been sexually active since she was 12 or 13.
Mike, a 16 year old juvenile delinquent who had been in and out of detention centers for more than a year, where he had been raped more than once. He rarely bathed or brushed, talked with a severe speech impediment, and had a heart of gold. We adored each other over time.
Josh, a 16 year old who permanently had the shakes from a medication that had disagreed with his system. He had been an inpatient for at least 1 year. He kept every rule and cared about everyone, but his depression was severe. I think he may have also had schizophrenia.
Annie, who had severe schizophrenia and didn’t interact with any of us. We laughed at her antics, like when she pretended to be a cockroach, because we were idiots. (The memory of it still breaks my heart).
There were a few more people of interest: A crack addict who checked himself out after a few weeks, a gang-rape survivor who mixed in well with the coolest crowd, a manic depressive who fought her mood swings daily and was a pool shark, a young man who had experimented with drugs and Satan worship, and a few others whose challenges I can’t recall.
“Rehab” was a mess but a necessary turning point for me. The other inpatients terrified me, especially when they chose to balk at the rules and ignore their treatments. At times, I joined in with the stupidity, but only for so long. Thankfully, I was a wimp and unwilling to fully commit to behavior that I was convinced could ruin my future.
Three influences/events in rehab stood out the most to me.
One of these will sound a little cliché. I loved most of the counselors. They were strict with us, but they were accepting and at times funny. I particularly loved one who encouraged meditation and played great music on Sunday evenings with us. He introduced me to Cat Stevens, and I’ll be forever grateful.
Sitting in those hallways expressing our feelings together and then listening to music and feeling acceptance brought me peace. It removed the sense of isolation I had dealt with for so long. I believe we all felt understood.
Another important influence came from two life-changing documentaries. One was called “Streetwise,” and I can’t remember the name of the other one.
“Streetwise” is probably the most powerful documentary I’ve ever seen, featuring homeless youths in Seattle in the 1980s. Scenes from these kids’ lives were heartbreaking and humbling. They dealt with drugs, STDs, family abuse, street violence, etc. In fact, it ended in the most tragic way when one of the young men hung himself. They couldn’t have planned a more sobering ending.
The other documentary was mostly about the dangers of popular drugs at the time. One drug that frightened me more than anything was angel dust or PCP. I had heard of PCP before. When I was a little girl in Lake Worth, Florida, a story had circulated about a young mom in our area who did PCP one day and did something horrendous under its influence. I won’t share the details that I had heard. True or false, they are not worth repeating.
In this chilling documentary, they showed a young man sitting in a chair in an empty room. He had done PCP 2 weeks before and was still tripping, singing random songs and reciting lines from the openings of television shows. It was sort of funny and shocking.
These two documentaries bored most of my peers, but they entranced and terrified me. I still don’t know why the other kids weren’t frightened. Maybe I just hadn’t seen as much ugliness in life as they had. Either way, seeing those images was a wake up call to me.
The final important influence was a painful event. It started with Joe, my poor messed up boyfriend. We became an item after he expressed an interested in me and then went AWOL when I gently declined him. Before running away, he wrote me a letter telling me that if he couldn’t have me, he couldn’t stay in rehab. Knowing that he needed to get clean in order to survive into adulthood, I welcomed him with open arms when he returned.
It was somewhat melodramatic, I admit.
Despite this total breech of the rules, I ascended through the “level system” established in the ward, which was based on obedience and earned me increased privileges. The most sought after privilege was a 12-hour release to be with family. I was so happy that it enabled me to spend Thanksgiving Day with my mom. When I returned to the hospital that evening, however, none of the other kids would talk to me. I quickly learned that, during dinner, Joe complained to the other girls about all of the ways I wasn’t nice to him. It seemed to come out of nowhere. In fact, he seemed thrilled to have me back and gave no hint of the exchange.
I had convinced myself that these people were my family, that they had accepted me as one of their own. Their coldness broke my heart. I was shattered. Then I broke down and ended up on suicide watch for a day. Then I woke up.
I realized that I had been wasting time and that I no longer cared to play the politics of rehab social life. I wanted to be healthy and happy. I broke up with Joe and committed to my treatment. I was released a little over two weeks later on December 7, which I still consider my clean date.
In the final weeks in rehab and in the months to follow, I fully committed myself to the Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous programs. I got a great sponsor and made weekly 12 Step meetings a priority. I was not perfect in following the 12 steps, but I made progress and got some recovery. Most importantly, I came to believe in a Power greater than myself. It was the beginning of my spiritual awakening that prepared me for my conversion.
What became of my rehab peers? I only know about a few. Some went AWOL again, and I don’t know if they returned to the hospital.
Joe, my naughty boyfriend, was eventually released and started using drugs soon afterward. His parents lost track of him. At the age of 19, he was found dead somewhere. His drug use had destroyed his ability to survive his cystic fibrosis.
Mike, the juvenile delinquent, admitted to the rehab group that he was gay, facing much rejection. After being released, he was in and out of jail. He often used his phone call from jail to call me, even though I couldn’t do anything to help him.
I only maintained brief contact with the friend who had survived the gang rape. She was a wonderful, bright girl, but we lived far away from each other. The friendship soon fizzled out.
My time in rehab was an important milestone in my life. I learned that with all of my wounds, I did not really know Ugly. These stories were much uglier than mine. Yet it was not for the reasons one might assume, like socio-economic status and home environment. I saw and heard about their families, and we all came from similar backgrounds.
The sobering thing - the real Ugly - was that some kids were less frightened of the dark than I was. It was as if they were more determined to self-destruct. Either that, or they weren’t afraid to play “chicken” with their future.
I’m not saying I was smarter. I was just more scared. Sometimes fear is a good thing.
I know that God allowed me to go on this path. I could’ve slipped so far, but He didn’t let me. He showed me what could’ve been, and when I ran away in horror, He set me on a better path.
This frightening foray into a mental facility was my first great Awakening.
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