Campers must remain in the main camp area during individual time. They may not go on hikes unsupervised during this time.
Campers must remain in their rooms after the day ends. There will be bed checks every two hours over the course of the night.
Camper participation is required at all individual and group therapy sessions.
Use of the TV is restricted to designated movie-viewing times on weekends.
If at any point during a group session a camper feels triggered or emotionally threatened by the discussion, he or she may signal to leave and take a five-minute break.
These materials are prohibited and should be turned in to the counselors at the beginning of camp: cell phones, other electronics, spiral-bound notebooks, hair straighteners and curlers, earrings, mechanical pencils, keys, blades, and knives.
Razors, nail clippers, and hair scissors must remain in lockers at all times when not in the shower.
Body checks will be performed every Friday.
Campers will be weighed every Wednesday.
WEEKDAY SCHEDULE
9:00 a.m.: Day begins—wake up, shower, meds, etc.
9:30 a.m.: Breakfast, medications, goals for the day
10:00 a.m.: Hike (Mon, Wed) or Project Time (Tue, Thu)
1:30 p.m.: Lunch
2:30 p.m.: Individual therapy
4:00 p.m.: Individual time: letters, journaling, laundry, pool/rec time
6:30 p.m.: Dinner
7:30 p.m.: Group, revisiting goals for the day
9:00 p.m.: Quiet time and Meditation (Mon-Thu), Art by the Fire (on Fri)
10:00 p.m.: Return to room
WEEKEND SCHEDULE
10:00 a.m.: Day begins—wake up, shower, etc.
10:30 a.m.: Breakfast, goals for the day
11:00 a.m.: Individual time
1:30 p.m.: Lunch
2:30 p.m.: Quiet time and Meditation
5:00 p.m.: Individual time
6:30 p.m.: Dinner
7:30 p.m.: Group, revisiting goals for the day
9:00 p.m.: Individual time
12:00 a.m.: Return to room
MY MOM ASKS me how I’m feeling seven times on the way to camp. We have just left the house. She manages to merge safely onto the freeway before she looks over at me, eyebrows furrowed, and lets the words escape: “How are you feeling, honey?” She has been dying to ask this ever since we pulled out of the driveway, I know, and I feel bad for not being able to give her the answer she wants. But I also know that if I say anything resembling the truth—even if it’s something perfectly normal, like “a little nervous,” or “kind of apprehensive,” or, God forbid, “I’m kind of scared”—we will talk about it for the next three hours, until we get to camp. We will talk about it until we have rehashed every single conversation we have ever had about “stepping out of my comfort zone” or “trying something new.” We will talk about it until the sound of her voice makes me want to collapse and I have to put my head between my hands and count, very carefully, over and over again, just to get my heart rate back down. //
“I’m fine,” I say, and turn my gaze to the mile markers flying by outside the window. 23 (bad). 24 (bad). 25 (good). There’s something comforting in the numbers. There’s something stable and predictable and real. There always has been. //
I know it’s unfair for me to blow off her concern like this, but it’s hard to feel sympathy when I know that she knows exactly how I feel. How many times have I told her that the point of not having friends is that there’s never anyone dragging me out of the house to places I never wanted to go to in the first place? Or that I’m perfectly happy to stay in my room all summer rereading the Harry Potter series from start to finish for the twelfth time? I don’t know how much fun she expects me to have at this camp, but I can pretty much guarantee that it’s not going to be as much fun as Harry Potter discovering a whole other, magical world. And learning the true meaning of family for the first time in his life. And, oh, yeah, defeating Lord Voldemort, like, six times. The only problem is, I don’t think my mom considers living vicariously to qualify as, well, actual “living.” //
“You doing okay?” my mom says when she can’t stand the quiet any longer. “Do you want some water? There’s some in the backseat.” 26 (bad). 27 (really bad). 28 (good). “I’m fine, Mom,” I say. //
Mile 45. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink? Or eat? Are you feeling okay? You barely ate anything this morning.” Stop, I want to say. I barely ate anything this morning because it was 6:00 a.m. and I could barely muster up the motor function to walk to the table. //
Mile 57. “Clarisa?” “I’m fine.” We are an hour into the drive and a familiar note of concern has entered my mom’s voice. Outside, the buildings of New York City have dissolved into endless forests of deciduous trees. They cling to each other, branches locked together, roots trawling the dirt for space. I count the number of trees in every overcrowded cluster we drive by and feel the numbers fill my head, pushing the anxiety away: eight trees, ten trees, seven trees. //
“Drink some water, Clarisa,” my mom says. “You’re probably dehydrated. I don’t want you to get sick—” “—six, four, twelve, four, six,” I interrupt. “What?” she says. “The trees,” I respond. “They cluster together—I was counting them.” //
My mom bites her lip, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. I watch her blink rapidly—one, two, three. I feel bad for her, I really do. “You’re going to get dehydrated before camp even starts,” she says, starting to sound desperate. “I’m fine,” I repeat. Eight, nine, four—“What the heck, Mom!” //
My mom takes one hand off the wheel and reaches into the backseat, trying to feel her way to the water bottles. We are going sixty miles an hour on a busy highway, and I can practically see her saying, “Screw it all,” for the sake of getting me a flipping water bottle. “Mom!” I shout. I reach into the backseat and grab a water bottle myself before she can get us both killed. “What the heck are you doing? Are you trying to kill me before we even make it to camp?” The sheer terror in my voice must get to her, because my mom snaps her arm back, replaces her hand on the steering wheel, and takes a deep breath. //
“I just don’t want you to be dehydrated,” she says, so controlled that it’s almost scary. Her eyes are blazing. “This is not about me being dehydrated, and you know it!” I respond.
