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Dedication
Author's Note
The people and the events mentioned in this book are not fictitious. Some names have been changed because I simply could not remember the person’s actual name. In those cases, I substituted a fictitious name for the person’s real name. Nonetheless, my story is an actual depiction of my life as I remember it from 1971 until 1973 while being a resident at Kinsman Hall and the months leading up to it.
Preface
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What appeared first in my journey at Kinsman Hall was a clear division in the status between all staff members vs. the "non-status" of the residents which gradually revealed all other divisions within the hierarchy: older residents vs. younger residents, the have's and the have not’s. The real McCoys and the wannabes! Senior staff vs. acting staff. All the stories of trips to town, parties with staff members, going to movies, etc. almost made Kinsman Hall seem like two entirely different places. For many, that “other” place just didn’t exist! For many, their whole life centered around the work they did during the day and the free time they enjoyed in the dining room during the evening before being herded off to the dorms for their nightly ritual of sleep. For many, life was only what happened within the confines of Kinsman Hall while others lived and experienced a totally different story. One might not think so, but there even existed a divide amongst crews in the house and within a crew lived a whole divide in itself. Trust me on this, but people on the Construction Crew were regarded and treated differently then people who worked on the Kitchen Crew especially those low-ranking individuals who found the dishpan to be their "niche." People who ran the crews and people who worked on the crews were on opposite ends of the same stick.
I never openly questioned the unfairness of the obvious caste system at "the Hall" or how the “divide” was so nicely incorporated into the whole Kinsman Hall concept. Who were we, the younger residents to question anything? For the most part, I only observed, but went about my business doing things the Kinsman Hall way. And for the most part, I didn’t really care that a select few seemed privy to preferential treatment by staff nor did I care why those select few were the chosen ones while others weren’t. For the most part, I didn’t care that I was never taken into the “inner circle” and allowed to flourish amongst the staff members and older residents. Yes, I saw the "divide” and I saw the hypocrisy in it, but I simply knew my place and knew my place would never be on the other side of that great divide. I just wanted to "do my time" and finish their program. I started the program as a younger resident and finished it basically the same way. But how can that be possible after being there for two years?
My place along with my peers was a place void of anything familiar from the outside world. Tucked safely away and forgotten about or so I felt, I spent my time at Kinsman Hall the product of seeing, doing, but never quite swallowing the proverbial Kool-Aid after swishing it around in my mouth first and spitting it out. That Kool-Aid left a putrid aftertaste in my mind. Being "straight" seemed to have some perverse affect on me. Instead of my senses becoming alive again, they seemed to dull into a world of complacency. I went through the motions of staying alive, but I never seemed to feel that spontaneous high others got from therapy. Was something terribly wrong with me or was everyone else just faking it? In the face of true adversity, when one has no other recourse than to drink the Kool-Aid and resistance seems futile, I learned if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it doesn’t always mean it is a duck! I could still appear to drink the Kool-Aid and still maintain a certain sense of never giving in. That little piece of me I constantly struggled to tightly hold onto as if it were a matter of life and death. And for all I knew, it very well may have been a matter of life and death. At least this Kool-Aid didn’t come laced with cyanide and we all know, what doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger! Someday this too, would pass and I'd be free again! I could ride it out! I can ride anything out...
As I embarked upon the journey of writing this story I was faced with the greatest divide of all...a story that changes from day to day because of my changing feelings towards it. This dilemma is one that kept this story from being told for such a long time. The great divide – it was everywhere! Kinsman Hall vs. the townspeople. Kinsman Hall vs. the rest of the world. The old vs. the new. Hillsdale vs. Jackman. Males vs. females. Workers vs. authority figures (ramrods, department heads, expeditors and staff members). And yes, the greatest divide of them all: older residents vs. younger residents. It was that divide that kept the wheels of progress and envy well greased. They always say that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, but in the case of Kinsman Hall, I don't know if that's true. So many fences at Kinsman Hall just weren't worth jumping over to get to the other side.
Younger residents eventually became the older residents, but by the time I became an older resident the whole structure of the program had begun to change. By that time, the rise and fall of Kinsman Hall was well on its way. Even when I did reach older resident status that younger resident feeling remained with me. At 2 years in, I still hadn’t had any of those trips to town or experienced any “fun” that seemed legendary and only spoken of in whispers. In the two years I lived at Kinsman Hall, I was never placed in any type of position of authority or responsibility. At 2 years in, my biggest infraction of bending the rules came in the form of staying downstairs after the rest of the house had gone to bed and a few incidences of physical contact here and there. No, I never had wild sex or got high while I was a resident. It wasn't because I didn't want wild sex or didn't want to get high. It was because it was never offered to me. I simply stayed downstairs and tried to feel normal by being rebellious in my own little way and the other times were shortly before I left the program. Being in a relationship, even an unrecognized relationship with a staff member had its advantages. People seemed to look the other way when rules were broken if a staff member was the one breaking them.
One might ask why such a divide was tolerated or how the people, the have’s could function effectively within the system. All I can say looking back is that when you take someone who is clearly unbalanced and remove them from everything familiar to that person, you create in essence a blank slate. If you hammer on that person enough you may be able to bend their will and in some cases, break their will. We all came into Kinsman Hall as equals, but soon thereafter the equality ceased. The groups were formed. The friendships were made and the negative contracts were formed. The rest seems to be history!
The great divide formed: the way things really were vs. the way things were supposed to be or intended to be! Dean Hepper, himself always would say “the road to Hell was paved with good intentions!” The way things were presented to families, potential donors, the community at large vs. the way things really were as the truth surfaced were all part of this abysmal divide. For many families, their hopes of reuniting with a drug-free loved one were short lived. The community of Jackman, the sleepy, little hamlet in which Kinsman Hall became rooted watched its initial skepticism come to fruition each time Kinsman Hall openly and arrogantly displayed how it really operated. There are still people in Jackman who remember how the split teams would hunt down its escapees. Their allegations of witnessing physical abuse still remain vividly with them 50 plus years later. There are former business owners who were lied to and duped out of goods and services with the promise of payment. "I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today" seemed to be the Kinsman Hall motto. For many of those businesses, Tuesday never came! The community saw how some staff members acted as if they existed in a protective bubble that allowed them to do anything whenever and wherever they wanted. Rude, arrogant and even illegal behavior was what had become expected from the inhabitants of Kinsman Hall. The medical staff at the local hospital had ethical/legal concerns regarding Kinsman Hall and with each resident that was treated there came more concerns.
The great divide: (or maybe it was a subsection of the great divide) Residents who had completed a marathon (therapy) vs. residents who hadn’t had the magic wand waved over them yet. Until a person participated in a marathon, marathons remained cloaked in mystery. No one who had been through one would talk about their experience with someone who was "untherapied" thus they were unworthy of any knowledge. Until the clouds parted and the great hand of Dean Hepper and Jack Palmer swooped down and gathered up the flock of needy wannabes, the mystery remained intact. What reappeared days or weeks and once months later were smiling, good little ducks all in a row with out-stretched arms wanting unconditional acceptance from the entire house.
I often wondered if the children of affluent families were treated with more favor than the less fortunate, but I saw clear examples of Kinsman Hall being an equal opportunity abuser. Some equality existed after all! I often wondered if the staff members stayed up at night thinking up ways they could fuck with us as if we were part of some demented psychological experiment or rats in a lab experiment gone awry. I often wondered if anyone was actually qualified to run a place like Kinsman Hall. I often wondered if my viewpoint was merely slanted by the road I had walked down and I don't mean Attean Lake Road! I wondered if drugs had jaded me so I was incapable of seeing the positives in the great divide. But were there any positives?
The nagging question that seems to still remain with me 50 years later: was there any good that came from Kinsman Hall? To answer that question one would have to ask each person who resided there. Maybe to answer that question best, the families and friends of former residents should be the ones who are asked. I think one might safely assume that each person walked away from Kinsman Hall with something positive. Even those who walked away only to succumb to their addiction/inner demons once again initially walked away with something positive. What doesn't kill us, only makes us stronger! Unfortunately, not all of us were strong enough and not all of us survived the transition process back into real life. In all honesty, I believe everyone who experienced Kinsman Hall ranks it among one of their most bittersweet memories for a multitude of reasons. For me, it gave me a much-needed time out. It gave me a chance to live past a period in my life where I surely would have perished if left to my own devices. Did it magically take away all my self-destructive tendencies? Did it take away the pain and replace it with optimism? Did it heal the wounds or did it just create darker, more colorful scars? Perhaps the answers lie within my story...
My biggest obstacle I tackled while writing this book, was deciding how truthful I should be, What I ultimately decided was to simply tell my story as I lived it. In doing that, I cannot and will not apologize for the truths contained within this story. They are my truths, my path and my story. If my story hurts or offends anyone that is not and never was my objective.
Chapter One - A Lunatic Is In My Head
Sure, I had moments of clarity, but they were brief. Those moments, when they did happen, were devoured quickly by a gluttonous apathy that consumed everything decent and wholesome in my life. That apathy was at the heart of all my self-destructive tendencies and bad behavior. It was those tendencies and behaviors, my aptly named “demons” that made my journey through adolescence and beyond a trek more arduous and more colorful than Dorothy’s adventures over the rainbow.
What I discovered during those fleeting moments of clarity seemed much too harsh to be real, yet as I grew older, I slowly realized life really was caustic and the truth was like some slow-acting poison that often times imprisoned a person within a state of emotional paralysis. Those people who claimed the truth would set anyone free saw the truth from a different perspective than mine. I often thought those deluded individuals might be aliens sent to Earth with the mission to infiltrate mankind with peace, hope and prosperity… a truly thankless and a positively no win job for those alien beings. For me, the truth was anything, but a warm, safe cocoon. To me, those alien creatures who saw the truth as an agent of freedom were misguided souls who lived a fantasy-filled lie. Although their days on Earth were numbered, those misguided souls were actually the lucky ones. They lived life not as it really was, but as they wanted it to be. They actually found the inner-peace, love and happiness they believed existed for all people.
For me, the truth was as elusive as that omnipotent wizard behind the curtain bellowing statements about his overly inflated self-importance to the less fortunate who were only seeking their hearts’ desires: a brain, a heart, some courage and of course, the most important heart’s desire… a way home to be reunited with those people they loved the most. Each step, each insight broadened my horizons and made exploring a life beyond my small corner of the universe a must-do for me regardless of any pain or difficulty I might experience along the way. I believed my heart’s desire was anything, but a circuitous route home. It was a way to find a new home and one very different from the one in which I had grown youthfully old.
Although my version of the truth was developed and deciphered through a mind severely impaired by several forms of abuse, my fate always seemed perfectly clear to me. Yes, my truth and my path was as easy to follow as following the infamous yellow brick road in the merry ole land of Oz and the path that lay before me was just as adventure-filled as Dorothy’s path. My adventures did not involve Munchkins, wizards, witches and flying monkeys, yet the things it did involve were as awesome and frightening as the ones Dorothy encountered. My grand finale did not lead me to the conclusion that “there’s no place like home.” My epiphany was more like discovering a half-cocked code to govern my conduct and to guide me along my way:
I spent much of my younger years attempting to escape the pain in which life held me prisoner. Instead of using experience as a trustworthy guide and companion, I didn’t allow myself to reap the rewards of any glorious optimism or to benefit from learning certain valuable lessons until I was much older. My younger years were spent in a haze that I later termed as the beginning principles of “Karenism” or better known as “never taking the shortest route between two points.” Aimlessly wandering along any given path was an integral part of exploring life and doing my own thing. It also was responsible for the exploring tendencies I developed. I never allowed myself the luxury of embracing my own pain or even acknowledging it in order to make life more bearable. I simply ignored the obvious and instead, I neglected my pain and myself until my negativity almost completely devoured me.
It wasn’t until many years later that I realized it was okay to make mistakes as long as I learned something from them. Perfection was not required to go through life. It also took me a very long time to learn knowledge does not always have to come from personal experience. It’s okay to take advice sometimes. These concepts seem like such fundamental building blocks now, yet long ago, when I first discovered them, I was almost embarrassed that I could have overlooked something so obvious for as long as I had. I often wonder how different my life would have been if I had been blessed with the same tools most people have.
Apparently, my version of the truth was riddled with many holes. Some were so large that I could have buried a small city within them. I existed nestled snugly deep in my favorite hole blanketed by lies and misconceptions. I could have remained blissfully ignorant for the remainder of my life living buried in that hole, but I chose to emerge from the crevice in which I lived. I chose to open my eyes and to stumble from hole to hole until either all the holes vanished or they blended into one enormous abyss. At that point, I would have nowhere else to go and nowhere else to hide.
My struggle during those years felt like I was constantly swimming upstream against the current, yet somehow I always managed to stay afloat. One might think I would eventually grow weary and drown, yet the constant battle energized me in order to go another step forward towards the point of no return or to swim a little further upstream. Ironically, somehow I always accepted responsibility for my misguided actions, blatant blunders and intentional mistakes as I eagerly made each one of them. I wore that mistake badge with honor and always kept it well polished. Perhaps my willingness to accept responsibility was just another way of eagerly pushing myself towards self-destruction and self-discovery. Surely, one day my list of misdeeds would catch up with me and I would feel some guilt or remorse or maybe both. I felt certain that day would be the day I would fall helplessly into the abyss forever. That day would be the day I would finally die or maybe finally start to really live.
I remember one day sitting in court awaiting my fate. My crime was a deliberate union of stupidity and apathy or as I like to call it being willfully dense. Like most teenagers, I skipped school and cut classes, but unlike most teens who did it occasionally, I steered my punishment into being much worse than what it normally would have been. I skipped school for weeks at a time. What normally might warrant detention or possibly a brief suspension from school turned into a court appearance because I disregarded following anyone’s rules, but my own. To make matters worse I kept running away from home before my court dates. How did it all spiral downward so quickly out of control?
Months later when I was caught and finally was forced into making an appearance in court, my simple punishment had turned into a major ordeal. Once I was housed in the Penobscot County Jail overnight. It had no female facilities at the time. Although I was put in a section by myself, I have to admit I was terrified to be locked in jail with the entire male population who banged on the walls and hollered all night. What a long, sleepless night that was! Another time, I was put in Utterback’s Private Hospital, a mental sanatorium/asylum for several days. Both times were to prevent any further missed court dates. Yes, they were drastic measures by anyone’s standards, but in my case, those drastic measures had been deemed necessary.
The official word describing my action was “truancy,” but nowhere in the legalese for my actions could the words “willfully dense” be found. Our legal system doesn’t properly account for such a thing when classifying an infraction of this type. That is a concept left for the lawyers to cleverly prove or disprove and to help psychologists earn a livelihood. In my case, if successful, a psychologist could have become rich and famous and a lawyer incredibly frustrated and confused by my actions. Yet, the truth was simple. My actions made no sense at all as I spiraled downhill.
With my mother seated next to me, I sat there wondering what would happen next. My mind was already busy trying to figure out Plan B before I even knew what Plan A entailed. Although the tense atmosphere was laden with my usual aloofness, for my mother it was just another golden opportunity to place the blame where it didn’t belong. It was always easier for her to blame my friends for all the trouble I had been in than to accept my unruly behavior as being entirely my own creation. Sitting there with me gave her the opportunity to have me as a captive audience. Each time she lectured me, I tuned her out, but now as I listened to her words I wondered if she really felt her youngest child and only daughter was some mindless drone incapable of thinking for herself. With my head hung low not from shame, but as a way to block out the reality of the moment, I listened to everything she said. With each word, I felt the gap widen between us. Did she see some weak-minded, misguided follower each time she looked at me? Suddenly, as I stared at the flawlessly polished gray speckled granite floor beneath my feet, I realized she really didn’t know me at all. I was no more than a stranger to the woman I called my mother.
That thought was such a sobering one that it suddenly made me sit up straight and instantly scan the room hoping to see a familiar face. Then, as I leaned back against the hard wooden bench trying desperately to get comfortable, I scanned the room again more slowly than the first time. This was my chance to finally make her look at who I am and what I’ve done to myself.
As I raised my hands motioning for her to scan the room also, I simply asked, “Do you see any of my friends sitting here?”
My mind was screaming, “Hey, look at me! Blame me! They didn’t do it! I did!”
She quickly surveyed the room, but she never answered me. I knew from her silence and her avoidance to look at me again until the judge uttered his final words that she conceded defeat on the point I had just made. She was wrong and I was right. Now, I was going to pay for all those rebellious acts I had done to myself by myself. Stupidity and apathy has its price! She still had the remnants of an “I told you so” look as we parted, but she skipped giving me one last sermon as she held me close and told me she loved me.
What I discovered during those fleeting moments of clarity seemed much too harsh to be real, yet as I grew older, I slowly realized life really was caustic and the truth was like some slow-acting poison that often times imprisoned a person within a state of emotional paralysis. Those people who claimed the truth would set anyone free saw the truth from a different perspective than mine. I often thought those deluded individuals might be aliens sent to Earth with the mission to infiltrate mankind with peace, hope and prosperity… a truly thankless and a positively no win job for those alien beings. For me, the truth was anything, but a warm, safe cocoon. To me, those alien creatures who saw the truth as an agent of freedom were misguided souls who lived a fantasy-filled lie. Although their days on Earth were numbered, those misguided souls were actually the lucky ones. They lived life not as it really was, but as they wanted it to be. They actually found the inner-peace, love and happiness they believed existed for all people.
For me, the truth was as elusive as that omnipotent wizard behind the curtain bellowing statements about his overly inflated self-importance to the less fortunate who were only seeking their hearts’ desires: a brain, a heart, some courage and of course, the most important heart’s desire… a way home to be reunited with those people they loved the most. Each step, each insight broadened my horizons and made exploring a life beyond my small corner of the universe a must-do for me regardless of any pain or difficulty I might experience along the way. I believed my heart’s desire was anything, but a circuitous route home. It was a way to find a new home and one very different from the one in which I had grown youthfully old.
Although my version of the truth was developed and deciphered through a mind severely impaired by several forms of abuse, my fate always seemed perfectly clear to me. Yes, my truth and my path was as easy to follow as following the infamous yellow brick road in the merry ole land of Oz and the path that lay before me was just as adventure-filled as Dorothy’s path. My adventures did not involve Munchkins, wizards, witches and flying monkeys, yet the things it did involve were as awesome and frightening as the ones Dorothy encountered. My grand finale did not lead me to the conclusion that “there’s no place like home.” My epiphany was more like discovering a half-cocked code to govern my conduct and to guide me along my way:
If the people who are supposed to love me will do things to hurt me, what’s the rest of the world going to do to me?It seemed my philosophy was simple and covered all my bases that allowed me to venture forward doing exactly whatever I wanted to do from moment to moment. Yes, life really is a bitch and then you die, but with my philosophy held close, I defiantly took one day at a time, one tiny step at a time into the treacherous world of self-discovery and real life.
I spent much of my younger years attempting to escape the pain in which life held me prisoner. Instead of using experience as a trustworthy guide and companion, I didn’t allow myself to reap the rewards of any glorious optimism or to benefit from learning certain valuable lessons until I was much older. My younger years were spent in a haze that I later termed as the beginning principles of “Karenism” or better known as “never taking the shortest route between two points.” Aimlessly wandering along any given path was an integral part of exploring life and doing my own thing. It also was responsible for the exploring tendencies I developed. I never allowed myself the luxury of embracing my own pain or even acknowledging it in order to make life more bearable. I simply ignored the obvious and instead, I neglected my pain and myself until my negativity almost completely devoured me.
It wasn’t until many years later that I realized it was okay to make mistakes as long as I learned something from them. Perfection was not required to go through life. It also took me a very long time to learn knowledge does not always have to come from personal experience. It’s okay to take advice sometimes. These concepts seem like such fundamental building blocks now, yet long ago, when I first discovered them, I was almost embarrassed that I could have overlooked something so obvious for as long as I had. I often wonder how different my life would have been if I had been blessed with the same tools most people have.
Apparently, my version of the truth was riddled with many holes. Some were so large that I could have buried a small city within them. I existed nestled snugly deep in my favorite hole blanketed by lies and misconceptions. I could have remained blissfully ignorant for the remainder of my life living buried in that hole, but I chose to emerge from the crevice in which I lived. I chose to open my eyes and to stumble from hole to hole until either all the holes vanished or they blended into one enormous abyss. At that point, I would have nowhere else to go and nowhere else to hide.
My struggle during those years felt like I was constantly swimming upstream against the current, yet somehow I always managed to stay afloat. One might think I would eventually grow weary and drown, yet the constant battle energized me in order to go another step forward towards the point of no return or to swim a little further upstream. Ironically, somehow I always accepted responsibility for my misguided actions, blatant blunders and intentional mistakes as I eagerly made each one of them. I wore that mistake badge with honor and always kept it well polished. Perhaps my willingness to accept responsibility was just another way of eagerly pushing myself towards self-destruction and self-discovery. Surely, one day my list of misdeeds would catch up with me and I would feel some guilt or remorse or maybe both. I felt certain that day would be the day I would fall helplessly into the abyss forever. That day would be the day I would finally die or maybe finally start to really live.
I remember one day sitting in court awaiting my fate. My crime was a deliberate union of stupidity and apathy or as I like to call it being willfully dense. Like most teenagers, I skipped school and cut classes, but unlike most teens who did it occasionally, I steered my punishment into being much worse than what it normally would have been. I skipped school for weeks at a time. What normally might warrant detention or possibly a brief suspension from school turned into a court appearance because I disregarded following anyone’s rules, but my own. To make matters worse I kept running away from home before my court dates. How did it all spiral downward so quickly out of control?
 |
| Utterback’s Private Hospital |
The official word describing my action was “truancy,” but nowhere in the legalese for my actions could the words “willfully dense” be found. Our legal system doesn’t properly account for such a thing when classifying an infraction of this type. That is a concept left for the lawyers to cleverly prove or disprove and to help psychologists earn a livelihood. In my case, if successful, a psychologist could have become rich and famous and a lawyer incredibly frustrated and confused by my actions. Yet, the truth was simple. My actions made no sense at all as I spiraled downhill.
With my mother seated next to me, I sat there wondering what would happen next. My mind was already busy trying to figure out Plan B before I even knew what Plan A entailed. Although the tense atmosphere was laden with my usual aloofness, for my mother it was just another golden opportunity to place the blame where it didn’t belong. It was always easier for her to blame my friends for all the trouble I had been in than to accept my unruly behavior as being entirely my own creation. Sitting there with me gave her the opportunity to have me as a captive audience. Each time she lectured me, I tuned her out, but now as I listened to her words I wondered if she really felt her youngest child and only daughter was some mindless drone incapable of thinking for herself. With my head hung low not from shame, but as a way to block out the reality of the moment, I listened to everything she said. With each word, I felt the gap widen between us. Did she see some weak-minded, misguided follower each time she looked at me? Suddenly, as I stared at the flawlessly polished gray speckled granite floor beneath my feet, I realized she really didn’t know me at all. I was no more than a stranger to the woman I called my mother.
That thought was such a sobering one that it suddenly made me sit up straight and instantly scan the room hoping to see a familiar face. Then, as I leaned back against the hard wooden bench trying desperately to get comfortable, I scanned the room again more slowly than the first time. This was my chance to finally make her look at who I am and what I’ve done to myself.
As I raised my hands motioning for her to scan the room also, I simply asked, “Do you see any of my friends sitting here?”
My mind was screaming, “Hey, look at me! Blame me! They didn’t do it! I did!”
 |
| Penobscot County Courthouse and Jail |
Chapter Two - Sharon And Karen, The Dynamic Duo
Did structure, institutional living and the rigid enforcement of societal rules, standards and values cause a miraculous metamorphosis in me? In many ways, the intended metamorphosis backfired. Confinement made me view my freedom in a new light. It also made me discover the creative use of passive resistance. Freedom became like another drug to me. It was something I needed, craved and of course, highly revered. While being physically forced to live within the boundaries of social conformity, my mind struggled to remain free and rebellious. During my physical imprisonment behind the walls of this harsh new reality that was to be my new home for an indefinite period of time, I realized that no one except me could ever mentally imprison me. Each day I grew stronger and valued my freedom more as I learned I am and always shall be a free spirit and more importantly...a survivor! What I didn't get was that I was my own worst enemy and as long as I bucked the system the system was going to buck me.
Each stroke I took as I swam furiously upstream against the current away from what society deemed as acceptable behavior, were strokes I knowingly and willingly took. I took great pride in not being a follower, but in always just doing my own thing, whatever that thing might be...right or wrong. When the current was powerful and drowning seemed inevitable, I silently clung to the belief that somehow everything would miraculously turn out okay and somehow it always did. Even at times when I had no visible hope, somehow blind faith always was silently acting as my buoy. It was always present. I felt it with me always, yet I defiantly never acknowledged that it existed. To me God, faith, hope and better days had all died long ago.
Many times, I purposely and knowingly put myself in harm’s way, yet each time as I teetered on the edge, I never fell into the abyss or reached the point of no return. My dance with self-destruction was a whimsical one very similar to a cat gracefully walking across a narrow branch on a tree just to explore what’s in the next yard. Perhaps like a cat, I have nine lives. And perhaps like a cat, I am driven by two opposing things: curiosity and survival...my yin and yang.
Somewhere along my journey, a realization that life is, but a series of random events tossed our way as some bizarre cosmic test made me eagerly surrender myself to the philosophy of "live and let live." I liked the idea of rolling the dice and with each roll, there was a new outcome. I liked the excitement of not knowing and the uncertainty of fate. Yet, as the events of my younger years unfolded and I developed the perfect clarity of hindsight, somehow the randomness and uncertainty of life seemed to have a master plan after all which suddenly made me feel more in control...more alive...and braver and more eager to take the next step into the great unknown randomness of life. It all had some weird “catch-22” feeling to it. Every action seemed linked to the next with the final outcome being the biggest, grandest oxymoron of all...LIFE! My life felt more like someone’s sick idea of a practical joke. Was God alive after all and having fun watching me stumble so many times? Was my life God’s toy? Many times, I looked skyward and told God it wasn’t funny and it was time to move on to the next person. If God was alive, She definitely wasn’t listening to me. I guess fair was fair! Why would She listen to me when I never listened to Her? Rules, laws and commandments were made to be broken!
My quest for some purpose in life took me into many strange situations and directions, but none was quite as strange as what was awaiting me in the northern woods of Maine via Steven’s School for Girls. I hated captivity. I hated knowing that being caged would only make me more resentful, more defiant and more resistant to any type of conformity. When I announced one Friday afternoon many years ago that I was going to Boston that weekend, no one took me seriously especially not any of my captors or else I would have been heavily watched or sent to “lock-up” until I had been deemed trustworthy again. Most of the matrons working at Stevens all fit the stereotypical description one might imagine.
The majority of females working there were short, rugged middle-aged women with masculine physiques and all seemed hardened from dealing with juvenile delinquents. Each appeared to lack any true compassion and empathy. Often times, they appeared void of any noticeable human qualities or emotions except anger and contempt. In my mind’s eye, these women could have been the direct descendants of the Nazi women in concentration camps… a thought now that I find absurd. Of course, my intense dislike for any authority figure played an integral part in the non-relationship I formed with each of the matrons at Stevens and kept objectivity far away from my thoughts where they were concerned. They were the enemy and that is how I perceived each one of them. I was incapable of seeing that these women were as human as I was and that they had a job to do which was made very difficult by delinquents like me. I personally felt it was my duty to make sure that each one earned their pay and hated their job as much as I hated being there.
Yes, I was definitely going back to Boston and I would find Eric. By now, he had just started college at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst and was well on his way to becoming somebody. I felt I owed him an explanation as to why I kept disappearing and why my behavior was so erratic. I know I was a mystery to him. The more he tried to help me, the more I resisted his help. The speech I had rehearsed many times in my head revealed chapters from my childhood and especially that dreaded chapter I tried so desperately to forget revealed my first love and the unhealed wound I carried with me. The first cut is always the deepest and the most complicated to explain, but I knew I needed to find a way to be honest with Eric and also with myself even though the picture I had to paint for him was an ugly one.
I secretly longed for those moments of sanity that Eric always seemed to bring, yet he frightened me with the normalcy in which he touched the huge upheaval I called my life. Life on the streets was supposed to be anything, but normal. So I was faced with the dilemma of figuring out where and when “normal” fit in. Each time I pushed him away, he remained steadfast and patient. Now, hundreds of miles away, I sat thinking of him and what I would say to him when I saw him again.
The only two people who seemed to have any type of actual personality and compassion at Stevens were a male social worker named Mr. Goodman (fictitious name) and one of the female teachers named Mrs. Presley (fictitious name). I had nicknamed Mr. Goodman "Mick Slick" because he reminded me of what a cross between Mick Jagger and Grace Slick might look like. The name caught on and before too long all the other girls in my dorm called him that as well. He never seemed to mind because he knew the name was a term of endearment and not one to belittle him. He always smiled whenever I addressed him that way regardless of the setting or the circumstance. I prided myself in being delightfully inappropriate and liked to watch people’s reactions to my inappropriateness. I’m sure Mr. Goodman had been questioned by his superiors about his nickname, but he never asked me to stop calling him that. I think he knew the request would have fallen on deaf ears. So until the day I departed from Stevens, he remained my “rock star” and quasi-confidant.
Mr. Goodman had short, thick, dark hair and dark, inviting eyes. His full, sensual lips made everyone focus on his mouth as he talked. Whenever he spoke to me, his words were lost and distorted long before they reached my ears thus trapping me in a sensual kaleidoscope. Although he wasn’t very tall, he more than made up for what he lacked in other dominant male attributes with his charismatic personality. By today’s standards, I would have to say he definitely would be considered as being hot by young females and might even be described as looking like a male version of Liv Tyler, the actress and daughter of Steven Tyler of the rock band, Aerosmith.
Mrs. Presley, who continually encouraged me to keep writing, was tall and slender. Her build was much like mine, yet she had curves where mine were still just youthful hints of better days yet to come. I remember watching her long, delicate fingers turn the pages of the black notebook in which I kept all my poetry containing my most intimate thoughts. As I watched her absorb my words, I thought how amazingly feminine and gentle she was as I eagerly awaited each critique she gave me. She spent a lot of time reading my poetry and seemed to recognize something worthy in my words and also, in me. She claimed I had a natural talent and encouraged me to treat that part of my being with kindness so someday it would grow and flourish. Around that time, writing had become my closest "friend" because it was something that never passed judgment on me nor expected anything in return other than the gift of life that came from the deliberate union of mind and heart that created the written words from my soul:
Quivering gently from your touch
I am the strings of your guitar,
an instrument you creatively strum
and my love
melodiously rhythmic
a song you play
gently
barely beckoning me to come along
to sing with you
in harmony
Across the highways
into the deep surreal dreams and
fantasies of better days yet to come
and moments of blissful surrender
growing longer...
stronger
each time you play your song.
[1971]
Something wonderful happened each time I wrote. My life gained meaning and validation through the words I wrote. “My friend” was always there when I needed it and it became my lifeline at times that helped keep me stay grounded. I found with written words I could express all those feelings I could not and would not express out loud. I could be brutally honest and that honesty, no matter how negative or harsh or inappropriate, unlike my spoken word was praised as being a work of art. I was never punished for my written defiance. I was always encouraged to continue to express my feelings through that medium.
I often wondered what all those people thought when they returned to work on Monday morning only to be told that I had escaped. I smiled each time as I allowed myself to believe that somewhere deep inside they knew that my free spirit could not live in captivity and they secretly admired me for being strong enough to follow my instincts. Yes, I escaped and didn't look back until I was in Boston. And being in Boston, I was one step closer to doing what I had set out to do.
It was a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon in October. The autumn chill signaled that winter would soon arrive, but when I left, I left without even a jacket. The only thing I took with me was another girl needing freedom as much as I needed it. Sharon Smith, a petite, scrappy-looking teen with long wavy hair reminded me of Little Orphan Annie from the comic strips. Her lightly freckled skin gave her otherwise rough-looking exterior a slightly wholesome “girl next door” look. She wore her hair in a multi-layered shag otherwise it would have been wildly unmanageable. Sharon’s tough exterior, a convincing facade to most was her most notable feature. She was always upbeat without being bubbly or obnoxiously optimistic. Sharon was like me, just another product of what was considered a typical failure from a lower-income family. Our stories were probably very similar, but they were stories most people weren’t interested in hearing. We never compared notes. I just assumed she was as street savvy as me, but it wasn't until later when I learned that she wasn't. We just instinctively gravitated towards each other as if we had some invisible force directing us. I guess we both needed a friend and someone we could trust.
Although we both were born and raised in Bangor, she wasn’t someone who was ever more than an acquaintance to me before we both landed in Stevens at the same time. Perhaps it had been because she lived on the other side of town that had kept us from forming a friendship before or maybe it was just because we didn’t associate with the same circle of people. Whatever the reason, that changed quickly as soon as they put us both in the same dormitory. Our similar hatred of the system in which we both lived was the foundation for our relationship. We become fast friends and eventually partners in crime. When the idea of fleeing first came to me, naturally I wanted to share it with Sharon.
We both had kitchen duty on Sunday afternoons, so I knew that I could approach her then with the plans I had carefully made by rehearsing each detail over and over again in my mind until each step had reached perfection. I knew we would have a little unsupervised time when we returned to our dormitory from our work detail while everyone else was at free time in another building. If all went accordingly as planned, that time would be enough to put my plan into action. I knew my window of opportunity was very slim and dependent on several factors that were subject to change very rapidly. My plan was full of “ifs” but IF it worked, it meant freedom. I was ready and willing to gamble on taking a chance even a slim chance and one most likely not meant for success just to be free once again.
While we washed dishes, I asked Sharon if she was ready to get the hell out of “Dodge.” At first, she thought I was kidding and then as I carefully laid out my plan, she saw the determination in my eyes and heard it in my voice. She knew I was going with or without her! As I went over each step, it was obvious I had observed how everything was done, when it was done and why it was done that way. Each time anyone went anywhere on the property, whatever matron ran that building from which a departure was made would call ahead to make the next matron aware of the person’s pending arrival. This gave the person only a few minutes between buildings to come and go. I knew a successful escape would have to happen elsewhere. Success meant I had to manufacture enough time to get safely away. The place that seemed to offer the best chance of success was in our own dormitory after returning from kitchen duty.
When we finished kitchen duty, we expected the dorm to be empty when we returned, but that Sunday Debbie (fictitious name) had lagged behind foregoing “free time” in the recreation building because she wasn’t feeling well. She sat in the TV room by the front entrance of the building watching some old movie. Upon entering the building and walking past her, Sharon and I looked at each other without saying a word. Sharon’s expression reflected the instant panic that was running through her head as she wondered what we were going to do. Because I always could think quickly on my feet, I silently mouthed and motioned to Sharon to let me handle Debbie as we walked up the corridor past the TV room. She acknowledged her understanding with a nod before we went to our rooms at opposite ends of the hall after letting the matron know we had returned from the kitchen. We told her we didn’t want to go to free time because it was raining outside and that we‘d just stay here and listen to music in our rooms or watch TV with Debbie.
Once inside my room, I quickly thumbed through my stack of albums searching for the right mood music for the occasion. Woodstock seemed like an appropriate choice for memorable departure music. I turned the volume up just loud enough to let the matron notice I was listening to music, but not too loud as to make her come to my room to tell me to turn the volume down. As I readied myself to leave, I hesitated just long enough to pantomime the words of a Jefferson Airplane song encouraging me to go be free.
“Alright friends, you have seen the heavy groups, now you will see morning maniac music. Believe me, yeah. It's a new dawn. Good morning, people!” Grace Slick bellowed as she took center stage at Woodstock. Yes, it was a new dawn and tomorrow I’d be in Boston. As the music began to escape from my speakers, I sang along with her to pump myself up for the long journey ahead:
“Look what's happening out in the streets
Got a revolution, Got to revolution
Hey, I'm dancing down the streets
Got a revolution, Got to revolution...”
 |
| Boston Public Gardens in the fall |
Chapter Three - Boston or Bust
“Lynne, I have to do this or else we won’t get a ride. There isn’t an entrance ramp close by, so give me a break, okay?”
The spot we emerged from was close to the tollbooths. Ordinarily there would be a fairly steady flow of traffic, but the rain had made the Sunday afternoon traffic sparse. As we stood on the Maine Turnpike (Interstate 95), I started thinking about all the days that led up to me standing there with my thumb out waiting for a ride. Flashes of my life went through my head like a sped up movie. It didn’t matter that I was cold and wet. It didn’t matter that I had no real place to go. My destination was far away from where I was born and grew up. It also was away from that awful place that housed all the unfortunate products of dysfunction. It was away from all the pain and towards somewhere that allowed me to finally discover who I am. Yes, my childhood had been stolen from me. Yes, I learned how to rage silently as I wandered aimlessly towards puberty and beyond clueless to who or what I really was. Was I a child trapped in an adult's body or was I an adult trapped in a child's body? I longed for self-discovery and for freedom from the agonizing pain my life had bestowed upon me.
Not long before going to Stevens, I discovered a quiet, safe place. Most people would call the place I discovered a complete emotional shutdown. I had emotionally flatlined! It was a dark void located somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind. I no longer felt fear, sadness and anger, but worse, I no longer felt compassion, happiness or love. My September birthday was more than a month ago. I was now a 16-year-old with a history of knowing how to survive on the streets among other things. The last year had felt like it had a whole lifetime crammed into it, so in many ways I was much older than my sixteen years externally showed. My eyes reflected the presence of a very old, but very confused soul.
My trip down memory lane was abruptly interrupted when a dark blue gas-guzzler about the size of the Queen Mary slowed down and then pulled off the highway onto the shoulder of the road. Knowing it had pulled over to give us a ride, we quickly trotted up to the car. I smiled as I opened the door and slid onto the front seat next to a friendly-looking middle-aged man. As I studied his face, I noticed his dark hair was peppered with gray, yet his face did not bear many signs of the aging process. He was a perfect example of what anyone might consider as aging gracefully. He probably was in his early 40’s and by today’s standards he was still young, but in those days, 40 years old seemed like it was bordering on being ancient. Baby boomers everywhere were told not to trust anyone over 30. In fact, that catchphrase, “don’t trust anyone over 30” had become one of my generation’s most memorable battle cries.
As I sized him up, I noticed he wasn’t casually dressed and wondered if he had embarked upon his journey straight from church. If that was the case then I knew we had several hours of religious lectures ahead of us, but the immediate warmth of the car felt good to my chilled skin and I sighed with relief before speaking. Let the lectures begin! I had become an expert at tuning people out. Sharon immediately slid in next to me and sat quietly while I did most of the talking.
“Man, you’re a real life saver. It was starting to rain harder and we really appreciate you stopping to give us a ride.”
“Were you girls standing out there for very long?”
“No. We actually hadn’t been there very long at all. It wasn’t bad until it started to rain harder and we started getting cold.”
“Where are you headed on a dreary day like today?”
“To Boston...home sweet home”
“Well, this is your lucky day, young ladies. I’m headed there on business. I can drop you off wherever you want because I’m going right into the city.”
“Far-out, man! You can drop us off down by The Commons or anywhere close to there or along Charles Street. We’re just grateful for the ride, so it doesn’t really matter. We don’t want you to go out of your way. We don’t live too far from Beacon Hill, so just kick us out whenever you’re ready, okay?”
For the next few hours, I chitchatted with the guy telling him some tall tale of why we were headed back to Boston and why we had been in Maine. The longer the story got the more I embellished the details. My web of deceit amused me and it seemed to keep him interested as I went into all the details I fabricated from wishful thinking. It almost renewed my faith in mankind when our “savior” didn’t act like most every other middle-aged businessman who had picked me up hitchhiking in the past. He didn’t lecture us about the dangers of hitchhiking. He didn’t proposition us for sex. He didn’t ask us a million personal questions. He just talked with us instead of talking at us. He seemed accepting of everything I told him and wished us well when he dropped us off between The Public Gardens and the Boston Commons.
I had noticed Sharon had been unusually quiet for the duration of the ride. Being untalkative was uncharacteristic for her, but I figured I would interrogate her later about her silence. I was too elated to be home sweet home to spoil the moment with having to deal with reality! I was free at last! And with that thought, we scurried off to find a place to stay for the night. There would be time to talk later. For now, I just wanted to savor the moment without cluttering it with having to figure things out and make more plans. Tomorrow we’d go find Eric and things would be better. He always made them better even when he did nothing at all.
Unknowingly, this trip to Boston definitely changed the path on which I was traveling. That road to certain self-destruction was altered forever into one of many years of deep soul-searching. If Socrates was correct by theorizing that an unexamined life is not worth living, then I have to admit my life is one of immeasurable worth. No stone has been left unturned and every aspect has been carefully scrutinized and dissected many times over.
A couple of months after my great escape, when my days of captivity started all over again, I was given the difficult choice of going to jail or going to drug rehab. Of course, at the time I chose what I thought was the lesser of two evils. I laugh now knowing that the pilot program Stevens School For Girls launched with me as its guinea pig forever change my life and “the lesser of two evils” would remain with me always.
When they caught me a few months later, it was once again due to my own stupidity. Taking too many risks always caught up with me at the worst possible moments. I always thought Murphy’s Laws were written about my escapades in life, but this time my capture was nothing more than stupidity on my part. I simply had a moment of weakness which made me want to return home for Christmas. Home? Wasn’t that the place I had felt so compelled to leave regardless of the consequences? But it was that time of year when everyone, even me, thinks of family and being together for the holidays. My two months of freedom had taken me from the safety I momentarily knew with Eric into the arms of real danger. When Eric had left for college, I went from bad to worse. I became lost all over again. Somehow, his presence seemed to have positive influence on my life and I was a little more careful during the time we spent together. Time and time again, he had warned me about Lynne until here I was finally without her. I didn't care what he said about her. She had always kept me safe and had been there when I needed her. Now, I was in the role she had been in for me.
The progression of things was quick and often times felt odd and ironic. I was not ready to be anyone’s mentor. I didn't know that until I had Sharon with me. Each step of the way, I saw more evidence that Sharon didn't need to be on the streets. She was much too trusting and gullible. I needed to find my own way first, but nonetheless I choose to leave with Sharon and later chose to leave her behind with Chuck, a friend of Eric's who was also attending college so I could try to find my own way to peace and salvation wrapped up nicely inside a prepackaged downfall to Hell and back. I had hoped that she would be safe tucked away in Amherst away from people like the ones who had sexually assaulted her while she had been passed out drunk at the party we had attended a few days earlier. Little did I know that was the last time I'd ever see Sharon. I always assumed I'd return to Amherst to find her thriving there. It wasn't until many years later that I found out Sharon had somehow at sometime made it back to Bangor and started her life again there only to have it cut short at the age of twenty-five. Since the late summer of 1980, Sharon has been missing and is a presumed victim of foul play. Her story can be read on one of the many links on WEBSLEUTHS.
My risk-taking hit an all time high when I hooked up with a 26-year-old junkie from Gloucester, Massachusetts named John McCormack who was living in a prison halfway house not too far from Beacon Hill. We met one afternoon along Charles Street while I was panhandling for spare change and “trolling.” Those two activities seemed to take up a great deal of my time and steered me in new directions daily. They also were a crucial part of my existing on the streets since I was too young to legally get a job. With each new day, I was ready for whatever life had in store for me. I often just sat on the stoops along Charles Street watching life go by. Most days, it was better than watching television. I believe this was where I first developed my thirst for trolling. Many people have chuckled over my definition of trolling. Of course, any fisherman knows the meaning of the word (to drag one’s line slowly through the water to see what bites). I have to admit Boston was an excellent pond in which to learn the fine art of trolling and I quickly became an accomplished fisherman.
In doing whatever we pleased, we never worried about the consequences. That issue was taboo and it definitely would have taken the fun out of the risk we both enjoyed. I knew any sane 26 year old wouldn’t have ever looked my way, but with John it was fun feeling the flame of his desire for me and his need to be bad. For a short time, we were able to swim against the same current together. I think for that short time we both enjoyed that pond in which we swam and neither of us had to be alone.
When I looked at John, what I saw was physical perfection. His Irish-Lebanese heritage had given him uncommonly good looks, but the most memorable thing about him was how soft his skin felt. I was captivated by his skin and the sensation I got from running my fingers all over his body. Searching for some visible imperfection became my mission, but the only scars he bore were the track marks from years of shooting dope. Otherwise, his skin was as flawless as a newborn baby and equally as soft.
Until I met John, I never really paid much attention to how I looked with anyone, but suddenly I noticed how good we looked together as we walked hand in hand strolling past the huge picture windows that lined some of the streets. My eyes would linger on our reflection in those windows. I think for the first time in my life I noticed that I looked good, but attributed that realization to John’s good looks. He made me look good. I thought he could make anyone look great.
At 16, shallow things seemed to be what mattered most, since building a lasting relationship was completely out of the question. I lived in the here and now and never worried about tomorrow. I knew I would remain with John or with anyone else as long as the intensity remained. I never allowed myself to believe anything lasted forever. Everything in life had a beginning and an end. If nothing else, the streets taught me that there was an endless supply of beginnings willing to “help” a 16-year-old female runaway. Being sexually uninhibited was a valuable asset and sex seemed like such a small price to pay for the things I received in return.
As Christmas grew closer, I dwelled upon all those Christmases of years past. I suppose in hindsight, they were far better in memory than what they actually were when they happened. The spirit of the season began to fill me. I allowed myself to open up and share some of my past with John as I dwelled on my childhood on Walter Street. As we lay in each other’s arms like a normal couple, we swapped stories about our pasts. When I told John I would be back in a few days, he seemed unsurprised by my decision. We both had developed a need to go home for the holidays, but not together. Yes, John was a junkie, but somewhere he, too had a family and he still remembered the days when family mattered.
John had told me about his life in Gloucester. Those days were before he became a junkie. Those days were when normal things still mattered. Those days were before his values and judgment had become distorted by drug abuse and before he had been imprisoned. Perhaps both our trips home for the holidays would serve a far greater purpose than to just rediscover the Spirit of Christmas and the true meaning of the season. I allowed myself to believe that he really understood why I was leaving and that my departure mattered to him, but not as much as my eventual return would matter. Surely, he would welcome me back with open arms!
Chapter Four - Get Up Or Else
My mood was outwardly upbeat as I prepared to leave, but underneath the giddiness, I was frightened of what awaited me in Bangor. We exited his room as we had done so many times in the past several weeks carefully hiding my presence from view until I reached the first floor. I got on the elevator carefully placing myself at the very back of the car behind everyone else. As everyone exited on the first floor, I easily blended in with the other visitors and no one knew I had been in a restricted area of the halfway house. As I walked towards the exit of the building with my lightly packed backpack in hand, I was suddenly filled with panic. I hesitated momentarily as I opened the front door. I started to change my mind about leaving, but then the noise from the streets interrupted my thoughts. A rush of cold air hit my bare face and then I turned to blow him one last kiss as I stepped into the icy urban holiday chaos. That was the last time he ever saw me.
Did he think I had died or had just gotten sidetracked somewhere along the way between Boston and Bangor? Did he think my wanting to go home was just an excuse to get away from him? I wanted to flatter myself and believe he missed me… that someone somewhere missed me, but I knew his only love was the love of what went into his veins. I knew I soon would be forgotten and replaced by someone else. If he did miss me, that feeling would subside with his next fix. I only hoped that his freedom would outlast any drug-testing he may have to face as a condition of his parole. I smiled at the thought of realizing he didn’t care about that and that he lived as much in the here and now as I did. And then I felt sad as my thoughts were once again interrupted by the thought of going home and what that really meant. As I walked towards a place where I could start hitchhiking, Eric crept into my thoughts. Merry Christmas, Eric! Oops! I mean Happy Hanukkah!
Although it had been weeks since I had last thought of him, his presence still haunted me. I wondered just how long he would stay ingrained in my memory and how long I would feel guilty about how badly I had treated him. For just a moment, I felt safe and sane and then reality hit me again. I was alone. I had left Eric far behind a few months earlier because I knew he deserved better than what I was ever capable of giving him. The harder he tried to reach me, the more I resisted until I finally felt the kindest thing I could do for him was to sever our connection completely by disappearing forever.
His life would be so much better without me in it contrary to what he had expressed to me on many occasions. This one time I was sure I was right. With all traces of him tucked safely away in my memory, I knew he would visit me during those times when I allowed myself to remember the good things in my life. Perhaps one day I would be able to thank him for being there during those dark days and those tumultuous months when my self-discovery first began. He helped me from becoming completely lost and gave me a voice of logic when I needed it most. Then, for the first time in such a long time, I thought about my first love. Would going home for the holidays include seeing Wayne? With that thought, I shivered and stuck my thumb out to start my journey home.
My last ride dropped me off at the Clinton, Maine exit about 50 miles outside my hometown. Yes, I knew I should hitch a ride from the entrance ramp, but the traffic was sparse and it was a bitterly cold winter day. The grey sky promised there would be more snow before nightfall. Ironically, it was once again a Sunday afternoon and Lynne’s voice once again echoed in my head, but as I grew colder I knew I needed to get up on the Interstate if I was ever going to get a ride. Almost as soon as I walked up the ramp and situated myself along the shoulder of the road with my thumb out, a State Police cruiser stopped. As I became filled with that feeling of impending doom, I knew I was not going to be able to talk my way out of this one.
Hallowell was immediately buzzing from word of my capture, but I was quickly whisked away to lock up as soon as I arrived, so only a few people actually saw me arrive. With no word directly from me, most of the stories that circulated weren’t even close to what had actually happened. As the stories filtered their way back to me over the next few weeks, I laughed at how bent and twisted each story was.
I was more than familiar with lock-up from all my past infractions of the rules at Stevens, so I knew that my time spent there would be spent without any contact with anyone, but the matrons who could barely tolerate me. Being in lock up gave me plenty of time to replay my most notable antics in my head. My thoughts became like a movie. I smiled as I remembered when I was locked up for a week for refusing to roller skate. As part of the rehabilitation process, everyone was expected to roller skate for recreation. I suppose some well-meaning philanthropist donated roller skates to Stevens and the rest was history. I wonder how many professional skaters that place produced! I guess I missed my golden opportunity for fame and fortune the day I refused to skate my way into being a well-adjusted teenager.
My first time on roller skates was probably much like anyone else’s first time. I reluctantly laced up the skates and logically deducted that since I had ice skated since I was a small child, roller skating would be an easy feat to learn. I stood up and immediately fell flat on my ass. I sat there stunned not knowing which hurt more… my derriere or my pride. Chuckles and applause came from others as they whizzed by me. I sat there contemplating my next move and what I had done wrong so I wouldn’t repeat it again as soon as I got back up on my feet. As Mrs. Reardon [fictitious name] approached me, I assumed she had come over to offer me help up and to find out if I was hurt.
As soon as she spoke, I learned that my assumption had been wrong. Immediately my relaxed attitude reverted back into my normal defiantly defensive demeanor accompanied by a rather large chip on my shoulder. I knew Sharon would have been proud of my defiance and that made me have a huge smile inside my head as well.
“No, I’m not going to do this and you can’t make me skate if I don’t want to skate. I didn’t roller skate on the streets and I certainly won’t ever roller skate when I leave this hellhole. This whole thing is so stupid and you know this isn’t going to help anyone change.”
“Either get up and skate or else you’re going to lock up. I’m not going to argue with you over this.”
I got up slowly and wobbled back to the stage almost falling again several times. I’m sure I resembled a circus clown going through many exaggerated gyrations to get a laugh, but in my case, the gyrations were no act. As I sat down and unlaced my skates, the matrons watched me in utter amazement. I knew they thought they could bully me into participating, but as soon as I put my shoes back on, I stood up and walked over to where Mrs. Reardon was standing with her co-workers.
“Okay, I‘m ready. You can put me in lock up until I rot, but I’m not going to roller skate. Not now! Not ever! You can’t make me do something this fuckin’ ridiculous. I can’t believe anyone actually thinks this is going to help anyone.”
“Using that kind of language just earned you a couple of extra days in lock-up.”
“Do I look like I fuckin’ care?”
We walked in silence as we left the building and headed across the parking lot to the building where lock up was located. That stunt cost me a whole week in lock-up, but to me it was worth every minute I stayed confined in that room. I’m sure Mrs. Reardon and several of her cronies would have preferred to have locked me up and thrown away the key. I certainly wasn’t their favorite and each of them knew I’d never kiss anyone’s ass just to make it easier on myself. The whole incident amounted to a good old Mexican standoff with no clear-cut winner. I always envisioned them drawing straws to decide who would be the lucky one who would have to deal with me especially when I was being obstinate. That thought brought a much-needed smile to my face and made the week go by faster.
I can’t say it was entirely bad being alone. After all, I had my thoughts to keep me company. How long could they keep me locked up this time? I really didn’t know what they did with people who had escaped and gotten caught, but I knew I was about to find out. For some reason, I hadn’t been questioned about Sharon yet. Did they know where she was? Had she been caught already? No mention of Sharon! I found that odd, but it gave me an opportunity to come up with some colorful story to tell them by the time I was questioned and her name was finally mentioned to me.
Perhaps I’d tell them a ghastly tale of getting so hungry that I ate her. No, I couldn’t do that because they might take me seriously. Thank God, Sharon was safe and still free! Or at least that’s what I had assumed. I had left her behind in Amherst, Massachusetts with Chuck, a friend of Eric’s who showed an immediate interest in her. As for me, I guess I was about to find out what creative forms of punishment they had up their collective sleeves.
Whatever it was, I'd no doubt be as defiant as always. Was my hardheadedness part of my Irish heritage to be worn proudly like a badge of honor or was it indicative of my emotional collapse and self-destructive tendencies? That was a very good question and one that had no clear-cut answer at this point. Lock up was different this time. Somehow I sensed a change but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Or was the change that I felt one that had occurred inside me? Instead of dread, an underlying sense of perverse peace filled me as I developed my plan to keep myself and others entertained for the duration of my time in lock-up. Was that my true calling in life? Was I here to keep people entertained? Those also were great questions worthy of serious contemplation. Someday when I had nothing better to do, I’d figure it all out.
Upon my arrival, I went straight from the cruiser to the room I would call “home” until they thought I could be trusted again. I smiled at that thought because I knew I had a long road ahead of me and I wouldn‘t see that light of day for a while. I laughed because I couldn’t cry. I had forgotten how to cry. As I sat on the bed awaiting someone to come strip search me, I thought I'd throw a little something creative their way. I’m sure I’d have awhile by myself while they drew straws and decided who could deal with me best.
I quickly unhooked the small safety pin I always kept attached to the inside of my heavy flannel shirt. One never knows when a safety pin will come in handy! I held the safety pin between my fingers and carefully straightened it. Then I methodically unhooked my belt and removed it from my belt loops with one quick tug. Just as I had seen John do so many times in the past several weeks, I tied my arm off with my belt. I held the belt taut with my teeth freeing my other hand to hold the safety pin. Then as the veins on my left arm became prominent, I carefully jabbed my arm several times in strategic locations along my vein to give the appearance of track marks made from the repeated use of a hypodermic needle. I knew some bruising would probably occur soon, but by the time anyone would see my arm, the “track marks” wouldn‘t look so fresh.
I was going to test how good my acting abilities were by playing the part of someone strung out and going through withdrawal. Could I convincingly fake withdrawal? I remembered so clearly how sick another one of my flavors of the month had been many months before as I sat with him for several days as he got clean before he returned home to Citrus Heights, California. To this day, I still wonder if he gave me his real name… Wyatt Baker aka Eric James Flagg. I had resigned myself to accepting that was something else I would never know. I laughed out loud as I thought of what most 16 year old girls were doing and what events filled their lives. Boyfriends! Proms! Chatting with female friends about boys, boys, boys! Make-up! Clothes! Music! School! Silly, frivolous things, but none of those things were on the list for me!
Yes, those 16 year olds may have done some wading in the pond by smoking a little weed from time to time, but I was out there treading water with the sharks and the real bottom feeders. I saw how John acted when he went any length of time without a fix. I helped him shoot up many times when his hands shook too badly to hold his set of works. Yes, I was sure I could be convincing and would thoroughly enjoy the whole mind game I was about to play. And so what if they didn’t believe me! The worst they might think is that I had crossed over into the world of insanity and no longer was in touch with reality. If they only knew how real my life and pain was!
My performance would throw an added flair of drama into the whole capture and story of my few months of freedom, but in reality, I was worse than a junkie. At least a junkie loves something. At least a junkie needs something and at least a junkie wants something. All I wanted at that moment was to toy with the minds of my captors. I knew I could easily keep myself and everyone else entertained by playing this role. Who knows where this role would lead me? And who really cared? Certainly not me! I really didn’t care what the consequences to my actions would be this time and I refused to look at anything, but at the here and now. I had stopped thinking of the future several months earlier when I knew my path would only bring those people who loved me pain. I had to distance myself from that and I surrounded myself with people incapable of really caring about me. They acted as my buffer.
As a result of my splendid performance, I was given Valium routinely during the days ahead to ease my withdrawal symptoms. One of the many uses for Valium, especially during that time period, was to help ease withdrawal symptoms from opiates and alcohol. How I loved those little blue pills and the feeling of calm they created!
When I was examined by the doctor, I refused any type of lab work from being done. Being physically combative kept anyone from touching me for more than just a second or two. No one wanted to chance trying to draw blood from a half-crazed dope fiend going through withdrawal, so my lab work was put indefinitely on hold. During my performance, I paced and I was easily agitated by everything. When I did lie down on my bare mattress, I made myself throw up and have the shakes. I even went as far as wetting on the bed on which I slept. That may have been taking it a little too far, but it got me a little better mattress.
I suppose I was also put on suicide watch during that time because my belt was taken from me and I wasn’t given any sheets. I assumed my act had been convincing because I was kept sedated and even if I wasn’t a believable junkie, I really didn’t care. The important thing was that they gave me drugs to keep me calm. It was almost as easy as taking candy from a baby to get them to keep me chemically pacified while I resided in their cage.
My happy haven and stage had a heavy metal door with a small window with unbreakable glass in it. The walls were the typical shade of sterile faded gray that spelled out a fabulous, trend-setting “I-N-S-T-I-T-U-T-I-O-N-A-L” decor. The floors bore the high gloss finish from all the hours we spent waxing and buffing them with the large industrial buffer. With the exception of the heavy metal frame of the twin size bed and the thinly padded and badly worn mattress they allowed me to have, the room was bare. And I was alone!
I was just an accessory placed there as a decoration. I was a vase filled with beautiful wildflowers. I was a best-selling novel placed on the coffee table as a conversation piece. I was that funky-looking piece of art owned by some radical bohemian type that had been strategically displayed to illicit some “ohs” and “ahs.” How many others had decorated this same room before me? How many others bore the scars of Stevens? I staged my act for several days and then when I was lucid once again, they had their big powwow with me. I was given a choice and I chose the lesser of two evils.
Chapter Five - Same Time Next Week
I immediately assumed that being with what I imagined as kindred spirits would be a fun-filled way to do my time until I was stamped worthy of being part of society again. I knew whatever happened I was looking at spending my days until my eighteenth birthday somewhere I probably wouldn’t like as much as I liked being free. Freedom at this point just didn’t seem like something I was going to easily obtain. Nope! Freedom was not an option! This time I was going to actually have to work for my freedom. This time I was going to have to prove to someone that I was worthy of being free. I wonder if this is how the slaves felt as they were held in captivity. Of course, I wasn't abused like they were, but somehow it felt like it on some level.
The state of Maine had determined I was a menace to the general population and needed to be locked away somewhere for being what I considered a little hardheaded and just a wee bit corrupt. Geez! Didn’t that describe just about my entire age group? I know the State of Maine wasn’t as lenient as I was in their assessment of me. They had labeled me as a juvenile delinquent with a history of truancy, sexual promiscuity, habitual drug abuse and running away from home. But that didn’t include the label of protestor and general radical pain in the ass which were two things either they weren’t aware of or just didn’t care about. I had no regard for authority and rules. I did as I pleased when I pleased. Each one of my bizarre actions over the past few years, they thought were great examples of why I needed a program like Kinsman Hall, but I didn’t view this opportunity as a way to turn my life around. I only saw it as a way to leave a place I had grown to loath.
I had blinders on and only saw those things that appealed to my hedonistic side and those things that piqued my curiosity in some way. Everything else was insignificant and not worthy of my time or attention. In today’s world, I believe I would have been labeled as being ODD. Yes, you read that right I suffered from being ODD (Oppositional Defiance Disorder). Forty something years ago the sciences of psychiatry and psychology were still in their infancy compared to where they are today. Like so many other juvenile misfits, I slipped through the cracks in society for quite awhile and didn’t receive the type of help I really needed until my problems had ballooned into being nothing short of overwhelming. The term, ODD seems so harsh to me now and actually makes me flinch as I say it, yet it comes so much closer to describing me as a teenager than the diagnosis I was pinned with a few years earlier while being psychoanalyzed by Bangor’s best.
When I was 14, I started attending weekly group therapy sessions consisting of a bunch of females in my age bracket. The group was run by Rick Butler (fictitious name), a PhD specializing in the area of family counseling. His sub-specialty and primary focus was on hard to reach substance abuse cases and while he was quite successful in treating adult alcoholics, teenage girls just didn’t seem to be his forte. What a joke it was for me listening to all my fellow fuck-ups discuss their problems each week during group therapy. Their misfortunes became the source of amusement for me that made group therapy a bearable form of torture.
Each week it was like an episode from some teeny-bopper version of Peyton Place (primetime drama serial which aired on ABC in half-hour episodes from 1964 to 1969 portraying life in a small New England town), but this cast consisted of amateur actors with small insignificant lives and boring, uncomplicated problems. Each member of the group behaved like a spoiled rich kid with nothing better to do than to whine and moan about having a fight with their boyfriend or to cry about not getting a new car or trip to Europe for their sixteenth birthday. I often sat back and wondered what planet did these people live on as I watched each episode of the drama play itself out.
Each girl had been sent to this group by her parents, but each one of them lacked the essential red flags indicating any real need of psychological help. Their problems could have easily been solved with the professional help of a travel agent with an itinerary for touring 10 countries in 20 days, a car salesman with a hot deal on a brand new Mustang Mach I or a pharmacist with a box of condoms and a copy of the Kama Sutra. A few of them smoked pot, but who didn’t? Smoking dope just happened to be illegal and there seemed to lay the crux of most people’s problems with it. This great social lubricant had been deemed unacceptable by people who saw alcohol as being an acceptable way of taking the edge off any problem or situation.
Marijuana is not the drug exploited in the film, Reefer Madness. It does not mystically transform perfectly well-adjusted upstanding citizens into maniacal dope fiends by corrupting their morals and distorting their values. Marijuana, for me, was just a mellow way to start the day or pleasantly end it and it was almost as widely used by people under 18 as alcohol. In many circles, smoking a joint was an accepted rite of passage from the innocence of childhood into the vast teenage wasteland before adulthood and beyond. In reality, it was just another mind-blowing stroll through a labyrinth filled with booby traps and dead ends that we call life, but enabled the user to have a little different perspective of life. Those people who mastered the fine art of successful navigation down the proverbial garden path were revered by all especially those who did it under the influence. Most potheads are just mellow creatures with a terminal case of the munchies and the motivation and determination to do nothing, but to stay stoned. Big deal, right?
As for harder drugs, I seemed to be the only one in the therapy group who obviously indulged in them. I suppose for the majority of the girls, therapy was just a trendy thing to do in order to properly prepare each of them for the lifestyle of the privileged class. What the hell was I doing in this group? Surely, it had to be some fluke that brought me there. Each week I played the therapy game and kept myself amused and I think I amused others as well.
When the pissed-off feeling brought on by being coerced into therapy finally subsided, I decided to have fun with the whole therapy process. I enjoyed belittling and tormenting my peers during those weekly group sessions and playing the psychobabble game during my private sessions. My actions during group therapy could be likened to someone dismembering an insect. Although my comments to certain group members were generally harsh or often sarcastic, they were also amazingly insightful and quite accurate for a 14 year old. Each time they attempted to turn the tables on me and I was confronted, I always said the same thing with the same attitude.
“I don’t have any problems and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t discuss them with any of you! The silly shit all of you cry about is pretty fuckin’ pathetic. Don‘t you have any better way to spend your parent’s money than by throwing it away here?”
“Jesus, Karen, you’re such a bitch!” was the usual response by one or more in the group. To which I always responded by telling them it was a hard job and someone had to do it.
Their reaction to my wall always amused me and each week, I never disappointed them as I singled out one of them to be the recipient of a tongue-lashing. It was never hard to find someone who seemed in need of being brought back to reality by a verbal slap in the face. Within the first five minutes it was always apparent who would be the lucky recipient each week. I often wondered why anyone ever opened their mouth to reveal anything because each participant knew I was perched and waiting to latch onto anything so I could have fun shredding it apart.
What amused me the most was how no one saw my behavior as being my way of keeping people from getting inside or too close to me. No one seemed to see the huge wall I was in the process of constructing or how skillful I had become at the art of masonry. At that time, a select few were regarded as being in my inner circle and even those people were not privy to my deep, dark secrets. By then, I had closed off to everyone. I knew if anyone else had acted the way I did during group therapy, I certainly would have nailed her ass and confronted her on her bad attitude and her rude, unnecessary behavior, but Rick (Mr. Butler) never stepped in to turn the group in my direction. He just sat back week after week and let the group go in whatever direction it went in while he sat back and took notes. I think he silently hoped that someone would have an epiphany and confront me without him guiding her into it, but in order for something like that to happen, it would have required someone to pull her head out of her ass. Since that was unlikely to happen, I continued to behave however I wanted to behave during each group session. I was virtually unstoppable and on the correct path to self-destruction.
Over time, I got more outrageous in the things I said and did as I grew comfortable with the dynamics of the group, but whatever went unnoticed by the group during group therapy, I knew would be brought up during my next private session. Rick rarely let anything slide and when he did, it was for a definite reason. He definitely had my number, but didn’t know how to reach me. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him it was a long distance number requiring one and the area code to be dialed first. Whatever he figured out regarding me would have to be a solo revelation with no help from me.
The hours I sat in those group therapy sessions sponsored by The Counseling Center were a total waste of everyone’s time and my mother’s hard-earned money because instead of getting better, I got steadily got worse. I went from spewing what amounted to being insightful venom at everyone during the sessions to eventually showing up so wasted that I would nod out while I was talking. Why I was allowed to continue attending the group in that condition is one of life’s greatest unanswered questions. The closest I can come to a viable explanation is that the psychologist running the show didn’t want to label me as a “lost cause” or maybe he had an issue with accepting defeat. Perhaps he saw me teetering on the edge and wanted to be there if I should happen to reach out and need his help. In fact, I think he was the only person at the time who wasn’t surprised when I overdosed or when I did anything else equally bizarre or self-destructive. He was well acquainted with the path I was on and how it abruptly and tragically it ended for most.
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