A Place for Broken Souls

The incident that broke my parents and led me here happened in May. It was the last month of my sophomore year of high school and on a warm Saturday evening my parents reluctantly left me in charge of my younger siblings while they attempted a much needed date night. Danny, who is eleven and Charlotte, who is eight, were driving me nuts, like always. They would not leave me alone; always coming in my room to see what I was doing and then running to tattle to my parents. Once, last year, Danny had burst in without knocking, again, and found me taking pictures of myself with just my arms covering my breasts, like the Instagram models do.

“Get out you little shit” I screamed and off he went to Mom who lost her mind and took my phone. I fought her for it; managed to kick her in the shins before dad came in and physically pulled me off of her. I started screaming that I was being abused, hoping a neighbor would call the cops again and they would get in trouble this time. “I hate all of you; I want out of this family, let me go”. Mom had ended up going through my phone and deleting all of the “inappropriate” pictures I had taken. Joke was on her though, she doesn’t know about the “for your eyes only” feature where I kept the things I really wanted to hide. The violence was a weekly occurrence in our house, there was always something that set me off.

“We will only be gone for a few hours and we are just down at the town center having dinner. Lila do you think you can tolerate your siblings and keep them safe, please?” Mom had asked me, her eyes pleading with me which made me feel a slight twinge of compassion for her that quickly evaporated when I remembered how much I hated her. 

“Fine” I replied as I grabbed a bag of chips and headed towards the stairs. 

“Thank you. The pizza will be delivered shortly, please heat up some vegetables in the microwave and get them fed” she replied as she grabbed her keys and headed out to meet Dad in the car. “I love you all, be back soon”.

I continued heading up to my room, I had no desire to interact with my siblings, let alone take care of them. They were old enough to eat pizza and watch TV and I was happier in my room alone. About ten minutes later I heard the doorbell ring, the pizza being delivered, and I went back to watching my movie. 

“Lila, the pizza is here” Danny called up the stairs. 

“I don’t care, leave me alone. Just eat.” I yelled back angrily. He was always in my business; did he think I hadn’t heard the doorbell? I turned up the volume on the movie on the TV. Suddenly I heard a loud thud and a scream. 

“Lila, Lila, help” came my brother’s voice up the stairs, the tone one of panic and fear.

“What now? Just eat your pizza” I screamed back.

“She’s bleeding and she’s not moving!” came the voice up the stairs. I dropped the remote and ran down the stairs. There was Charlotte, sprawled on the tile floor, her left leg twisted in an unnatural position, blood coming from her nose and she was not moving.

“What the actual fuck Danny?” I replied, getting down on my knees to take a closer look. “Charlotte, come on, get up”. She didn’t respond. “Danny call 911 and give me the phone”.

The ambulance arrived, followed shortly by my parents. Charlotte had been standing on the counter getting a cup from the cupboard when she fell. She was unconscious, had a concussion and a broken femur. She spent five days in the hospital, my mom with her around the clock. My father wouldn’t, couldn’t,  look at me, the anger seething deep within him that I had not been doing my job and had let this happen. 

“Where were you? Why weren’t you downstairs getting them set up for dinner? She’s only eight for God’s sake Lila, she could have died.” 

These were the only words he uttered to me in those five days, otherwise ignoring me, the contempt and hate oozing out of every pore of his body. When Charlotte and Mom came home, they ignored me too. My Mother would not make eye contact with me and so I stayed in my room except to go to and from school. It was like I did not exist to them despite my apology.

What is an apology really? An attempt by someone to clear their conscience? An action taken to honestly express remorse for our behavior or choices? Or has it become something we say when we have done someone wrong because it is what we are “supposed” to do? In most cases I think it depends on the person and their values; how much they value the other person, how much they value themselves, how much they value the relationship or even how much they value their image. Saying “I’m sorry” for most people, it seems in this modern world, is something we say because we think we should and not because we mean it. If we meant it, our actions would match our words. Apologies are cheap and meaningless and often you feel as if you wish the person apologizing would have just said nothing. That was the case for me. Every time I messed up, made mistakes that made life harder for my parents, I would drop a casual and meaningless “sorry” as I walked away not giving two shits about the impact it had on them. 

Within a week of Charlotte coming home from the hospital I knew that something had changed dramatically. My parents had not apologized when they told me I would be attending Middleton Academy in the fall, they appeared almost gleeful to be rid of me. Their marriage was a mess and it was clear that I was a main source of stress on the relationship. The accident with Charlotte was the final straw; I had convinced them I hated this family and wanted out. I did not understand myself why I was so angry all the time and felt real remorse that Charlotte had been hurt so badly.  They needed me away so they could refocus and try to salvage the relationship as well as protect my younger siblings. So on this warm July day we were approaching my new home; a place that would hopefully fix me and by fixing me, fix my family. 

The enormous wrought iron gate was attached on both sides to gray stone pillars more than twenty feet tall with wrought iron fences attached to the opposite sides and extending as far as the eye could see. The gate opened to a long driveway bordered on both sides by large juniper pine trees. On the ground below the trees the discarded pine cones were nestled between stalks of grass in the dirt, surrounded by sticks and brush. Behind the first row of trees there appeared to be several more rows of trees until from the road there was nothing more to view thus creating the illusion that the forest stretched forever. The website had advertised numerous hiking trails on the property, utilized in the physical education program for exercise as well as opportunities to learn “survival skills”.  I was definitely in for an ass-kicking.

As the car passes through the gate it starts to close behind us causing me a momentary flash of anxiety triggered by a feeling of claustrophobia. It was a scene out of a horror film that involved a haunted mansion, one that no one escaped, doomed to meet their fate at the hands of beings from the afterlife, or worse, from a psychopath that was very much alive. Middleton Academy was a place that prided itself on fixing broken teenagers. The brochure said it much more eloquently, but that was the underlying objective. They did not tell you that they mentally and emotionally break you down and build you back up. Instead phrases like “develop lasting emotional intelligence” and “integrate gratitude into daily life” were used, but I could see right through it. For the past month I had been preparing for the breakdown that was coming. Would I be stripped, searched and forced to wear a uniform? At least I had picked out a matching bra and underwear today so I could maintain some sense of dignity and style. 

We pull up to the building and Dad parks the car in one of the five spaces in front. But instead of getting out of the car, he lowers his head slowly and I hear muffled breathing noises coming from his mouth. My mom gently reaches over and takes his hand in both of hers, I can see her squeeze it tightly for just a moment and then release it. 

“How did we get here Lila?” he says to me. “What did we do to make you hate us so much?”. 

It is then that I realize the muffled breathing noises are in fact sobs beginning. I have never seen my Dad cry. In all the times I was out of control, he was the one who stayed strong and resolute; it was Mom and the kids who were emotional. He has been a stonewall the entire time; cold and disconnected, handling me like he would someone at work when he arrested them. Calmly restraining me so I wouldn’t hurt the others or myself. Talking to the officers when they responded, letting them know who he was and what he did and that he had it under control. In hindsight, he should have let them take me away long ago. Like the time I grabbed a knife from the knife holder and threatened to slice my wrists. I was only five; why didn’t they do this then? Because they thought they could love the anger out of me, but they couldn’t. 

“Bill, don’t, she doesn’t care. You are only tormenting yourself” my mother replies and I realize with a pain in my stomach and that she has finally given up on me. It took over ten years but I have managed to push her to the place that no mother wants to go with her child. What did they do to me? Why am I so angry and why can’t I stop violently lashing out? These are questions that swirl in my mind, questions multiple therapists have tried to help me answer, questions I have tried to answer with alcohol, drugs and meaningless sex with boys and girls from my school. I have become the school outcast, the freak, that everyone makes fun of and pretends to hate until they want something. Yet the answer never comes and the anger just comes back. I am starting to accept that something must be wrong with me, something is broken. It took my family giving up on me, sending me to a place like this to make me realize it. 

My Dad nods his head and collects himself and begins to exit the car. “Wait!” I say “Please, don’t make me go, I will change, I will be better” I exclaim though I know it is not true, I can’t do this on my own. I am terrified; what is this place and what will they do to me? 

“It’s too late Lila” my Mother replies “You had chance after chance, ten years of chances, ten years of us, me, sacrificing everything for you and you shit on it. We can’t do this anymore. You are dangerous and out of control. Enough is enough”.

I look up out the car window as she says this and I see two large, muscular men and another man in a suit and tie walking towards our car. They expect me to resist, hence the two steroid addicts, I think as I put my hand on the door handle. By now my parents are both out of the car and greeting the man in the suit warmly. It has been a long time since they have talked to me in that tone, expressed warmth in my direction. I open the car door as the muscular men approach and slide my legs out, knowing that once my feet hit the ground nothing will be the same. In fact, I hope nothing will be the same. Somewhere, deep down, I want to be part of a family, I want to love them and be loved by them. But there is something else that takes over, some demon that does not want the same and I am powerless to control it. With a sigh, I accept my fate and leave the car and allow the men to each take a hold of me by my arms and lead me into the building.