The Diagnosis
This year I’m challenging myself to fully complete a draft of my memoir of being a juvenile delinquent. More than a decade ago, pieces were a regular feature on my blog (search for Juvenile Records Remain Sealed). I’ll be sharing snippets to continue to hold myself accountable because it’s tiiiime to complete this birth journey.
Once I tapped out juvee, the state deposited me in a mental institution. Appalachian Hall was a grand building with a sweeping, curved drive. A magnolia tree thick with waxy leaves stood tall, flanking one side with its steady presence. The warmth of the brick walls and soaring white columns belied the locked layers of pale green walls too menthol to be soothing.
Even upon entering one could be fooled, transported to a hotel in the ’30s. Light dappled through the two-story-high lobby.
The leather of couches and tightly upholstered tapestry chairs arranged in seating areas reassured patients’ families that this was a nice place. These seats were not worn. They had seen no life. These props formed the false-foundation landscape for what transpired above.
Adults held the first few floors. One floor was for the truly insane lockups. These people would never even come to the dining room.
The top floor was dedicated to children. Twelve and under were in one wing, behind locked doors. The second-most-protected bunch in the building beside the loonies.
The other wing housed teenagers gone off the rails. Drug addicts, suicide cases, repeat runaways and delinquents like myself. Some cycled in and out, so comfortable in the loop of this world and their other that they knew all staff by name and would say “See you next time!” upon departure.
Each patient in our wing had to take what pills they gave us, and we all had regular sessions with Dr. Stamm. His office, ripe with cynicism and know-it-allness, was closer to the lobby so parents wouldn’t be jarred by the barrenness of our high-gloss, Lysol-infused existence above. Not that parents were in our sessions; they would only come to learn what Dr. Stamm found was wrong with us.
Dr. Stamm’s right eye slouched low, unable to open fully. His wireframe glasses hugged his nose tight. He kept his gray speckled hair cropped short. His sweaters fit well. He looked athletic and academic.
In sitting across from him, I felt the weight of all adults wrapped into one. He was judge and jury. He asked questions he already formed the answer to. If your answer didn't match — Bzzzzz! Wrong! — you faced endless prescriptions and endless sessions.
After several sessions, and whispers from my fellow floormates, I submitted to agreeing to whatever he said.
No one ever told me what the plan was. What does “better” look like? I was held in a loop of blank-wall days between sessions with Dr. Stamm.
After several weeks of rehashing details of what I’d done and even mentioning the rape, Dr. Stamm told me I was lying. I was twisting everything to be in my favor, and I was not the victim here.
I could dig in and fight this point or let him be right since he already knew he was.
What would it do for me anyway? Do I really need to be believed? No, I needed to do what it took to get out of here.
And so I agreed.
I agreed to my own depravity.
I'd been in this situation a few years before when my mom was going to psychotherapy. Her therapist wanted me to come in. She seemed nice at first, but was already bent against me. That was the first time a professional deemed me a liar. Why change? Let them all gloat and be right about it.
As I stopped fighting Dr. Stamm, we made progress! He had a diagnosis for me!
I sat across from him and was bestowed with selflessness.
Is there a pill for that? What does that mean? How do I fix it?
Selflessness means loss of self. I abandon myself.
I’m like, duh! No one wants me to be me.
My mom wants me to be perfect and grown up and gone. No bother to her.
You want me to lie and agree to everything you say.
Everyone wants me to be other than me.
Society wants me thin.
Classmates want me less smart. Teachers want me to talk less.
Where oh where in this world can I be myself? And be accepted as myself?
Once diagnosed, the big questions are: Now what? What do we do about it? Is there a cure? Do we treat it?
But for psychotherapy, this is the end. I have a diagnosis! The job is done!
Aren't we all relieved that we have another label and another box to put me in.
That diagnosis has stayed with me. I left my own body while going through sexual motions with those boys. During childhood I packed myself into small corners while smiling, polishing and cleaning every surface — removing all triggering crumbs and smudges of life that may upset my mom.
For almost 40 years, I've sat with these questions for myself:
How do I not abandon myself?
How can I be true to myself?
In a world that’s not willing to teach me, how do I find my way on this path?