DISCLAIMER: The events depicted in this story are half true and half not. Sort of. By that I mean, I wrote this story under the influence of magic mushroom chocolate bars. This is the only way I could tell this story without reliving the trauma in a way that causes me more pain.
That being said, the confession induced here is very much a true story. Real names are used to identify the perpetrators of crimes against children and teenagers. Please investigate all persons and organizations named to protect children and teenagers from further abuse.
The real Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian did not approve this message… yet.
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Bright and early Friday morning, Betsey’s phone goes off. The text message is from Paris Hilton, her BFF. Betsey has received many texts like this before, but there’s something different about this one. This one is not automated. This one is from Paris herself.
Paris: Hey BFF! I read your blog last night! I’m sending over a special surprise just for you.
Right at that moment, the doorbell rings. Betsey gets up to go answer the door. When she opens it up, she finds a bright pink box wrapped up in a bow. It’s fair to say Betsey was expecting this box. She sets it aside and goes about her day.
The camera shows her doing her usual morning routine, going to teach yoga, setting some appointments, and video chatting with her boyfriend in India. Sometime around noon, Betsey decides it is time to open the box.
Inside the box, there is a stack of files and a few DVDs. As Betsey is sorting through, the phone goes off again.
Paris: Did you get my surprise yet?
Betsey picks up the phone and texts back.
Betsey: Yes, I got the box. I opened it.
Paris: Do you recognize any of it?
Betsey: Yes. But I don’t know why.
Paris: Take your next dose, watch these documentaries, and tell me how you feel.
Betsey takes her next dose of mushrooms and watches the first documentary. It is called Hell Camp. She promptly melts down into the floor. When she looks up again, Paris Hilton is standing over her wearing glasses and a white lab coat.
Paris: Do you recognize this story?
Betsey: Yes.
Paris: Did you go to a camp like this one?
Betsey: No, but I knew many others who did. So many others. There were so many others. They came for them when I was staying in the hospital. They took them away in the night. They were screaming. I couldn’t help them. They were screaming my name for me to help them and I couldn’t. They were my friends. They took them away. I never saw them again.
Paris: Why were you staying in the hospital?
Betsey: I tried to kill myself. I overdosed. I was failing school. I was running around with some creepy older guy. I was drinking to excess. My parents didn’t know what to do. I was out of control. I overdosed and went to the emergency room. Then they took me to the hospital.
Paris: What was the name of the hospital?
Betsey: I can’t say it here. I can’t use real names on my blog.
Paris: Tell us real names. We need to know. We can help you. Tell us real names.
Betsey: I can’t.
Paris nods understandingly.
Paris: Could you tell your best friend?
Betsey: Yes.
Suddenly, another person appears in glasses and a white lab coat.
Betsey: Oh my fucking god, it’s Kim Kardashian!
Kim: That’s right!
Betsey: oh my god, I love you. I love your family. I love your show. Your show has gotten me through so many hard times. My favourite thing to do is get a big takeout salad, put on your show, and write about it on reddit.
Kim: Aww, thank you. I know you too. I read your posts on Reddit. I used my private investigator skills to track you down so I could meet you. That’s how I found your blog. It seems like you’re really struggling right now.
Betsey: Yes. This is hard for me.
Kim: Paris and I are here to help you. You can help save your friends too. You just need to tell us the names of the people who hurt you. Can you do that?
Betsey: Yes.
Kim: Okay. Tell us the name of the hospital you were in.
Betsey: Dominion Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia.
Paris: Did they hurt you there?
Betsey: Yes, but not as bad as others. I was quiet. I was good. My dad is a lawyer. He told me to keep my mouth shut and they wouldn’t hurt me. They didn’t put me into solitary confinement like they did the others. I was good.
Paris: It’s okay. You don’t have to relive it all here. We know. We understand. Tell us the name of the wilderness program they sent your friends to.
Betsey: Aldridge Academy in West Virginia.
Paris: Did your friends tell you stories about that place?
Betsey: Yes. They were horrible. They told me to be good so I wouldn’t have to go there. I was good. I didn’t have to go there. I was so scared. Oh my god, I was so scared. I was terrified.
Paris: Was it like the hell camp?
Betsey: Yes. I had another friend too. He went to one of those boarding schools in Costa Rica. I don’t remember what it was called. I just know he was in Costa Rica.
Paris: Have you watched the boarding school one yet?
Betsey: No. But I already know… someone else went to one. It was in Vermont. I think. I don’t remember what it was called. it was up north. I remember that.
Paris: Was it Elan School? Ivy Ridge Academy? Do those names ring a bell?
Betsey: Yes. Both. I knew people who went there. Both. I never saw them again.
Paris: Did you go to a special school too?
Betsey: Yes, but they were good to me there. They were good people. I know they were good people.
Paris nods understandingly.
Paris: You know that may not be true of others.
Betsey: Yes. It was GW Community School. Springfield, VA.
Paris: Thank you. We’ll find out the truth. You don’t have to dig into your past if you don’t want to. We are here for you. We can help you. You’re helping so many other people right now. Tell us… are there any other schools you heard bad stories about?
Betsey: Lake Accotink Academy? I think? In Burke or Fairfax, Virginia. There was another one too. I can’t remember the name. Check all the alternative schools in the area. There was another place too. Graton Manor? Gratin, Grayton, something like that. That was where the really bad kids got sent. It was a long-term place. It’s in Virginia.
Paris: Thank you. Now tell us the names of your doctors. The ones who put you on the meds.
Betsey: The first one was Leslie Sorensen. They took me to her when I was in third grade. They put me on an anti-depressant. It was an early one. It wasn’t Zoloft. It was before that. Prozac? Is that it?
Paris: What were those appointments like?
Betsey: I never understood why I had to go there. They kept telling me something was wrong with me, but all I ever did was draw picture and play in the sandbox. I don’t understand why I had to go there. It went on for years. And years. And years. They put me on Ritalin, then Adderall, then took it away again. Replaced it with Celexa. Told me I had some new illness. Always some new diagnosis. Always some new pill. When I was in the hospital, they told me I was bipolar. They put me on this horrible drug cocktail. I would fall asleep in class. One day I just fell right out of my seat in the middle of math class. I couldn’t be revived. When I did wake up, they told me I was faking it for attention. I wasn’t. Those pills were so strong. Geodon. Lithium. Lamictal. Seroquel. Abilify. I started hiding them so I wouldn’t fall asleep. I got in so much trouble when my mom found them. Oh my god, she exploded on me. She forced them down my throat. It was horrible. But I couldn’t take them anymore. I just couldn’t. They were killing my brain. I stopped taking them in college. When I was 21, a doctor in South Dakota told me I didn’t have to take them anymore. He told me I wasn’t bipolar. Instead, he said I had some “personality disorder” because of the way I dress. Because, you know, I’m obviously only dressing up because I desperately want attention from men. I told him to go fuck himself. It’s not my fault he’s from bumfuck nowhere and has never been to Paris and doesn’t know what fashion is. I’m from Washington, D.C., okay? I was raised to present myself a certain way in public. I’m not wearing a mini skirt because I have a personality disorder and want attention from men. That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my goddamn life. It’s called FASHION! LOOK IT UP! Ugh! What a dumb fucking sexist moron. The only person here who has a personality disorder is that dumb fucking man. Dr. Dracy at the fucking Yankton prison and state hospital complex, which is where they fucking sent me because that was the only place in the state that gave out the kind of medicine I was on! Because it was usually reserved for criminals with ACTUAL mental disorders, not spoiled, rich teenaged girls with “attitude problems.” Ridiculous.
Kim: I hear that. I really do.
Paris: Same.
Betsey: *starts crying again* This is why you’re the only people who understand me.
Paris: We do. We really do.
Betsey: Wow, I can’t believe you’re really here visiting me. I feel so lucky right now.
Kim: We’re not, but the sentiment is still sweet.
They all go in for the group hug.
Paris: How are you feeling right now.
Betsey: So much better. Oh my god. It’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
Paris: Anything else to say?
Betsey: Yes. The name of the doctor who was prescribing these medicines to a child was Laurel Northrup in Bethesda, Maryland. She went to Harvard. Look it up. And the name of the second shrink I went to. Her name was Jeanine Carlson in Falls Church, VA. She drove a purple BMW and lived in a brand new townhouse she custom built with the money she made charging the parents of people like me.
Paris: Thank you.
Kim: You are so strong for doing this. Really, you are. Thank you for putting this information out there. We know how hard it was for you.
Betsey: I just want to help others. I really do. I don’t have the power right now. But you do. That’s why I’m putting this out there in the hope that you get this message. I know you will. I know it.
Paris: I promise you that I will do everything in my power to help you and your friends. There are so many of us out there. So many survivors. You’re not alone.
Betsey: I am not alone. I am a survivor of the Troubled Teen Industry. I am a survivor of Big Pharma. Whatever this industry is, however big it is, there are so many of us out there. I am one. I have survived. And I am finally ready to tell my story.
The screen goes black.
The End