leaders. He was a gentle, kind man; he was able to listen and talk
with
me—not
at
me. But it wasn’t long before I got a similar response from him. It was just too outrageous that a mother could actually do those things to her own kids.
As I fully expected, I was labeled “a storyteller,” and it was clear that I needed “special attention.” Word was spreading throughout the camp. I was furious that Clay, one of the few people I’d started to open up to, would even think about breaking my confidence.
I was asked to attend a counseling session after working the pineapple fields and to speak with different leaders in the group to try and find out why I was so angry with my mom. I discovered that several of the camp leaders had written to her asking for some background information, to try to get some notion of what it was that made me so angry. The weeks went by, and I was told that Mom had not yet responded, but I was not to take it personally.
I knew that she considered me out of her life for good, and that she would never respond. And she had good reason not to speak to any of the leaders or the counselors.
As the months went on, I found that here on Lanai, Hawaii, I was the same person I had been in Daly City, California, and in Sandy City, Utah. I had the same confused feelings and the same anger that I had known for years now. My hopes that a new setting might change my outlook faded just as fast as my hopes that the counselors would help me. I was the same teenager, in a new part of the world. I had accomplished nothing by leaving home. No one in Daly City would have believed me, no one in Salt Lake believed me, and now no one in Hawaii believed me, either. The main thing I learned from my counseling sessions was that no matter where I was, I was still me, and no one would ever believe what I had to tell them or help me understand any of it.
By now I was back to my old ways and starting to make friends with the kids that I thought would have experience of drugs and alcohol.
Each week we were allowed to take a specified amount out of our checks and spend it as we desired. Some of the kids would spend it on movies and some would spend it on junk food. I finally found kids who had connections with some of the most outrageous drugs I had ever known: hash- and-opium-laced Thai sticks.
After work and after we had settled in one Friday night, two of the kids from another dorm and I snuck out and walked the short distance up to the top of one of the nearby hills. Not far from the dorms was a patch of bamboo growing wild, untouched and completely natural. The smell was incredible, and the eerie feeling as we walked through the little forest added to the heady atmosphere and to our intoxication.
We had managed to pool our money and purchase several Thai sticks. I had used hash before, but it was nothing like what I experienced in that bamboo forest. One of the kids had brought with him a bottle of vodka that he had swiped from the local liquor store the night before. On the way up to the bamboos we passed the bottle from one to another.
By the time we had made it to the middle of the forest, we had finished the bottle. For a while we sat around talking about the others in the group. Then one of the kids pulled out a Thai stick and passed it around. I was told that it was made of hashish from Thailand and laced with opium. I quickly realized what made it so special. As I stared through the forest into the light beyond, I had no idea who or where I was. I couldn’t tell if what I thought was happening around me was reality or not.
I was soon out of my mind with paranoia, and the other two kids were, too. We were all so high that at first we couldn’t even find our way out of this patch of bamboo that we had been to a hundred times before. It was several hours later that we finally made it back to our dorms. A few of the other kids noticed me as I stumbled in. They assumed I was either drunk or high.
All I
with
me—not
at
me. But it wasn’t long before I got a similar response from him. It was just too outrageous that a mother could actually do those things to her own kids.
As I fully expected, I was labeled “a storyteller,” and it was clear that I needed “special attention.” Word was spreading throughout the camp. I was furious that Clay, one of the few people I’d started to open up to, would even think about breaking my confidence.
I was asked to attend a counseling session after working the pineapple fields and to speak with different leaders in the group to try and find out why I was so angry with my mom. I discovered that several of the camp leaders had written to her asking for some background information, to try to get some notion of what it was that made me so angry. The weeks went by, and I was told that Mom had not yet responded, but I was not to take it personally.
I knew that she considered me out of her life for good, and that she would never respond. And she had good reason not to speak to any of the leaders or the counselors.
As the months went on, I found that here on Lanai, Hawaii, I was the same person I had been in Daly City, California, and in Sandy City, Utah. I had the same confused feelings and the same anger that I had known for years now. My hopes that a new setting might change my outlook faded just as fast as my hopes that the counselors would help me. I was the same teenager, in a new part of the world. I had accomplished nothing by leaving home. No one in Daly City would have believed me, no one in Salt Lake believed me, and now no one in Hawaii believed me, either. The main thing I learned from my counseling sessions was that no matter where I was, I was still me, and no one would ever believe what I had to tell them or help me understand any of it.
By now I was back to my old ways and starting to make friends with the kids that I thought would have experience of drugs and alcohol.
Each week we were allowed to take a specified amount out of our checks and spend it as we desired. Some of the kids would spend it on movies and some would spend it on junk food. I finally found kids who had connections with some of the most outrageous drugs I had ever known: hash- and-opium-laced Thai sticks.
After work and after we had settled in one Friday night, two of the kids from another dorm and I snuck out and walked the short distance up to the top of one of the nearby hills. Not far from the dorms was a patch of bamboo growing wild, untouched and completely natural. The smell was incredible, and the eerie feeling as we walked through the little forest added to the heady atmosphere and to our intoxication.
We had managed to pool our money and purchase several Thai sticks. I had used hash before, but it was nothing like what I experienced in that bamboo forest. One of the kids had brought with him a bottle of vodka that he had swiped from the local liquor store the night before. On the way up to the bamboos we passed the bottle from one to another.
By the time we had made it to the middle of the forest, we had finished the bottle. For a while we sat around talking about the others in the group. Then one of the kids pulled out a Thai stick and passed it around. I was told that it was made of hashish from Thailand and laced with opium. I quickly realized what made it so special. As I stared through the forest into the light beyond, I had no idea who or where I was. I couldn’t tell if what I thought was happening around me was reality or not.
I was soon out of my mind with paranoia, and the other two kids were, too. We were all so high that at first we couldn’t even find our way out of this patch of bamboo that we had been to a hundred times before. It was several hours later that we finally made it back to our dorms. A few of the other kids noticed me as I stumbled in. They assumed I was either drunk or high.
All I
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