May 19, 1972. Fifty years ago, a junior high school counselor had spent three days researching with the district psychologist the best course of action for an extremely suicidal, intelligent, anorexic student she had worked with for the past year who could no longer stay safe with equally unsafe, divorced parents. On this day, the counselor obtained permission to drive the 14 year old Joceile to Child Study and Treatment Center, a part of Western State Hospital, to commit her/me. That was the summer I woke up from a childhood nightmare to a life that finally belonged to me. Fraught with continuing danger, I began my travels to the land of mental health that last to this day.
I was in that psychiatric residence for five months. To many people, this would be an event happily blotted out, forgotten, never to be revisited. To me, it is annually celebrated as the beginning of my healing. It’s not that Western State Hospital was perfect and didn’t have it’s therapeutic problems. It’s that it was also five months of firsts in a long, painful experience with adults working to keep me safe.
One example is that I learned how we all give cold pricklies and warm fuzzies to others. Of course, they are silly names used for children’s learning. But it was a concept for identifying how we treat others. An outcome was learning for the first time that I could ask for a hug (a warm fuzzy) from adults I trusted and get a safe one in return. I could also give one. What a revelation for a kid starved for safe, unconditional affection!
There were many other firsts. Some profound. Others less so but memorable. Group hiking trips, train rides, movies, walks, shopping trips, and backpacking with staff who truly cared. These all happened in the company of a small community of 14 to 17 year old girls and a diverse staff whose job it was to look out for us and us for each other. (I’m sure not every patient saw it that way.) I remember going to the Puyallup Fair with eight to ten girls and staff. I couldn’t not keep track of the other girls. I remember a staff member looking to me when looking for a missing girl and I’d gesture to where the girl was last seen. It was an overdone strength, impacting my enjoyment of the fair, but I had to look out for our safety. It was emblematic of the struggle for my own safety.
I have only four pictures of me in that transformative summer. This is the me that held on bravely and took each step that presented itself without knowing the final destination. In October 1972, I was discharged to go live with my beloved grandparents. Taking in a troubled teenager is another act of great bravery and love. Joe and Lucille are gone but their love surrounds me.
I am filled with gratitude to my 14 year old self for her breakout contribution to a life well lived and to all of us who continue in life by putting one foot in front of the other, embracing love for ourselves and those we come in contact with. If love is a religion, it’s mine. We can’t know another’s path but we can assume they need kind regards as much as we do.
Reporting from Life’s front.
Joceile
5/19/22
The story can be found here: https://joceile-memoir.blogspot.com/2018/12/entry-1-july-28-1986.html
Pictures: 1) My counselor, Jerry, and I in the woods. 2) A volunteer, me, and a patient on the campus. 3) Me at the ocean. 4) Me after the girls badgered me into letting them put eye make-up on me—never again!
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