My 10-month stay at a treatment center for borderline personality disorder
Iarrived at La Europa, a Utah residential treatment center for atrisk teenage girls, at the age of 13. The property, which used to be a bed-and-breakfast mainly serving newlyweds, had been converted three years prior. The pool had been drained, and had since gradually filled with dirt and rainwater. The tennis court was cracked, the fountain in the entryway had long been dry, and the pond in the backyard had more browned leaves in it than fish.
One thing remained the same: the room names, each named after a city in Europe. I moved into Brussels, and joked with the other girls about telling everyone back home that we’d spent the year traveling to Munich, Barcelona and Budapest.
Our treatment program was grounded in art therapy, so nearly every wall was covered in art. Because La Europa was short on money and often didn’t have canvas, most of the paintings were done on cardboard, little images of bananas or a brand logo showing through the paint if you looked in a certain light. Even our teachers were artists; the walls in the entryway were lined with portraits of girls who had completed the program that our art teacher, Jane, had lovingly drawn for them as graduation gifts.
Looking at them was like some kind of hope: yes, you were in a treatment center. Yes, you were likely going to be here for a year. Yes, it would be hard. But also: yes, you’d make it out of here, and like those girls on the wall, you’d be happy.
•••
I spent the days before I was admitted with my parents in a house we rented in the mountains of Park City. We watched movies and my dad made me crepes that were fat like pancakes from the altitude. My mom wrote me a song, recorded it on GarageBand, and sheepishly handed it to me on a CD to listen to when I missed her.
Knowing I would be apart from them for months on end, we soaked up our time together as if we were a normal family on a regular vacation. All the struggles I’d been experiencing that led to our decision to admit me to La Europa were, just for a moment, not so loud.
Though only a few months prior, it was almost as if my parents hadn’t brought me to the emergency room after they found out I’d been cutting myself; as if I hadn’t explained to the doctor evaluating me that I wanted to die; as if I hadn’t overheard that doctor whisper “we think your daughter may be suffering from borderline personality disorder” to my parents in a hushed tone. I could pretend that night in the emergency room didn’t result in a weeklong stay as an inpatient at a psychiatric ward, pretend that the nearly six weeks I spent as an outpatient at the same ward were just a bad dream.
I didn’t need to replay the words “borderline personality disorder”in my mind, match my behaviors to the illness’s symptoms like a game I was a little too good at playing. I had the unclear sense of self, the pervasive feeling of emptiness, the extreme fear of being abandoned, the unstable relationships, the tumultuous emotions that shifted without warning. Borderline personality disorder isn’t typically diagnosed under the age of 18, but even with only a speculated diagnosis, I was a textbook case.
Yet for those few days in Park City, none of it seemed to matter.
When the time finally came for me to check in, my parents and I made the 45-minute drive to La Europa. As we pulled into the driveway, my mom turned around from the front seat.
“Don’t judge it on the first few days, Court. They follow you around for a while, but it’ll get better. You’ll love it.” Her voice was warm.
“I know.” I replied.
I didn’t, but it was too late to turn back.
•••
After I had been strip-searched, had my belongings checked in, and said goodbye to my parents, I understood what my mom was talking about in the car. I was told that for the first week of my stay I’d be on what was called “safety”.
On safety you were required to be within 5ft of a staff – always “staff ”, never “staff member” – at all times. You had to eat 100% of your food, wait 30 minutes to go to the bathroom after meals, and count out loud as you used the bathroom to ensure you weren’t throwing up your meal or trying to end your life.
A staff was required to watch you shower, you weren’t allowed to wear shoes, and when the girls who were on the levels above safety left for events off campus, you were required to stay. I was told that if after a week I hadn’t hurt myself or tried to run away, I’d be moved off safety to level one of the program. Then I’d be allowed to start showering alone, wearing shoes, and going off campus, though I’d still have to be in a staff’s line of sight at all times and count in the bathroom. Eventually, I’d work my way to level six, gaining privileges as I went, and then I’d be able to graduate and go home.
It took me a week to fully comprehend the new space I was in. It seemed everything at La Europa was peculiarly similar to the way it was everywhere else. There were friend groups and the worry of where to sit at meals. Girls played Mario Kart during free time and took guitar and dance lessons on Sundays. Summer school was a breeze, and on my first day in science class we made baked Alaska. In math class we watched episodes of Numbers and discussed the formulas they used to solve crimes.
Though we were all admitted because we were suffering from depression and trauma, and the myriad of ways they manifest, it seemed everyone was, for the most part, happy. There was a lot of smiling and laughter in a way you wouldn’t anticipate at a treatment center. Aside from the two hours a day we spent in group therapy, the three hours a week we spent in individual therapy, and our nightly “community” sessions where we spoke about our goals and what we were struggling with, we were almost normal teenagers. Like normality was within reach.
If I participated in a sort of intentional amnesia, I could almost forget about my near constant urge to selfharm; the weight of my depression and anxiety; the strange, empty feeling that engulfed me from the inside. I could pretend the week I had spent as an inpatient at a psychiatric ward, and the nearly six weeks of outpatient care that followed that stay, prior to attending La Europa hadn’t happened at all.
If I focused hard enough on playing Mario Kartor learning to play guitar,there would be no suspected diagnosis, no need for treatment, no sadness at all.
•••
Becca showed up a week into what would become my 10-month stay. She looked down a lot and was shy in a way that was almost painful, with a voice she purposely made a few octaves higher so she sounded like a child.
When Becca moved into Brussels with my roommate, Crystal, and me, we were happy to have someone so sweet living with us. But our happiness quickly turned to frustration after we spent a few nights with her.
At night, whatever had brought Becca to La Europa came out with a vengeance. She kicked and screamed in her sleep, thrashing beneath her royal purple duvet cover. The night staff that monitored us every 15 minutes would wake her, and she’d have a few minutes of peace before succumbing to her night terrors again. Each morning, the staff would take her to the laundry room and she’d wash her sheets without any explanation.
For the first few days, Crystal and I didn’t understand, until our room began to reek of urine and a staff set up two fans to constantly try to air out the smell because the windows were permanently locked.
It was customary, when you arrived at La Europa, to share what brought you there during your first night’s community meeting. Becca refused to talk for her first three nights, but on the fourth night she spoke up.
She told us that she’d been raped daily by the men in her family since she was seven, and that when she was placed in foster care she began to be abused again. She bounced from foster home to foster home until she finally found a loving family that adopted her and sent her to La Europa to make sense of her experiences, and heal. No one knew what to say; I think Becca’s trauma was too deep for any of us to process.
We looked down and picked at our cuticles and thanked her for sharing, because it was all we could think to do. As soon as she spoke, I felt awful for having been upset about the smell that permeated our room. I was glad I hadn’t asked her why she was washing her sheets.
•••
Everything at La Europa was routine: Wednesday was breakfast for lunch, Monday dessert night, Sunday night was pizza. We were allowed to shave on Wednesdays and Sundays, supervised by a staff, only with an electric razor, during “hygiene”, which was what we called getting ready, and it was scheduled into our day.
Every third Friday we went to the Salt Lake City Public Library, which had four stories and huge glass elevators that some girls, including me, were too afraid to ride. The other Fridays we spent volunteering at the soup kitchen or the animal shelter.
At every night’s community, we each, including staff, went around to