In this series, I describe the events I remember that led me from being fed OxyContin by my mother because she felt I had “Lyme disease” to being imprisoned in Red Rock Canyon after my mother conveniently change the diagnosis to “bipolar disorder” and filling me full of anti-psychotic meds (along with alcohol, pills, and weed).
In my last post, I described our days at Red Rock Canyon. There are several instances at Red Rock that really stick out in my mind as being quite troublesome. I will begin to relate them here.
The Death of Autumn
The most awful was when a good friend of mine I had met in the program, Autumn, died suddenly. I’d been in the program six months, and was shocked that she was only the young age of 15. It was so surreal. One day she was there and the next thing she wasn’t.
We were officially told that something horrible had happened and that her heart was too weak from an apparent case of bulimia, and she just died.
Other things that I heard was that she didn’t get the medical attention she needed (obviously), and she died in a staff’s arms after struggling for a while.
But it was like she just disappeared after that; she didn’t have any family. Everyone was shocked and really sad. How could someone so young just die like that? Wasn’t this place supposed to make us better?
Speaking of making us better, there are some things that I did in Red Rock that I had never done before; and it’s remarkable the way things were handled there; which brings me to another instance that sticks in my mind.
My Own Self-Destruction
I don’t really know what drew me to cutting, but in Red Rock, I became obsessed with it. So much so, that another girl and I would almost
compete to see who could carve the most on out legs; that’s where we did it because we could hide it. I read something somewhere that cutting is used as an outlet; physical pain is much easier to deal with than emotional. Feeling powerless can lead to severe emotional duress, and I certainly felt powerless – trapped for who knew how long – in the red rocks of Utah; damn near cross-country from where I was supposed to be living.
Today, I still bear the scars of my days in Utah; physically and emotionally. Still, 14 years after being there I am reminded, when I look down upon my bare legs, and see the plethora of scars, some saying “die”, some inches long, feeling like a caged animal; feeling like this was the only outlet I had.
I should have felt safe expressing myself in Red Rock. It was supposed to be for this kind of thing. Instead, I carved my legs up in the bathroom.
I remember one guy who would cut himself handed me a large razor blade in an Altoids tin. I would compete with the girl I roomed with and we would show each other our cuts; bloody red gashes signifying how screwed up we were.
I continued to be self-destructive in Red Rock Canyon, which I will describe in my next post. It was not until a few more troublesome events that I would eventually “graduate” from Red Rock Canyon.
Have you been imprisoned in the Trouble Teen Industry (TTI) like Red Rock Canyon, and cut yourself to try to stay sane?
Comment on my post and tell us your story!