An open letter to everyone I’ve ever met,
From the day I was born until the morning I awoke from my brainwashed slumber -- my entire life has been enshrouded in an abstract medical mental mystery. My mother (and father) have been an expert in my feelings since the day that god apparently anointed them. My perspective was invalidated, erased, laughed at and silenced for “privacy” reasons. Meanwhile, I was being exploited. I was humiliated by being ripped in and out of schools. Then treatment centers. My diaries have been read since the day I began writing at ten. My text messages and computer history was combed through as if I was a criminal. They were constantly searching for something wrong. My mother cleaned up my room and any mess I ever made in the house. Just like the good housewife role she claimed to play. We had a maid a few times per week as well who did the laundry and never knew which clothes were mine, my mothers or my sisters. Everyone and everything was enmeshed. Where was my identity through all of this?
Growing up, I had zero personal boundaries or even the ability to form an identity outside my parent’s interpretations of my behavior. I’d take my mother’s lipstick without asking only to be told “I was a boundary breaker” and subsequently get in trouble. I would ask my mother deep questions about her life to be shut down as “unsafe” and “untrustworthy”. She said all of this as she read my childhood diaries to a male psychiatrist without my consent or knowledge. Dr. Karl Mcintosh (the psychiatrist in question) would later be arrested for insurance fraud -- go figure. At the time my parents called him, “the best psychiatrist in delaware.” None of the adults in my home could see through his bullshit. The pages where I wrote “condemning information” (in my personal journals) or where I talked about my sex life -- that was scanned, printed off and kept at my father’s office while I was at school. I had no knowledge of this prior to wilderness. I only had suspicions; however, what was I doing so off the rocker? Oral sex at sixteen? Smoking weed at the country club? Thinking I was “wasted” off of two sips of alcohol? I, like many others; -- was indeed…. a teenager. And I did not think this would warrant being institutionalized from 2007 until 2012.
Why didn’t I stop writing if I suspected my parents were reading them? My diaries were one of the only places where I felt where I could genuinely be myself. I did not want to sacrifice something so dear to me due to my parents fears and insecurities. Instead, I just attempted to hide my diaries the best I could (I had several) -- because I desired to have some place to express myself. I was grounded more often than not as a child and teen. It gave me something to do stuck alone in my room without a phone or computer. I loved holding onto the memories in the form of my own ancient writings that I could look back at. I believed these memories were important. I also knew I was not smoking crack, snorting cocaine, or even getting drunk regularly. Before being sent to the troubled teen industry, I got drunk once (while sneaking out) and realized the difference between buzzed and wasted. All I wanted was to be a writer and go to NYU for college. I figured I would just put up with all their crazy antics until then.
I was told my parents were doing this to be “protective” and that was “normal”. I was told I had no right to complete privacy in their household. I was told that my parents were trying to protect me. I was told not to complain -- they loved me. Besides, I lived in a mansion that had eight bathrooms. What could possibly be wrong in my life? The true reason there were so many bathrooms is because there was a whole lot of shit in that house. Children learn the definitions of words through context. What is privacy? What does it mean to keep something private? What does it mean to be vulnerable? I was told I was “born without a filter” or “I couldn’t keep a secret” as if I understood the reality of personal boundaries? How could I understand something that I did not have? How could I understand what to respect in others when my own boundaries and secrets were being told to anyone and everyone that considered themselves to be an “expert”? I believed no one owned anything about themselves; that is what I was taught through the actions towards me. This was the coping skill that I grabbed on in order to survive in my household. I couldn’t escape from the narrative that was being placed on me at the time. I treated myself and other people throughout the totality of my life as if no one had personal boundaries. I didn’t really know what that even meant. It was merely a reflection of myself. It is only recently that I came to uncover these truths when I became a mother. And through writing, again.
I was the scapegoat of the family growing up, my sister pegged against me as the golden child (until that switched for a bit after I got sent away). Laughing, I was told that “when my sister was born, she was so good and quiet -- that [my mother] thought she had neurological problems.” Turns out she was implying that I was the problem child all along. The reality is -- I had colic. It was implied I was born broken. And both my parents referenced how much I cried after birth as a type of symptomatology when I was first medicated (ADHD) at eight years old by my pediatrician. My father told me that even the labor and delivery nurse said, “I was mud” after baby Laura spent her first night away from the only home I once knew -- my mother’s womb. I was in the nursery to “give the parents a break”. Apparently, I kept this nurse of fifty-years up all night. And, “she had never met a worse baby.” It seems I was born to piss people off. It seems I am truly living my purpose now.
The reason I am writing this letter is to finally express everything I held onto in order to take “full responsibility” for all parties involved. This letter is not a way to gain sympathy, pity, or attention. It isn’t even to shame or humiliate my parents. Their narratives and traumas are theirs, alone. They have reasons for why they did what they did. I will not mention or talk about their backstory. I know the reasons behind why they projected and spilled their deepest, darkest fears on to me. This letter is to speak my truth in front of a group of people who represent my past. I am taking back MY story. I am writing to express, not prove. I am taking back the reigns of my narrative; a basic human right. This story is about me and my life. And if people have a problem with how I am writing it -- damn that sucks for you. In the words of Lorde (after she wrote the song Writer in the Dark), “It’s not a historical document. It’s not a police record. It’s not journalism. I didn’t go to journalism school. I’m a writer. It’s about what I felt and sometimes you can feel an element of guilt or ‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have immortalised that person’, but the song is my way of saying ‘It’s what I’ve always been. It’s what I was when you met me. It’s what I will continue to be after you leave. That’s exactly what was going to happen when you kissed a writer in the dark.” Do not give a child who once wanted to be a memoirist a dark story and expect her to stay silent.
Additionally, I am writing this so all the people out there who have gone through similar experiences know -- they are not alone. I see you; and I hope my story can help you see yourself without the fog and mirrors. Just as I am not helpless and hopeless; neither are you. No one is born broken. No matter what they tell you.
To all my chiropractic college acquaintances remember that it was BJ Palmer who desired to clear out the jails and institutions by helping those with neurological interference. I am not at some university to become and mold into other people’s images of a “doctor” should be. The vocation I chose is a calling not an identity. I am not a person that everyone likes. Actually, I am extremely polarizing. This is why people tell me to sit down when I have something valuable to add to the conversation of mental health. They are scared. I am not. The world does not need more followers. I am here to help those who do not know where else to go. I am writing for the people forgotten in institutions -- there is hope. It’s simply my story with all the details that I have attempted to resolve in private over the last thirteen years. All I have is the story I was given; and its fucking powerful. If you have a problem with that? I’ll pay the consequences. Goodbye, adios -- I give zero fucks. I’d rather be hated for someone that I am; than loved for being quiet and pleasing people. Behind that beautiful smile, I have teeth. Perhaps that is why I have been silent for so long. I was looking for my bite back. The one that was taken from me. You see, there was time that deeply desired to please my parents and friends. And now? That girl -- is dead.
Hidden trauma gets vomited up subconsciously. I am sure many of you have heard a few sentences or paragraphs (or more) about when I “got sent away”. Coming casually from my mouth, or others. I have consistently been a hot topic of gossip since the moment I walked through the hallways of my middle school; I have been paying the price of scrutiny for a long time. I found that the truth was buried beneath lies, projection, and fear. I found that the truth was triggered out of me by the rumors others spread. I know what is true about my life, and now I am opening a few chapters of this book for the world to see on facebook. How taboo? I believe I am living as an example to the others who sit in silence. I believe I am speaking for those who do not have a voice currently. This is my story for all who care and for all that do not. I work for myself now. I speak for myself alone, now. I am breaking code silence.
I first began getting medicated in the third grade for “ADD (later it was changed to ADHD)” by my pediatrician. Despite my elementary childhood records stating that “I was a quiet child” who ironically got docked for “not raising my hand in class, or participating” -- my parents felt I was “getting into everything” and “stayed up past her bedtime” thus requiring medications to be a better child for the high standards of an eight year old. I cried when I first found out; I found the results of the “test” I took that labeled me “ADD”. It was as official as a blood test apparently. My parents assured me that I wasn’t bad as I began taking a medication I needed “to heal my brain”. I did not want to be on these medications, I made that quite clear.
I began feeling a lot of hate towards my parents and I could not express it. So, I dumped out my medication capsules into my parents “coffee” -- so “they could get a taste of their own medicine”. They quickly found out because the taste of these bitter pills do not blend in with coffee or tea. I would empty their toothpaste all over their bathroom counter, rubbing it into the mirror as well. I’d put baby powder on top of their fan so when they’d turn it on at night they’d be snowed on. I would attempt to refuse my medication; being held hostage with “privileges” until I swallowed. The behavior became proof that my parents “were on the right track” rather than seeing an angry child who did not wish to take these stupid pills that didn’t work. I used to tell them they “dulled me out” or “it took away my personality”. To my mother it was “obvious” I had a problem. And I don’t think she liked my personality anyways. They kept switching the types of medication until I began Ritalin. I took it for a few weeks before getting into a mess of symptoms. I slept WORSE (go figure) and kept my parents up all night with fears and anxieties I was having about hearing footsteps up the stairs. Because of this incident, I was given concerta instead. The side effects were seen as proof that I had something wrong. They would remark how “none of these behaviors were seen in my siblings” thus it reinforced a “need” for this medication. Soon afterwards, the pediatrician also gave me another med to add onto the mix called strattera.
It was around this time that I began being molested. Due to this, I began getting more angry at home. I felt as if I did not own my body whatsoever. I did not choose what went into my body or who used my body for their own pleasure. My parents did not know this fact. I believed the girl who was touching me and using my body for various sexual acts was also being raped. She pooped her pants and was homeschooled. I was scared that it was her father or a relative and did not want my parents to call hers. So I just didn’t say anything. She also told me that, “if I said anything, she’d tell everyone I was gay.” My parents were strict christians. There were so many reasons why I could not trust them to act inside my best interest.
I started having “temper tantrums” that my mother labeled as manic. It was around this time that my mother began buying all these books about “ADHD” AND “Bipolar”. She began having new suspicions of why I was acting the way I was. I would see these books laying around the house. She would constantly remark how I should not be acting this way. She picked apart my trauma and labeled it mental illness to the doctors when we went into regular scheduled appointments.
Around this time, I traveled to Houston for a gymnastic meet. I qualified to be in the junior olympics. We were traveling early into the morning. It was around 1AM when we arrived to pick up the rental car. I had a “fit” on the way to the hotel. I was tired, I was anxious for my big competition and my parents could not stop instigating me. They would ask me, “if I took my meds today.” Which I responded to, my mother should know; since she was the one who gave them to me. I did not hold onto my pill bottles. They would respond with all the ways I must stop screaming immediately or I would lose XYZ privilege. And they began listing my toys and taking them all away. It did not help the situation. I continued until I got to the hotel where I “attempted to ‘run away’” aka went outside of the hotel room to breathe some fresh air. I finally calmed down. However, this event would continuously be brought up and documented as “proof” for years to come.
My mother gave me my pills the next morning, I took them and I competed well. The next day when she offered me my pills I BEGGED not to take them. I told her that I cheeked my meds the day prior (a lie) in order for her to see some external evidence of why I didn’t want to take them for the rest of my competition. She complied. I did not compete well the last day of the competition and I obviously was forced to take my meds there after. (I don’t think even if I competed well that this would have changed. I tell this detail to show how DESPERATE I was to get off these pills.)
This was the fifth grade. And throughout all of this; I didn’t do very well in school that year. I was the new kid, just transferred from another christian school in the area. There were two girls in my class. One girl had six other siblings, the other was one of ten. It was a fundamentalist school and I didn’t have many friends. I attempted to make “bets” with the boys about how “right” I was about some stupid thing. I lost a lot. I cheated on my latin exams by sticking an open book in the cubby of my desk. I would pretend to bang my head on the desk for inspiration to retrieve the answers by peaking in the book. I have no idea how I was not caught. I was not happy and did not feel that I had a trustworthy adult in my life to share what was really happening in my life. Besides, I wanted to go to the olympics at sixteen. I deeply desired to be homeschool. But my parents took “education really seriously” and they assumed it was “just too hard for me.” So they sent me to a special school that cost $25,000 per year. It was filled with a ton of DuPonts and other fucked up rich kids whose parents could afford the luxury doing nothing.
The school was called, “The Pilot School” and was marketed toward wealthy parents who had problem children -- because who the fuck else could pay for an elementary school that cost that much? This is when I first began “playing dumb” in order to get out of things I did not want to do. It’s a form of learned helplessness that was thrusted upon me due to not being able to control my environment. The only thing I felt I could control was simple rebellious refusals. I also began to disassociate. I remember getting to a point where people would be yelling my name and I couldn’t hear them. They called this an “auditory processing disorder” however no one had ANY documentation to back that up. I later figured out that I would “space out” a lot and learned the vernacular to such a process. I also wore a jacket all the time. I would not take it off. It felt like my protection, the only thing I had. They commented on this “weird” behavior yet no one suspected sexual abuse since my mother stressed how she believed I was bipolar. When the teachers told my parents that I showed my bra strap to a boy in my class; I was told it was “promiscuous” and that this “overt sexual behavior” indication of this mental disease pushed onto me.
This was the first year that I was no longer in gymnastics; hence, I was no longer being touched inappropriately. To be honest, it fucks up one’s perspective. I did not even see the behavior as sexual abuse until I was a little bit older. I thought everyone did this throughout childhood. I thought everyone had this experience. She told me that this happened to every kid. I knew somewhere internally it was wrong; however, it took years to fully understand what had happened to me. I processed this all myself as a young girl. And I truly wish I could have had support, not someone to just “fix me” and “solve this issue” as if it was a cavity needing to be drilled out and filled. I kept telling my mom, “I had a secret” which she dismissed. I told her “I have a secret and I can’t tell you.” When pushed to tell her I showed her candy wrappers hidden in the couch. She never put two and two together. She couldn’t even see it as a possibility.
I talked on the phone a LOT during this time in my life. For the first time EVER I felt like I had friends. I did not feel this way prior in any of the schools I attended. I also didn’t know to stop calling after the first time. I just figured they were ignoring me so I kept calling. I felt desperate for someone to talk to. I was not close to my siblings. My parents placed us against each other and we all fought or tattle-taled on each other constantly. The only people I felt that I could talk to was outside my family, so little laura just kept calling. I also didn’t care WHO I called. I didn’t care how much money the family had, or who they were. I just wanted to talk to my friend. It so happened that this friend had the last name DuPont and the family had to apparently disconnect the phone line in order for their household to stop ringing. They called the school to complain about my behavior. I did not get talked about it; instead they called my mother. Who picked me up that day in a Jaguar and told me what had happened. And it was dropped. I wasn’t punished for it in the traditional way. Rather it was just noted that I was “impulsive”. My med dosage would be adjusted after this incident.
I didn’t call people like that anymore. I am sure one or two times I was a bit much; however, I was ten and had a phone and zero idea of normality. I guess I assumed the person on the other end was simply ignoring me because in my household I was constantly neglected. My mother folded a lot of laundry in her room and watched a lot of “the baby story”. I don’t remember playing with her as a child. To play it was me and my siblings running around outside playing “homeless” or stuck inside. We had plenty of toys and space; just no real supervision or dialogue. When we got older instead of going outside, all three of us would trade off using the single family computer. Although my parents could afford more electronics; we only had one computer hooked up to the internet. It was that computer that my father bought spyware for and began monitoring my computer usage.
I began looking up lesbian porn. I did not get far. I saw one picture on a website. These girls were naked on horseback. My father found out that I had been looking at this website pretty immediately. I was shamed and asked where I found out about sex? I told them that a friend in the neighborhood showed me. It was a lie that worked. They believed me because the girl I blamed was from “the middle east” and racism helped justify the truth of the situation. I used to lie in order to protect and defend myself. You see, I learned at an early age that my truth was not respected in the household I grew up in and I didn’t fully understand the difference or why it was “bad”. I did not desire to tell them my secret shame. I was trying to learn answers on my own; however, my simple self exploration was all monitored, closely. And my trauma responses (that I did not get help for) was mirrored by my parents idea of what was “really happening to me”. They knew it all.
The pilot school monitored me so damn much that everything I did was noted and my parents were called. They paid for this type of scrutiny and enjoyed that the school was “seeing what they saw”. A lot of kids were on heavy medication there. We used to compare our doses and which ones we have taken. It felt normalized to be “heavily” medicated at eleven. They held me “back” in the “middle-wing” (there were no grade levels at this school, just wings sorted by age) for another year. I was now with a bunch of kids way younger than me. Although it was just a year, at the time it felt horrible. My parents did not want me to go all the way through middle school at this placement -- as my father did not want me to be labeled as “the retarded kid from pilot.” So they made plans to switch schools. At this point, I had been in a few schools quite rapidly. I was to be going into the eighth grade; however, in order for me to have “more time” before going to Archere (I had known I was going there since a babe, my dad was an alumni) I was to be held back a year. I switched to a school called Independence. I went into the seventh grade instead of the eighth.
This was a good year. I wasn’t in trouble as much and was able to hang out in the neighborhood I grew up in. In the eighth grade, my parents moved houses. I also began dating this boy I “loved”; whatever that means to a fourteen year old. We “dated” for a bit. Which meant we made out at a dance and broke up. He liked another girl and I was crushed. After we broke up he kept asking me for nudes, constantly. I had a track phone at the time, so no text messages were sent to my dad. It was prepaid and they just gave me a few more dollars when I “earned it”. Regardless if anyone was watching or monitoring or not -- I said no; over and over and over and over and over again. I really wanted to win him back; just not in some way that could haunt me years later. I decided to show him that I would move to third base on a field trip. I gave him a handjob between the seats. He told me “not to tell the other girl” after he finished. I was devastated. And I soon got over it because I was moving on to highschool.
That was not before my sister told my parents and they read about it in my diary. This was brought up to my psychiatrist as proof that I was headed down a “slippery slope.” It became more proof that I was “bipolar and being promiscuous”. My mother told me this was “not normal” because she never did anything like that. I was slut shamed hard. I was told I needed to play hard to get and that I was easy. I was told of course he didn’t want me back after that, “was I stupid or something”. Of course in my diary I never wrote about him asking for nudes; I left that part out, because I didn’t want to “get him in trouble.” or “make him look bad” just in case it was read. However, this was my first sexual experience and I was so excited to write about it. Apparently so were my parents.
I moved on to highschool. In the ninth grade, my dad began pressuring me to pick a major for college. This was a horrible event inside my house; I needed to “know.” I couldn’t be one of those kids who went in “undetermined” because those people “were lost and ended up getting shitty degrees -- like majoring in english or art.” I was assured they would be poor and not get jobs. When I told my dad I wanted to be a writer; he said no. He said I wouldn’t get a good job. I told him I wanted to go to NYU -- he also said he wouldn’t pay for “me to party in the city”. I told him that was my dream and I believed when he said “no” it was final. I mean after all, he was paying for my college education. Was there any other way? I didn’t even know about loans. I thought you were shit out of luck if your parents were not rich. It was all I was exposed to. So i gave up that first semester. I got a “D” in biology. It wouldn’t go on “my permanent record” because of how highschool is set up; however, I had to pick up the pace in order to get a better grade. My father bribed me with an apple laptop.
All the kids had apple laptops going into school. I didn’t. My father thought it was a ridiculous concept to have a computer in school when I had a pen and paper. So I wasn’t allowed to have one. However, when he offered that bribed to me -- I worked really hard. From January to June I busted my ass to get an “A” in biology. And I did! He bought me the laptop and within 30 days he took it away from me. “I was using it past bedtime” and that was “against the rules”. I was sixteen and everything in my life was scheduled and monitored. They said they did this to protect me from the “blue lights” and “to help me sleep”. When was I ever going to learn how to run my own life and schedule? I got pissed that I had it taken away for such a miniscule violation that quite frankly made little sense. I felt that I was going to be their kid forever, and maybe that is what they wanted.
It was around this time my mother could not “reason with me”. Perhaps because I was too “reasonable” so she let me and my father duel it out. They wouldn’t let me hang out with boys, I couldn’t go to sleepovers regularly. I couldn’t even plan out my week. I would tell my mother, “so and so is having a party in two weeks, can I go?” And she’d respond “it depends on your behavior.” Usually if I told them that early they were look for reasons to ground me, so I just started springing it on them -- and then my mother told me “not to spring things on her like that.” I was being grounded for not showering when I said I showered flippantly as I was watching television downstairs. My mother checked my shower for “water” and grounded me for lying. (because it was “bad” and “she said so”). I was grounded from my tennis matches for “being mouthy”. I was grounded from school dances. I was grounded from sleep overs. I could not go to my “boyfriend’s” families christmas party in the ninth grade because I “was not allowed to date”. Or, I “would sneak off and have sex.” It wouldn’t end. So I gave the fuck up.
That freshman year I even stopped writing as much because I thought that would help my case, it didn’t. So I decided to “fuck it” I was going to write and smoke weed. I couldn’t be expected to think college was going to be great -- how could i? I couldn’t even agree on a major with my father. How was I ever to choose a school? None of that seemed to matter since it felt as though I had a small vote in what was to happen with my life. My father had been telling me about how bad “pot” is since the day he thought I could understand. He’d tell me about my uncle’s “problems with weed” and how he was “raised in the ghetto”. He pressed about how much of a “gateway drug it was” and how “heroin use begins with weed.” They were frightened that my “mental health” problems would “lead me down the wrong road of self medication.” My dad said he would watch intervention and cry. They were certain that this would be a cumulation of everything they’ve ever seen out of me. I was no longer a teenager experimenting. I was a future heroin addict about to touch the most addictive and insidious substance known to man -- “pot”.
I just stopped believing in my parents overwhelming fears. What came out of both of their mouths was pure garbage to me at that time. I did not respect them. And I for sure was not grateful for all these “opportunities” that I had. Soon I didn’t trust them at all. Just like they did not trust me. I made up my mind that I was going to try weed at the first opportunity that I could. What were they going to do? Ground me? I was grounded all the time, all of these punishments became retroactive. They soon led me to do the opposite of “follow the straight and narrow path.” The perfection they wanted me to uphold to attend a party sober was horrifying in and of itself. And I was resentful of all the “punishments” I felt were unjustly deserved. I hated them. I did not respect them. I spit in my father’s face during an interaction and still to this day do not regret it. My life in that house was hell. And my actions spoke when they did not listen to my words.
They began taking me in and out of therapist offices claiming “I didn’t want to do any work on myself.” when in reality I didn’t want to feed more information about my life through these people they hired. I was forced to sit and stare at these people and question why my parents were not in therapy themselves. I got drunk for my first time in september of 2007. I began sneaking out of the house as a way to see my friends. I really desired a social life and found this was so much easier than begging my parents, or trying “to plan” something. I felt free for some of the first times in my young adult life. Just being able to plan an adventure with my friends and not having to involve my parents -- was liberating.
They said they talked to me about my behaviors and it was through subtle conversations. They never confirmed they knew anything and I denied any hints they did. Without warning, or a conversation -- two men walked in my room and took me to a wilderness program. As i left in hysterics; my dad yelled at me, “this is so that you can love yourself again”. I think it was so that he would love me, again. He only loved things he could control, and as a teen -- I wasn’t buying what he was selling anymore. He had to wrangle me back; “for my own good”. And now whenever I hear, “it’s for your own good” I know it’s not.
*PT 2 = TROUBLE TEEN INDUSTRY.