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Shouting at the Sky
Troubled Teens and the Promise of the Wild
By Gary Ferguson
Susan, still on mouse and therefore not going on solo, isn't doing well. She seems to be shrinking, closing in on herself, as if whatever breath of confidence there is that inspires people to normal size was leaking away. The problem is at its worst whenever she's by herself, and being alone is what the initial period of this program -- the two-day "mouse" phase -- is all about; trying to figure out why you're here, how you might plug yourself in. All the girls say that being a mouse is the toughest part of the entire experience -- sitting on the outside looking in, stewing in your own stuff, wondering over and over again how you ended up here. Susan's alone time is probably even more intense with the rest of the group out on solos, since she can't distract herself by eavesdropping on other conversations, can't lose herself in other lives.
In the end, Josh and the rest of the staff don't press the alone-time part of being a mouse all that hard with Susan, figuring that a time-out is far more critical for someone full of rage than for someone full of nothing. When we talk I notice the slightest glint in her eye, as if conversation meant belonging, and in the belonging, at least a hint of hope. As soon as I leave, though, she crumples again. Heading off with Elizabeth to check on solo sites, I look over my shoulder to see she's crawled back under her wool blanket, trying to sleep away the world.
The staff gathers early in the evening for a dinner of potato soup. Before we eat, Josh and Jonathan, Megan and Elizabeth talk it over and decide to get Susan out of her bag, bring her over to hang out with us for a while. This time she's reluctant, as if she doesn't want to lose the comfort of being unconscious; finally she sits up, wipes the hair out of her face, puts on her glasses, grabs her blanket, and shuffles over and sits down next to the cook fire. Jonathan asks her about the time she spent in the hospital, in the suicide ward, where she was until just a few days ago. "I know all the rules by heart," she says, sounding grateful for the chance to tell her story. "See, they give you this little yellow book, the rules are all in there. Like no sharps," she says, falling fast into the lingo, "nothing you could hurt yourself with. When my mom brought me flowers, she had to put them in a plastic Coke bottle." She tells us how she couldn't go outside, that in fact the only hint of the outside was a screened-in patio in the adult ward, built for smokers. "I didn't spend much time there; it just made me depressed that I couldn't go out. Especially on nice days."
