Flashback to the Troubled Teen
Content warning:
thoughts of self harm/suicide, descriptions of rehab experience, mention of sexual assault
The high desert where they dropped,
me with a group ten boys so broken
they dared not speak unless propped
up by staff, was so silent all words went unspoken.
Only stares welcomed me to my new home.
Later I learned it was forbidden to speak
to new members until they’d grown
comfortable with themselves—about a week.
The first night’s stars—it’s almost cliché—
so bright they made me gasp for breath.
I could not sleep, stared up ‘til the early rays
Pasteled the sky, and I broke camp without rest.
On the hike, I could barely move I was so tired
but Onward! Onward! the boys inspired.
*
Onward! Onward! The boys inspire.
Though I can barely lift my pack.
I’m just a child, scared pale with one desire.
I beg through tears, Take me back!
I refuse to to hike, refuse to live
Refuse to drink, refuse to eat.
I scheme to flee or fasten a shiv
To cut my neck or wrist, to bleed.
So, when the time arrives to die
And I’m alone with the frigid air.
I draw my sword, a stolen knife.
leave my tarp; my wrist is bared
Yet, I pause, and though I’m close to escape,
I just scream, afraid things will stay the same.
*
After I scream, I’m afraid things won’t stay the same
if I return the knife to staff and admit the breach.
They find it in my pack anyway.
And now, I’m kept within arm’s reach.
Usually the boys just count aloud
When they wash or take a piss,
And their counting means they’re still around,
Behind the tarp, not runoff to the wilderness.
But now a silent man watches me sud my pits
And does his best not to stare
As I wash my ass and private bits
To keep the adage wash where there’s hair.
When I finally dress, I grieve myself and my home,
Because within arm’s reach, I’m still alone.
*
Within arm’s reach, I’m still alone,
but at least I’m now allowed to speak
to Mack whose dirt brown hands are always cold.
He lost his gloves after just a week.
I talk with Ryan and Chubby Malik
who sing songs as we hike a ridge.
Their cheery tune makes me believe
in hope. It takes the shape of an extra smidge
of Tabasco in my beans and rice, more
than the allotted two shakes of the bottle.
Keith the cook looks the other way, bored
of the same spices, the same daily problems.
Our food is bland, and we are tired.
The worst is when spill dinner spills into the fire.
*
The worst is when dinner spills into the fire,
and the little that is good is lost.
The fire’s flames are quick to engulf our entire
meal. Hunger is, at times, warmth’s cost.
I do not speak, though I can drill an ember,
and I’ve moved up the group’s ranks.
They call me Fireman, a full member,
the fastest ever to learn starting flames.
I hate the group, yet I start to cry
at the meeting surrounded by all ten of them.
I cannot look them in the eye
when Mack asks, Fireman, do you have friends?
I don’t. I don’t, and it fills me with rage,
but Mack was the same. I’m not so strange.
*
I’m no different; we’re all strange,
but together we make a tenuous crew.
Staff reads to us if we all behave,
and we learn to listen when they do.
Upon hearing Frankl’s Meaning
complaining about dinner seems dumb and small.
Why am I worried about problems fleeting,
if there’s a purpose in suffering them all?
The first four weeks I tried escaping fate
like a tragic hero prophecy spurned.
Frankl spurs me. There’s no need to wait.
I can grow when I choose. I’ve learned,
after thirty days, if I want to grow
I must run from the devil I know.
*
I must run from the devil I know,
and the group resolves to keep me safe.
Mack has arms filled with needle holes.
Richard cries, admits he was raped.
The new boy, Geoff, shows us razor’s mark,
while Ryan, Malik, and the rest break down in tears.
All of us, bare clean our scars,
so many shared despite our youthful years.
We talk and cry until the fire burns to ash,
when suddenly the west wind blows.
The ashes scatter and our tarps thrash.
I know, one day, I’ll write this ode
to the high desert far away from crystalline streams,
where, together, we have our wildest dreams.
*
Together, we have our wildest dreams,
and so, the staff begin to break us apart.
Mack is the longest tenured and tries to lead,
but there’s a new program for him to start.
He says goodbye, and we’re all proud
and sad too, though we try to hide it.
When the truck pulls away, Ryan cries so loud,
we know we’ve lost something we cannot find.
Staff reminds us we need to hike.
We refuse, because we do not care
that to survive we must reach our resupply.
Who breaks first? Will they take our dare?
Get over it staff says, you’ll be fine.
We go but self-pity, mope, and whine.
*
We go, full of self-pity, to mope, and whine
but it brings us nothing more than trouble.
Ryan and Malik are next to leave, shining
brightly as they burst through the bubble
like an albatross who’s spread its wings,
but without their songs the woods seem a jail,
and winter beats back the coming spring.
I look for songbirds, a nightingale,
as I sit on my pack after each hike
and fight my urge to quit and mourn.
The group I once knew is lost to time.
Worse, the sky grows darker from brewing storms,
an ode to the vulture flying high in the sky.
If I stay much longer, I think I’ll die.
*
If I stay much longer, I think I’ll die
from boredom. Life has grown so stale,
now that I’m the most experienced, and I
have nothing left to learn. I’ve nailed
cooking rice and making fire.
I can make a hitch with both eyes closed,
and a little bit of cord. I’m higher
on the phases of trust. I rose
from my early failures to take the lead.
I try to help the boys where I can
until the day the truck comes to retrieve
me. I give Staff Kevin my plan.
So they assign the newest boy as my mentee,
but the night he first arrives, he flees.
*
When he first arrives, he flees,
but he’s back at my tarp before morning light.
It’s still winter, and his feet are freezing
because Staff take our boots at night.
His toes are purple. His hands are shaking.
There’s no hiding that his scheme failed.
He starts to shout he’ll kill himself, faking
a pain he’s unaware I’ve endured. His pale
hands begin to warm, and now he really cries,
and his tears freeze before they leave his face.
I want to hit him, but I’ve grown too wise
to offer him anything other than grace.
I listen to his complaints before I speak,
There are no excuses. Now, come with me.
*
There are no excuses, so he comes with me.
I let him borrow my bow drill set
to teach him how to start a flame with ease.
The wood he gathered was still wet,
but I kept a pile beneath my tarp.
So, we’ll share the fire once it starts to roar.
He spins the bow quickly, pushes down hard
on the spindle as if he’s done this before.
After his first attempt, the fire blazes
burning strong, warming up our camp.
He smiles and looks at awed faces,
whose memories in, he’s forever stamped.
He’s the only one to succeed his first try.
I’ve seen some boys claim it, but they always lie.
*
Some claims are always lies—
We’ll keep in touch when we’re finished here.
Still, we make them and are surprised
when we fail to sense an end is near.
After nine weeks of hiking through wilderness,
my time came to leave for boarding school.
Spring arrived despite winter’s last nip,
a flurry of snow to say, goodbye you fool.
And fool I was for thinking I was done
with suffering for the rest of my years.
When the truck arrived, and the battle won,
I claimed victory through joyous tears.
But still I toss and turn some nights
afraid of return after time gone by.
*
I’m afraid of returning after goodbye
to the world from which I was sent.
My parents question me with loving eyes.
They both must know how therapy went.
We spend the night at a camp with a car
and while my parents drift to sleep,
I take one last look up at the stars,
to say goodbye. For some reason, I weep
when I see the meteors shooting across
my field of view. I ought to wish
for growth or ways to counteract the cost
of all the schooling I have missed.
Instead, I hold myself tight, try to sleep
because wherever I’ll go, I’ll miss those dreams.
***
Wherever I go, I treasure those dreams
that I’ve been afraid to return to as time went by.
I’ve seen no boys since, but I always lie,
give an excuse as if they’ll come to me.
There are nights still, when I want to flee
because if I stay much longer, I think I’ll die.
Now an adult, I mope with a glass of wine,
becoming my worst and wildest dream.
In a bar, I run into a girl I used to know.
You’re different, she laughs, but you’re still strange.
Rejection burns like my dinner spilling into the fire,
out of my reach. I whisper Leave me alone,
and today I stand it. Things have changed
because Onward! Onward! the boys’ memory inspires.