The below essay is from
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Casa Magazines (New York)
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Hotel Chelsea (New York)
The Ludlow Hotel (New York)
Architecture Books (Los Angeles)
The morning I left for trauma camp, I’d woken up from a nightmare around 3 a.m., my skin absolutely crawling. As I itched my burning limbs, angry white lumps started to emerge.
Just what I needed before my week away.
I’d been feeling *fine* about going to the Funny Farm. It would be a welcome break. No phone, no kids, no opening of an envelope to attend. No big deal! I needed a rest, TBH. I needed to dry out. I was fresh from fashion week and even fresher out of ideas; this would be just what the doctor ordered. A little reset.
Only the doctor hadn’t ordered it, I had, and in a moment of sheer madness. Why was I doing this again? There’s literally nothing wrong with me. Basically, what had happened was we’d had one of our friends stay with us before Christmas, and she’d been banging on about how her time at this American treatment centre, which specialises in a whole host of sexy mental health issues, had really changed her life. I guess I was feeling bored and restless, and only slightly shame-spiralling about what I’d said and done a couple of nights before. And besides, I thought I might meet some cool, hot, and vaguely interesting people. It might even be fun. Why not?
Obviously, I never expected to follow through with it. Surely I’d book some semi-glam, but semi-degrading job and have to cancel. However, someone, somewhere, had other ideas. So that was that. But it was all going to be fine, I’d breeze through it. I mean, sure, there was some childhood stuff to work through, and some teenage stuff, and some young adult stuff, and some stuff that had arisen since becoming a wife and mother. But no one at the camp needed to know about that if I didn’t want them to. I’d been incredibly vague on my intake form. So why the fuck was I suddenly covered in hives? I was fiiiiiine.
I must have fallen back asleep again because when I woke back up, I wasn’t fine, I was late. A mad dash to the airport and suddenly I was on my way to Nashville. A few white wines, an indie flick and some high-altitude crying later and I was sailing through immigration. That was when I started to panic. What would I say to the immigration officer? I wasn’t there for work, nor was I there for vacation. I didn’t want to tell him I was going to a trauma center because I didn’t want him to arrest me or ship me back to England, so I just mumbled something about a wellness retreat, for unwell people, and he happily hurried me through. That’s when I saw the Irish guy from One Direction. Maybe we were going to the same place? Maybe he would be my trauma buddy? Maybe we’d have an affair? I read that happens a lot when people are emotionally vulnerable. But then I remembered Nashville isn’t just a place where crazy people come to get better, it’s also where they come to make music.
I spent the next two hours listening to country music in the back of a dirty cab, having my ear chewed off by a sweet man named Buck. It was just getting dark when we arrived in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. “This is like a horror movie,” he laughed, looking at the ominous building in front of us. “Oh, Buck, you have no idea,” I replied, itching my once again burning body—the furthest thing from being fine a person could be.
After calling my family for the last time and handing in my electronics, I was shown to my three-person dorm. As someone who shares a bed most nights with at least two people, I don’t mind having company, but this was something else. And then there was the bathroom situation. I like long baths and shitting in private. How is this my life for the next week?
Later that evening, we piled into the auditorium where we were sorted into our groups and forced into bonding activities. And that’s when I realised that basically everyone here voted for Trump.
For the first 48 hours, I kept to myself. I rarely shared in group and I went to bed immediately after the evening activity was over. It was heartening to see everyone stay up late by the fire, playing games, eating snacks, and lol-ing about mental illness (side note: crazy people are so funny), but I honestly couldn’t face it. I was tired, jet-lagged, and homesick. As the only English person, I didn’t really get many of the references or jokes, despite sharing the same language. And my problems weren’t even real problems—right?!
I’d woken that morning feeling weirdly chipper. The cute little coffee shop had reopened and I had finally been able to shit. That day we were recreating scenes from our childhood. I’d gone first and found it surprisingly easy. The listless house, the dead dad, the grief-stricken mother, the inanimate antique objects we were never allowed to touch, and getting told off for talking, wriggling, breathing. That was all easy to perform. It was only when I was asked to play the role of Ben, let’s call him, as a child, in a very specific situation, that finally something clicked. In that moment, I saw not just my younger self, but my future self too, as time and space seemed to collapse. Suddenly, things that I never thought were connected began to make sense. I cried for myself, my parents, and my children. Maybe I hadn’t really been fine all this time. I was just going through the motions.
That night we went out into a field and sat in a special stone circle, where each stone was connected to an animal or spirit. The one I happened to be drawn to symbolised the wolf (my son’s middle name and the tattoo my husband has on his upper arm), which all felt very appropriate and emo. After that, I was fully locked in.
For the rest of my time there, I ate my meals with my group, stayed up chatting in my dorm, and participated in all the non-obligatory activities like playing Cluedo, which Americans call Clue. I cried when my fellow inmates cried, and I even let them hug me.
By the end of my time there, the people in my group knew more about me than most of my friends on the outside. And I learnt more about myself in that short amount of time than I ever thought possible.
Eventually, it was time to leave. I said my goodbyes, collected my electronics, and headed back to the airport with Buck. “So, how was it?” He asked. “Are you glad you went?” I looked at my skin, where my hives were no longer visible, took a deep breath, and replied: “You know what, Buck? I think I am.”
Tish Weinstock is a London-based writer and editor specialising in fashion, beauty, and culture. She is currently a contributing editor at British Vogue, director of System Beauty and author of the Substack “I’m Sick, *Coughs*.” She loves Babybels, vintage dresses, arbitrary belts, and her kids—not necessarily in that order.
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