couple of days later, we arrived at the funeral home.
“We’re going to go into a special room to say goodbye to Grandpa.” she instructed.
“I’ve already seen him dead, before he died. I don’t want to see him. Please don’t make me see him. That’s not how I want to remember him.”
She was livid. After finding out where he was, she came back for me. I was physically forced by her into the viewing room with Grandpa’s open casket. I stood there mortified, sickened as I viewed his lifeless body.
“Touch his hand and tell him you love him,” she ordered.
“No, I don’t want to. He doesn’t look like he did when he was alive,” I insisted.
She grabbed my hand and put it on his freezing cold hands, which were clasped above his waist. I almost vomited. Couldn’t she just beat me instead, I silently thought.
“Tell him goodbye,” she barked.
“Goodbye,” I said while sobbing with fear and sadness.
“Kiss him,” she demanded.
“No,” I replied.
“Kiss him,” she repeated, as she grabbed the back of my head, neck and shoulders forcing me down toward him.
Being upset and uneasy, I lost my balance and fell on him. She grabbed my long hair and led me to his forehead. My lips touched his cold tight forehead and the smell of formaldehyde sickened me. I felt like I was going to pass out. Seconds later, she finally let go of me.
Weeks later, she found a psychiatrist who labeled me schizophrenic and medicated me. My mother asked him about having me sterilized. Shortly after that diagnosis, mother brought me to a healing service at the church. She told the man in charge that I was possessed and suffering from a mental illness.
Many weeks later that psychiatrist died. Mother insisted that we attend his funeral together. She wanted me to see his body, but I refused. Thankfully there were many people around. She couldn’t force me to do anything.
Weeks later she found another psychiatrist. He didn’t agree with the previous label, instead I was labeled bi-polar. I was medicated with something different. Shortly after, I became a ward of the government and lived in a group home.
I was medicated against my will on a daily basis. I often felt sick and dizzy.
A strict daily routine was followed. Living quarters were cleaned daily, upon returning for the day. Every second day we would sit around a dining room table and work on our correspondence for an hour. Every night after supper, one person would be chosen to scrub the kitchen floor by hand.
On the last day of every month, we were issued one roll of toilet paper and a bus pass. A five dollar bill was given to purchase personal effects such as pads.
One morning, I was so groggy, I didn’t shower before leaving for the program. After returning, I climbed into the shower. The worker in charge immediately turned off the hot water supply. I realized what was happening but I continued to shower. I was approached by the worker on the way to the kitchen table.
“You won’t be eating with the others tonight. You’re dirty. You’ll eat in the mudroom, on the floor with the dog.”
“I just took a cold shower,” I replied.
“You didn’t have a shower this morning. You’re only allowed to shower in the morning.”
“I was tired and feeling sick,” I said.
The worker handed me my supper and led me to the mudroom. At first this was upsetting. The dog and I ate supper together. This ended up being the best supper I had had in years!
Several nights later, I had a severe drug reaction. I was rushed into the emergency room and immediately given a drug to counter the reaction.
I attended a daily program for troubled teens, which lacked proper schooling. English and math courses were made available through correspondence only. The greater part of my day was usually spent in a so-called therapeutic group. The group discussions were generally silly, fruitless, unintelligent and based on sexual topics. The leading therapist would come into the room and take a seat.
“What would you like to discuss today?” Peter the therapist asked the group.
“Sex,” the group would always answer.
The program offered a designated smoking room/lunch room. Every lunch hour or break was spent in this smoke filled room. Being a non-smoker and severely allergic to smoke didn’t help. One time I bit into my sandwich to discover someone had filled it with cigarette ashes.
A handful of teenagers were struggling with mental illness. They were treated badly and abused by the bullies on a daily basis, behind the backs of the staff. A couple of us were misplaced. Most of the kids were young offenders.
I would often be bullied into handing over my clothes or any personal possession they desired. Some of these teenagers resented me. They considered me a goody two shoes for two reasons; I was a virgin and had never smoked drugs. I wasn’t one of them.
One day after returning from the program, I was invited for the first time to join two of the four girls that I lived with in the group home. Being lonely, I accepted the invitation. Within minutes, I joined Lois and Jennifer in their room. They quickly shut the door and secured it with a dresser.
“You need to prove you’re worth having as a friend through our initiation. We thought about bursting your cherry today, but we’ll spare you that,” Lois said.
“Laura, you’re to sit in this chair and let us do your hair. You won’t be able to look until were done,” Jennifer ordered.
Lois and Jennifer were giggling excessively as they did my hair. I sat quietly hoping they wouldn’t hurt me. About half an hour later they finished.
“Laura, we’re going to let you take a look at your new hairdo, but you’re not to tell on us if you don’t like it,” Lois said.
Jennifer handed me a mirror. I took a quick glance at my shocking new appearance. Of all things I had a Mohawk to contend with. Thank God hair grows!
“How do you like it?” asked Jennifer. “Cool!” I responded.
The following week, a visit was scheduled with Mother. I didn’t look forward to seeing her, especially not this time. I stepped into the office where teens visited their parents, always accompanied by a staff member. Mother’s jaw dropped the moment she saw me. Right away she demanded that the ridiculous cut be removed and my head be shaved.
“Why did you do this?” Mother asked. “Because,” I answered.
The following day I was taken to a salon and where the remaining hair was shaved off. The huge earrings I had would compliment this newest style.
Shortly after turning sixteen, while attending the program, two of my roommates jumped me and attempted to choke me. They were pulled off by staff and hauled off to a lock-up facility by police.
A few months before my eighteenth birthday, I’d had enough. Earlier in the
