It is October 1, 2006. At 4:00 this morning, they took you away. In whispered voices on the front lawn, two strangers explained that we would wake you, explain what was happening, then we would be asked to leave. I knew it all already. It was called de-escalating. It would be more likely you would go without a fight if we were not present. I had read it all on the website. The two people before me looked capable and very professional. At 4:00 in the morning they had their wits about them. I did not. I called you by your middle name, could not follow the conversation. I was crumbling inside. I had packed your one bag: 10 pairs of underwear, shoes, sports bra. I forgot the disposable camera. I added socks. I didn’t know what else to do. So I waited for that moment when I would hand your precious life over to someone more capable than I was.

When you found out you were supposed to stay at your dad’s that night, you let me know how pathetic I was as a mother, that I took every opportunity to get rid of you. I made a lame excuse but I have never been a good liar. We set up the intervention to take place at his house because there were no dogs to bark, no brother to wake up. It was killing me inside, knowing that I was setting you up. I felt I was betraying you. But what would have happened had this not been set into motion? What would have become of my beautiful angel? The talented girl who only cared about having fun, even if it meant compromising her schoolwork, her values, her self worth? So we set you up. They were going to take you away and you were going to get your life back together. God, we were counting on that.

I had been calling out for help for awhile. I knew you were drinking, I suspected drugs. I knew the people you were calling friends were lost souls looking for their next party, another high. I spied on you, fretted after you. I got to where I couldn’t believe you because you lied like it was second nature. After thousands of dollars of therapy, we were assured by your therapist that you were not in grave danger, I was assured by my therapist that it was normal and natural for you to “identify with your peers.” Your father was in denial. So, even though my gut told me that I was losing you, the “experts” were advising me to just catch you making your mistakes, then impose “consequences.” How many times do you ground someone until it is meaningless? I was supposed to try to trust you, even though I knew you were lying to me. I was supposed to live my life, take “care of myself” knowing you could be out there putting yourself in danger. Tell me, who teaches therapists this crap? If I never hear the word “consequences” again and all those other pretty little catch-phrases the mental health community uses to make shit palatable, I would be quite pleased.

So I made a call to a friend of a friend. I was welcomed by a total stranger who didn’t charge me $165 an hour to nod knowingly and cite platitudes and know when to tidily wrap up the session at exactly 45 minutes. This stranger, this woman who welcomed me into her home showed me a picture of her daughter at 15. She could have been you except for the brunette hair instead of your blond hair. She was tall, beautiful, and you could tell she had an air of entitlement about her. Her mother told me she had an IQ of 148 – Mensa material. This beautiful girl at the age of 15 was spinning out of control. Her mother asked me about you. Were you drinking? Yes. Doing drugs? I didn’t know. Sexually active? I remembered the condom in your drawer – Hillary’s you said. I said you might be. Then she told me the whole story of her daughter and how she had saved her. How strangers had come in the middle of the night to take her away to a place that could make her see herself and her world differently, how she had gone on to a therapeutic boarding school afterward and now attended college and was going for a medical degree. Before, all she wanted was to party and become a “star”- whatever that means anymore in our twisted society. Now she had direction. Her mom smiled. She said it had been so very difficult – and expensive – but she believed with all her heart that she had saved her daughter. She sat me down at her computer, we looked up the websites and she sent me on my way, after giving me a hug and wishing me luck.

When I finally showed your dad your computer logs and showed him the people you were calling friends, he admitted we had a problem. We tried to impose a housebound probation on you. Silly us, thinking we had any control. That night ended up with police intervention and a trip for you to juvenile detention. At the arraignment, I watched my golden daughter led into the courtroom, shackled and handcuffed, wearing government issue clothing. You were released to us pending your court date almost a full month away. We met with the school director of students. She showed me your school progress reports: two D’s, two C’s, a B in Spanish and an A in dance. Your teachers had remarked you didn’t turn in homework, didn’t pay attention, didn’t study for tests, were not focused. I cringed when the director of students called you “troubled.” My beautiful, talented, incredibly intelligent daughter, the light of my life, was diluted into one awful word – troubled.

And that is when we decided we needed to send you away.

When we came to that awful conclusion, I cried. It is what I do and I know it pisses you off because you see crying as weakness. You hate weakness. You hate your own weakness so you hide behind a fortress of hard-ass attitude. And that makes me cry all the more, knowing you can’t ask for help, knowing you feel you must keep it all hidden away. I can’t protect you and you don’t even admit to yourself that you need protection. I read the things you write in your journal, your songs, and I realize how hurt you are, how we have all let you down. Yet you keep it hidden away safely in that little book where no one can know the real you.

We filled out the forms online, then more forms, arranged for your transportation. Arranged for checks. It was covert. It felt evil. Life had come to feel evil to me. Funny coming from a person who doesn’t even believe in the concepts of the devil and hell. My stomach churned, my head pounded. I saw life go on around me as I was silently falling apart. I pulled out my photograph album. How could this have happened to this smiling little morsel who was so full of life? There were no answers, only the pounding surge of blood through my skull.

So when they took you away at 4:00, I was amazingly calm. There were no tears from me. Only your dad. He saw his baby being led away and the pain gave way. But I had spent all my tears last night as I was going through your room, picking up clothing, your dance shoes, leotards, looking at the photos all over your walls of the friendships that sustained you and let you down. Your beautiful smiling face everywhere reminded me of what I was about to do and I knew I had failed you. I cried as if you had died. Then I reminded myself – no death, only new life. I could only hope and pray. I spoke to my angel last night and asked him if I was doing the right thing. He assured me that what I was doing was not only right but necessary for both you and me.

You are in the North Carolina woods tonight. Hopefully, knowing your bright smile, you have made a friend or two already. You draw people like a magnet. You are a leader and my hero. I know you will go to bed at 10:00 because that is what the itinerary says. And I will sing you the alphabet song every night at 10:00 like I did at bedtime when you were little…A, you’re adorable, B, you’re so beautiful….I hope you will be able to feel my love each night as I hold you in my heart and wish for your healing, so you can be whole and healthy and the exceptional young woman you were meant to be. I love you, my Boo Boo. I love you with all my heart.

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