have made their parents desperate enough to reach breaking point, so bad it makes them desperate enough to surrender their precious cargo to a team of strangers, therapists dressed in Gore-Tex and fleece.
I know for the next few days, the new group will be terrified and angry. That they’re going to refuse to get out of their sleeping bags, refuse to speak or to eat. Things are going to get thrown around and I’ll be called a Nazi. I wonder which one is going to be the first to try and run away this time?
Then slowly they change like the summer blossom. It’s like when a toddler wails and throws himself desperately on the ground during a temper tantrum. Eventually he will exhaust himself and let you pick him up and rock him in your arms. These poor kids are the exact same. After a few days of fighting, they are drained. Homesickness sets in and overwhelms them. Some of them are still experiencing chemical withdrawal. The wilderness has stripped them of their teenage stoicism and angst, revealing their vulnerability and then they have no choice but to ask us for help and that’s when we step in.
Surviving in the wilderness is hard. But when a teenager throws down his backpack in the middle of a hike, the challenge of finding the next water source is nothing compared to navigating the terrain of his fear, anxiety, and anger. Each time a teen reaches this point, he says, “You don’t understand. I can’t do this.”
The conversation always starts like this. For the next few minutes, or few hours, or few weeks, we break down what’s going through his head and I need to ask, “What are you so scared of? What’s making you feel so overwhelmed? What do you need to feel safe?”
Compared to getting sober, learning to manage his depression without alcohol, and figuring out how to tell his father that he is afraid of him, this hike is just a walk in the woods.
Every day, we push harder and farther. My clients are more engaged in their treatment than those in any other residential programs I have seen. They sleep and eat in solitude at their campsites. They hike in silence. They keep journals filled with their insights and goals. And because they are so often alone with their thoughts and feelings, when they come together around a fire, we make our time and our words count.
They say, “I’m scared that no one will ever love me.”
They say, “I’ve been doing drugs and booze for so long, I don’t know if I’ll ever be as smart as I used to be.”
They say, “My family make me feel like I’m a broken toy that they need to ship off to get fixed.”
They say, “Everyone in my family gets high. I know I can’t stay sober if I go home.”
I say, “I really admired the way you led our hike today. You made me push myself.”
Around the fire and along the ridgelines, the kids retrace their footsteps, trying to understand how they ended up in the middle of nowhere in this unlikely family, uncovering painful childhood secrets, writing letters to abusers that they read about and then throw into the fire, and screaming their secrets from the top of a mountain. They try to understand their painful love affairs with drugs and so begin to plan the first steps of their recovery.
When the three weeks end, our family dissolves. Some of the teens move on to boarding schools, some stay in the wilderness for more treatment, and some go home.
On our last night together we sit in a circle and share our wishes. For themselves and one another, the kids wish for continued sobriety, reconciliation with parents, a chance to graduate from high school.
My wish for them is simple: I hope that they will remember this and never come back here again.
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia Carter
I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have difficulty sleeping through the night. Each night is the same now: night sweats, cravings so powerful that I have to get out of bed and sit in a corner with my iPod turned on full blast. Oh, and the
I know for the next few days, the new group will be terrified and angry. That they’re going to refuse to get out of their sleeping bags, refuse to speak or to eat. Things are going to get thrown around and I’ll be called a Nazi. I wonder which one is going to be the first to try and run away this time?
Then slowly they change like the summer blossom. It’s like when a toddler wails and throws himself desperately on the ground during a temper tantrum. Eventually he will exhaust himself and let you pick him up and rock him in your arms. These poor kids are the exact same. After a few days of fighting, they are drained. Homesickness sets in and overwhelms them. Some of them are still experiencing chemical withdrawal. The wilderness has stripped them of their teenage stoicism and angst, revealing their vulnerability and then they have no choice but to ask us for help and that’s when we step in.
Surviving in the wilderness is hard. But when a teenager throws down his backpack in the middle of a hike, the challenge of finding the next water source is nothing compared to navigating the terrain of his fear, anxiety, and anger. Each time a teen reaches this point, he says, “You don’t understand. I can’t do this.”
The conversation always starts like this. For the next few minutes, or few hours, or few weeks, we break down what’s going through his head and I need to ask, “What are you so scared of? What’s making you feel so overwhelmed? What do you need to feel safe?”
Compared to getting sober, learning to manage his depression without alcohol, and figuring out how to tell his father that he is afraid of him, this hike is just a walk in the woods.
Every day, we push harder and farther. My clients are more engaged in their treatment than those in any other residential programs I have seen. They sleep and eat in solitude at their campsites. They hike in silence. They keep journals filled with their insights and goals. And because they are so often alone with their thoughts and feelings, when they come together around a fire, we make our time and our words count.
They say, “I’m scared that no one will ever love me.”
They say, “I’ve been doing drugs and booze for so long, I don’t know if I’ll ever be as smart as I used to be.”
They say, “My family make me feel like I’m a broken toy that they need to ship off to get fixed.”
They say, “Everyone in my family gets high. I know I can’t stay sober if I go home.”
I say, “I really admired the way you led our hike today. You made me push myself.”
Around the fire and along the ridgelines, the kids retrace their footsteps, trying to understand how they ended up in the middle of nowhere in this unlikely family, uncovering painful childhood secrets, writing letters to abusers that they read about and then throw into the fire, and screaming their secrets from the top of a mountain. They try to understand their painful love affairs with drugs and so begin to plan the first steps of their recovery.
When the three weeks end, our family dissolves. Some of the teens move on to boarding schools, some stay in the wilderness for more treatment, and some go home.
On our last night together we sit in a circle and share our wishes. For themselves and one another, the kids wish for continued sobriety, reconciliation with parents, a chance to graduate from high school.
My wish for them is simple: I hope that they will remember this and never come back here again.
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia Carter
I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have difficulty sleeping through the night. Each night is the same now: night sweats, cravings so powerful that I have to get out of bed and sit in a corner with my iPod turned on full blast. Oh, and the
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