Dear LK* and Father;
[name retracted to hide name of former therapist]
This letter's purpose is to answer my own question of, "Why did my parents send me away? Why was I kidnapped from my old life?" I am breaking the script; challenging the narrative. This question that has tormented me for years, and has been brought up in therapy a multitude of times. I also have asked a shit ton of people to answer this question for me -- no one had an answer. I once believed others could tell me the answers; I didn't realize the cockpit was mine alone. I controlled my life; I am in control. My past story was mine alone to dissect; I had to look for the solution. I now have an answer, I hope you understand that I desire my truth to be heard and accepted; not debated. I am not writing either of you -- looking for a response. Each individual that took part in my story has their own viewpoint and their own interpretation of what happened during 2007-2012. I have one too and my experience is valid regardless of my age, education, or “mental status”. Prior to Townes’ birth, my opinions and beliefs were very mutable. I believed that the person with the best sentiments was correct, I believed myself last. I once needed to examine every ounce of my memories and prove them to be true. I once aimed to validate my experiences by others -- to continuously try and explain that I was enough then, that I still am enough now. It was exhausting, for all of us, I am sure. I realized I only lost when I conceded that my vantage point was debatable. Today, my experience is not up for dispute. I alone am believing myself and my experience; and that’s all that matters. I wrestled with facets of my story; and with every angle broached I began to notice that I could not change anyone's perspective. Even with heavy emotion and reasonableness, the fact remained. I learned this with many tears and sleepless nights. This universe is not on a spectrum of right and wrong; rather one of context, of environmental viewpoints. No one here today is being blamed; we all have responsibilities to own and to reflect upon.
Every single person has a story and a reason for why they do the things they do -- including me. Including my father. Including my mother. Including you, LK*. I too have the right to own my story. Just like both of you. And I recognize it may conflict with others' interpretation; and that's okay. Eye witness testimony is never perfect. The purpose of my life is one of self-expression; not self-justification or self-avoidance. To live, I must trust myself. I must trust my own story. If the aim was to prove my story to be “right”; the project goes on to infinity. So it would be “one more” victory, and yet the void within still remains unfilled. I cannot prove anything to anyone. That was my low-self esteem. I am glad I was able to wrestle this long for my own perspective. I am relentless. It shows me that I am incredibly dedicated to myself. I am incredibly dedicated to my will to live. It has been nearly thirteen years since we all first met. If I continue to push this issue any longer; I will strangle my own perspective to death in order to line up with yours, Dad. How many therapy conversations can I have until I have to begin making decisions on my own? I need my vantage point, it is very important to the work I will one day complete in the mental health field and chiropractic.
The questions have been marinating in my mind for nearly a decade now. At the core, my fundamental assertion examines the probe, “What is the purpose of being a parent?” Is it simply for protection and a good, wholesome environment in which children are allowed to grow up inside a bubble of bliss? Is there such a thing as a perfect childhood? Or is the purpose to prepare your child for the wilderness of the world? Is it to guide an infant into adulthood? And can the outwardly benevolent mother and father -- actually be tyrannical inside their own unawareness? Why is a child overprotected? Why is it that a child is not able to gain strength through adolescence? I was overprotected and this was not just a “good christian thing” to do. I entered adulthood atrophied and weakened by the weight of oppression and control. I didn't see a series of small obstacles I had accomplished, I saw destruction of everything I'd ever known and loved. I didn't even have my hometown to kiss the soles of my feet.
When I was a child, there were no boundaries inside my house. We were allowed to run wild inside, while there were figurative locks and bars on the doors. It was a projection of my mother’s own inner turmoil. The only thing she felt she had control of is her outward image; inside there was pure chaos. I was constantly grounded, I did not have many friends in my grade school years. I spent a lot of time alone, bored. Or -- fighting with my siblings, getting into things, making a mess. Ironically, the blame for this situation fell onto the children. We were bad; we were the ones that had sinned and “that is the reason we were being overprotected”. It was simply cognitive bias. That hurt me as a child. I believed their projections. Throughout grade school, I was very lonely -- the girl who was molesting me was one of my only friends. It was a confusing and baffling time. Who could I share my hurt with? How could I make sense of this pain? I went through this agony alone. It was not until I was inside “wilderness” that I felt safer to talk about what had happened. I was deeply afraid that my parents would have called E*’s parents -- and made a huge wreck of the situation through their lack of empathy. There was zero realization that I needed to solve my own problem; that my wounds were mine to mend. I kept this truth out of my diaries; as I do not believe I could have stomached the shame, and punishment that could have resulted if they would have found out. How they operated was simplistic, superficial; they saw surface level conflicts and did not look deeper. They both were shallow in their approach to parenting. It was cause and effect; but they didn’t even know the cause? So they made it up -- I needed pills to concentrate, I needed a diagnosis. Afterall, wilderness was once believed to be a short stay to help diagnose me and to tell them what was really happening. As if I did not already know? As if they couldn't have built a relationship with me to understand? The original intention was not five years of behavioral modification and institutionalization. That’s just the reality of what happened. Maybe they truly believed that if I sat long enough with an expert they would be able to extract the cavity of my inner world. All I needed was a filling? In some ways that’s why I presented my deep shame, the molestation. I have lived through the torment of the industry -- and thirteen years afterwards, I am still not sure if I ended up better? Or worse? What happens when therapy is forced, not elective?
My parents did not know that when they sent me to the wilderness, that it was a part of a larger system. And that once they made such a swift move, the trauma was set. I do not believe I should have been swept up to Utah in such a rush; however, I also recognized that once I was -- a short stay was not possible. The tragedy of being pulled out of school -- in the middle of the school year; the trauma of being taken without any prior knowledge was deep. And I could have very well taken a different path if I would have gone home directly afterwards. I would have had more proof that I was indeed “a bad kid”. And like I had in the past, I would have leaned into this shadow side. The rumors that persisted at Archmere about why I left was nauseating and not to be able to defend, personally -- was gut wrenching. It left a hole in my sisters heart: was she to defend my parents, or her sister?
To go back, I would have leaned in harder to the rebellion upon returning. I was not understood at all afterwards; a short eleven weeks during my first round at second nature was not enough. And god help me if I was to have gone back and witnessed my parents divorce. LK*, you were put in a difficult professional position. I don’t believe I should have left; that my heartbreak of leaving was summed up as manipulation and I also do not believe that returning to Delaware afterwards was in my best interest. I believe I made this decision for myself after turning eighteen. To leave Delaware, my hometown; my highschool -- It was a loss I did not fully grieve. It stayed with me and caused a reverberating vibration in the background of my life. Experience has taught that wilderness was marketed to be just that; there was so much what they withheld from my parents. If they would have told them upfront about how long the treatment would probably be (on average); I would not have gone. To that, I am angry at Scott Hall. You also knew that most children do not go back home after wilderness. I asked you during my first session, “When am I going home?” I saw the look in your eyes before you even knew me; I wasn’t. The gig was up; my parents had been manipulated by fear. I was told by them that I would have died -- if I didn’t go away; if they didn’t make that decision. Maybe that is what they really believed. It makes me feel sad, because it shows how little they knew me. And just how little faith they had in me to survive. All I have done in my life -- is survive and get through. That, I am sure of; that I am capable of. And on day one I was in the middle of a system that wanted to send everyone to a therapeutic boarding school afterwards. And you knew that. I believe that ate you up inside, morally. It felt that sometimes, it did not really matter what was best for the child -- the experts always recommended; more. And I guess, why wouldn’t they? There are not a lot of parents that can afford this level of treatment, it was revolutionary -- to be able to control a person's every move for years. Maybe the experts once thought, "What would the research be like? Does more therapy equal better results?" This was nothing but a glorified foster care system. I saw that at Uinta; I was to go to another program afterwards? I could not request another therapist, because I was being manipulative? What was this? -- as it was far from helpful and off-kilter of the premise of psychology inside academia. Here I was a teen, waking up to the fact that this was just a system --and my parents' had blindly trust it. The professionals had taken me on a rollercoaster ride, causing its own form of trauma and exploitation.
Now; everything was stacked on top of each other: the wound of my parents, the wound of being molested as a child, the wound of being sent away. The own inner wound that I created by accepting and believing these false narratives about who I was -- and what I wanted. I protected my image of “I am doing great!”; I was really suffering. Yet, I was also numb. It was postpartum depression that knocked down the walls. You see, after giving birth -- I couldn’t function. That wall had been knocked down; and my inner world became real. All those emotions that I tucked away came out; and it was scary. And I survived, because that is who I am -- that is what I do. I had to deal with all these problems in my life. Not a therapist, but me. I had to come face to face with my deep emotions -- and feel them. There was no one around that could help me. Because in order to let something go; I had to face it. And I had to be willing to face it. And that’s what I was scared of; I had disassociated from feeling a long time ago. I felt as though the shame would kill me. Looking into my son's eyes; I knew I didn’t have any other choice. I had to heal. And no one could do this work for me; no one could raise him or love him more than I. There was no time to waste, he was getting bigger by the moment. I had to begin growing too; so I took a step back. I chopped off my hair, I started looking into the mirror. I began asking myself, “Who Am I?” A strong warrior looked back at me; I now am defining my narrative.
I started taking inventory of my own life. Not of my mothers, not of my fathers. I was not doing the best in school; I was studying, just not grasping the material that was being tested on enough to reliably get A’s or B’s. I found myself focused on the minute points. I did a lot of busy work; making study guides, rewriting notes. I would narrow my focus on an abstract point and fail the exam due to failure to look at the overarching picture. Intelligence is not some imaginary number on a test; it is the ability to look at a problem and fix it. What was happening? As I took a step back, I realized there was an emotional connection to my repetitive behaviors that were having dismal results. I realized that this same frustration I had with myself; with treatment. I was focusing on the abstract and it was indeed similar to how I perceived my parents dealt with me. There was this hyperfocus on all my shadow characteristics. Even when I accomplished, it was never enough. I felt that I could never live up to this ideal version of me they carved out in their mind. They focused on cannabis, sneaking out and boys. Their focus could have been on building a relationship, connection, communication; conversations on consent and sexual abuse. Those behaviors would have made a real difference in my life. Instead they focused heavily on my bad attributes, superficial behaviors -- and what I did wrong, my impulsivity. And that extreme obsession about my behavior -- led to many treatments or punishments that were ineffective. They never dug to see the root cause. Maybe that’s because my mother’s favorite phrase is, “stopping digging”. Why? So I can be satisfied with superficial understanding and knowledge about myself and the world? There is one thing I know for sure, I exited treatment -- in worse shape than before I entered.
When you are tending to a plant, and one of the leaves turns yellow; one does not simply express the genetic depravity of the seed. As gardeners, we tend to think about nutritional deficiency, watering, and sunlight. What is the sprout not getting in order to thrive? What am I doing that is not aiding in its advancement towards bearing fruit? Am I not just a giant plant? Do I have to be a PhD botanist to grow a garden and to understand simple principles? There was so much focus on “what was wrong with me” and the remedy existed outside of my control. How could I not feel powerless inside that philosophy; inside that mindset? I realize now that I cannot control my impending doom, my genetics, the cards I hold in my hand; but I can grow. I can get stronger, and there are certain things I can do to turn my yellow leaves green again.
Even if I am living the perfect lifestyle, even if I was a teenager who was not drinking or smoking -- I could have died. My father would say, “Yes, but you’d be increasing the odds that you would perish.” I used to base my belief system off this model of roulette. When asked how William and I got pregnant; I onced even laughed and said, “russian roulette.” I did a lot of research on birth and had been reading about it for years. And I found statistics of midwives to be very fascinating. You see, I knew that lay midwives had a higher success rate and lower transfer rate than certified professional midwives that work in hospitals; or an OBGYN, obviously. I played the odds on my birth. I even switched birth providers to get better odds. I desperately wanted a home birth; I knew my anxiety and depression to be out of control. It just never broke through the surface. I knew birth would be this sort of miracle ceremony from source power itself; I wanted healing. I thought birth would give that to me, and in a lot of ways -- I had been correct. It just gave it to me in a different method than I had expected. I wanted to give birth at home, in my bed. Instead, I got an epidural that I screamed for as I stepped into the doors of the hospital. I became my worst nightmare; I saw my weakness. I saw my inner darkness and fear. I judged others for this weakness; after I gave birth I felt broken by my own words.
This mental warrior image I had once seen giving birth was shattered; I once again was saved. Could I have survived if left alone? Was my body not enough? I was my midwife’s second transfer in over three hundred births. I had played the odds; I did what my dad had said. It broke my entire belief system, it broke my religious affiliations -- a part of me died that day in the hospital. A new woman walked out; it just took time and unraveling to really get to meet her. I stopped playing the odds of statistics; I started living by the universal law instead. My mind was in control of my destiny. I had feared an epidural, and the hospital experience so much -- that I drew it into my life. I had feared and judged others who had used formula to such a degree; that to use it, would be my only source of humbling. Here I was; rock-bottom. And I knew I could grow stronger to climb back up that mountain and become the mother I was destined to be. To become the woman I saw in my dreams when I laid awake in treatment. I would become my own hero. I would become.
I am rising now.
I was treated as if treatment saved me; I would have died -- if my parents had not have acted in such a swift fashion. That was hurtful -- and that was marketing and fear tactics directed at wealthy parents. My parents lacked intuition. It too was something that I never fully developed. I define intuition as my own inner guidance system to what is in alignment to my highest potential. Even while it was maladaptive, I still internally knew what was good for me, or harmful. I chose not to come home after I turned eighteen. I chose massage therapy school. I chose to pay for it myself. I chose a different life for myself. I wanted to heal. I did not use heroin because I innately knew it would not fix my problems; I still had a guidance system despite what my parents believe about me. I was not pure impulsivity. I was not a person that would just run out into the middle of traffic; just for fun. Choosing one’s life path is not just “logic” or “proper brain function”; it is an ownership of oneself and purpose. It is cultivating and crafting that purpose and fulfillment. And when I crossed that small little voice that said, “no don’t do that” -- it hurts. I did that a lot in treatment, I did that a lot inside my own household. I believed my mother's gaslighting for years. I was raised not to trust myself and what I saw, heard or remembered. There was reasoning behind my behaviors. It was not pure chaos as my parents once imagined. I was deeply hurting and you cannot pay people to stop that type of suffering. It has to be discovered through self-reflection and private moments alone. That’s the benefit writing gave me. It allowed me to craft my own closure, when I felt I was not given it. I was angry when that sacred space was ripped away. I was led to believe it was my fault for writing it. I am standing before you today asking earnestly, why do you believe I wrote in a diary daily? It was for me. It was not a cry for help, it was not because I needed therapy. Writing was my outlet, it was mine; it was my own safe space. When my diaries were read, it ripped out the pages that I had crafted for myself. It ripped away a relationship I had with my own being. I was tortured; because the help I got from writing was dismissed and belittled. The personal boundary I tried to develop with my own being was humiliated and shamed. My sex life was read in detail to strangers in a group far away from home. These were words I shaped for myself and my own reflection. And I read about my own writing, my vulnerabilities I shared to myself in the form of an impact letter. I was creativity mocked as asking for it by writing about these events. I was told this was obviously a “cry for help.” It was hard to write after that moment. I questioned why I even wrote anything in the first place? After thirteen years, I finally began again. And I make sense, my story makes sense, my feelings make sense. I am writing again, for me.
After treatment, I began to believe that the real danger was inside me. The anger that I once directed towards my parents for sending me away unnecessarily was now turned against my own being. I sunk into a deep depression for years afterwards; I could not even keep a job for more than a year without a long period of unemployment in between. I suffered, and could not escape the problem -- me. The mistake? I saw my parents as Gods and I did not want to take them off their pedestal. How do I remove them from their standing? I have to counter, boldly, one of the biggest decisions (both financially and mentally) that they ever made. After years of reflection; I still believe I did not deserve to be sent away. Their decision was made in haste and fear. That was not the best placement for me. I do not agree that I should have left the home on November 19th, 2007. I am not the problem. I was not the problem inside the household. After I left, they could not project all of their problems onto the same focal point -- and their relationship toppled over. I grew up inside a tumultuous family life. Yes there were good times, as nothing is exclusively bad or good. However; this environment was far from ideal. If a plant is not taken care of and it begins to wilt -- do we blame the plant? Why do we continue to blame the child? I was a child and when I needed protection -- I got molested. And when I needed freedom to find answers and strength for myself -- I got protection. The focus was skewed. I came into adulthood possessing characteristics of a child; I did not have a lot of confidence to believe that I could do the things I wanted to do. To make a decision, I needed the reassurance of my father, or a mother-figure -- you, LK*. This was not healthy, and it is natural to want to see an archetypal mother in anyone close. I did not just see my mother in you, I saw her everywhere. That is not delusional, that is my subconscious trying to get my attention. It was an aspect of my psyche that needed healing.
I finally decided to figure it out for myself. That whatever the rough seas, whatever happened -- it was me and myself aboard the boat. I needed to learn how to steer. I had to find out what goals interested me; what did I long to do in my life? And set out on a voyage to obtain the visions I used to see in my dreams. These dreams did not first come knocking on my fathers door for his approval; they were inside me. I needed the reason to come from inside myself -- not from my parents chirping. I began the process of self-inquiry when I got pregnant. I had to gain the inner strength for my son; I could not allow him to go through the same abandonment. There was a time when my sister had to look my father in the eye and tell him, “I am having this child, whether or not you approve or not.” She did the exact opposite of my own mother; who partly made the decision of abortion because of her own personal fear of having to tell my grandfather of her current affairs. The baggage my mother carried showed that her decision was not made with ample amount of self-reflection to validate herself. She ended up piggy-backing on my sister's strength. She used religion as a crutch to wash her clean of her sins. Now let me clearly state that abortion is not wrong; but to assume that it is always the woman's choice is faulty. Women are often manipulated to choose the best option for domineering patriarchy in question. My grandfather was not the gentle giant my mother painted in her fantasy version of my pop-pop. He was not a bad man, neither is my own father. It was determination I saw in my sister to become what my father told her she would not -- a lawyer, a mother. He would continue to tell her all the things she would not become if she chose to have her baby. I witnessed his incredible fear first hand. He was scared for her, he wanted to protect her. His intentions were good; yet, he had no trust or faith in her. I saw his pulsing anxiety; it was palpable. I saw the lack of confidence he had in my sister. I saw the fight that existed inside her; realizing it also was inside myself. My sister did grow to be a great mother; she also is doing great in law school. My father was wrong. It turned out that it was fear. And his terror could have resulted in something much worse; an abortion that did not come from personal reflection. How could a woman live with such shame? How could she live knowing she didn’t make the choice herself? Feeling manipulated into an outcome is the opposite what our innate guidance wants for all of us: to trust the process.
It could have destroyed my sister’s self confidence in her own navigation system in a similar vein that getting sent away destroyed mine. Could he have been wrong about myself as well? Maybe I wasn’t such a danger to myself? Maybe I could make my own choices? -- and even if they were not the best; I could have managed them if they went adrift. I could have learned. I could have survived adolescence, just like my sister did the things my father told her she wouldn’t. Could I be “just fine” after all? It made me sad that my parents spent their fortune on something that made me weaker in the short term. (Perhaps, it will make me stronger in the long run, just as all traumas.) For me, therapy became a crutch, and I lost my own strength to reflect on my own life. I lost my own story. I woke up one day, awakening to the fact that maybe, I wasn’t such a bad kid. Maybe I was just traumatized and my parents were lost. I had to do my own work. I had all the tools I’d ever need to work through my own mind. The tools were inside me. It was enough to solve my own problems. I was just a giant plant afterall. What did I need? How could I figure out how to parent myself in the way I wanted to be treated when I was tiny? I had to first look inside. I had to become a mother. Which means I pushed my own parents down from their pedestals. I had to fight my own giants now. And I had to have the faith that I could do it; that I was capable of living my life without constant intervention. And one day, the next generation will take over. And I might question everything I’ve ever held to be true. And when that day comes, I’ll be reflecting, I’ll be writing. That’s my duty, that’s my purpose -- to feel and to experience this life.
I had to learn how to rely on myself, not my parents. I had to press my face against the unknown. And when my parents had to step into this role, they knew as little as I. I do not blame them. I do not blame anyone. My story is just, my story. I do not claim to know everything, or to be more knowledgeable than others. Yet, the way I see the situation is unique. And there is a need for outside perspectives in the field of mental health and addiction. There is a need for growth in this field. There is a need for something bigger than the disease model. There is a need for change in this field. Still, there are some things that I do know; I am smart, I am capable of having wise, insightful interpretations of the system I lived inside of. Regardless of my title or my accomplishments; I am valuable for generating nuanced, intelligent thought regardless even if my education is not complete. (Will it ever be complete?) If I disagree with either of you -- it does not make me wrong. We are so beyond the scale of right and wrong. It just means I have a different perspective. And that is okay.
Maybe that's all my parents wanted to give me afterall, perspective. They just didn't realize I'd get a birds eye view of them too.
Hope this letter finds you well,
@laurabell
