Sometimes mothers kick their daughters' boyfriends out in the middle of winter.

Patricia, my birth mother, permitted Cuddles to stay with us for perhaps a week before she expelled him from the house during the depths of winter. He refused to leave town, unwilling to distance himself from me, finding temporary lodgings here and there. One afternoon when he visited, he revealed to me the frostbite developing on one of his toes. I did the only thing I could conceive to help him — I terminated our relationship. I told him I no longer wished to be with him so that he might attend to his own welfare. The strategy proved effective; he departed town, and I found myself once again alone with her. It was then that she conceived the notion that we ought to participate in some manner of mother-daughter healing ceremony.

Nothing whatsoever regarding this ceremony was explained to me, save that we would visit a family of her acquaintance who would perform certain rituals meant to foster greater understanding between us. Bear in mind, I was a teenager and legally a minor during these events. This is what we call "drugging someone without consent" in the modern world. But back then, it was just Tuesday. A minor being doped by her own mother. Nothing to see here.

We arrived in the early evening. In the center of the structure stood a fire pit. We were instructed to sit on the ground beside the pit, and I was handed a bucket. Having no conception of the bucket's purpose, I inquired about it, to which they replied that all would be explained momentarily. They requested that I gaze into the fire and endeavor to quiet my mind before the ceremony commenced. They then served me tea which, while not unpleasant to taste, they insisted I consume entirely before serving me more.

It was then they placed arrowheads into the fire with tongs and began their songs around the flames. The stone tips transformed in the heat—first black against the embers, then gradually taking on an angry crimson glow, as if absorbing the fire's rage. Their edges, once simply sharp, now seemed to throb with malevolent intent. Most everything beyond this point was conducted not in English but in Navajo. The syllables cutting through the air like those same heated arrowheads would soon cut through my skin. Several individuals entered the room, dancing and chanting in a circle around the fire, and I began to perceive that my reality was shifting. I felt as though I were entering a dream while remaining awake. The dancing and chanting drove me inward, leaving me profoundly confused. I realized then that the tea had been adulterated and I was embarking on some unknown journey for an indeterminate duration. I never utilized the buckets, which I presumed were provided for vomit, but there were moments when I dissociated entirely from reality.

Following the dancing and chanting, they directed me to lie down on the ground. That was when they extracted the arrowheads from the fire and, using tongs, applied them to various parts of my body. I was informed that the areas where I was burned were those requiring healing. My shoulders burned, and they told me that was because I was carrying the weight of the world on them, so they directed their chants at my armpits. On certain portions of my body, presumably those dampened by perspiration, nothing occurred; on others, I experienced immediate, searing pain and blisters formed where the arrowheads touched me. They then performed various chants and dances around the burned spots. I determined it was wisest simply to surrender to the entire affair rather than resist it. It seemed that resistance only intensified my fear and induced paranoia, so I elected simply to endure it.

At the ceremony's conclusion, they informed my mother and me that we were free to depart. It was then that I finally spoke up and pointed out what was painfully evident to me but apparently to no one else: that my mother was in no condition to drive, and someone who had not partaken of the tea must convey us home. They appeared perplexed by this observation; it had not occurred to them that one cannot simply release individuals intoxicated by drugs to their vehicle and send them on their way. Consequently, someone drove my mother's truck while they followed us home and deposited us there.

For the remainder of the night, I stared at a piece of paper on which I had written "reality" repeatedly to remind myself whenever I returned to consciousness. I dissociated several times, finding myself in Egypt and then as an elderly grandmother who possessed the skill of knitting. I was knitting socks and scarves for someone, and I had the distinct impression this person was myself, either in the future or the past. I was a contented old woman, and I observed myself as if in a dream. In Egypt, the experience concerned less my identity as an individual and more the locale itself. I surmised at the time that this might signify that perhaps, someday, I would travel to Egypt, or that something Egyptian lay in my future.

Reality. Reality. Reality.

The room came in and out of focus.

Reality. Reality. Reality.

Eventually, my mother decided she desired a candy bar and requested that I accompany her to the store. As we walked, she informed me that confections are particularly enjoyable when one is high. It was then that I realized my mother had experience with drugs—a fact previously unknown and unclear to me. She was so astonished by my naïveté regarding the experience that she expressed pride in my evident abstention from drug use. Indeed, I had no interest in them whatsoever, despite their prevalence at my school and the nearby university campus.

The night continued, and the following day, we heard a knock at the door. By this point, I had been awake for approximately twenty-four hours. I had arranged to meet my friends, and when I failed to appear, they thought to come and collect me. My mother answered the door and announced that we were "high," shooing them away. One can imagine how rapidly this information circulated through my social circle; they all presumed my mother must be remarkably progressive for such an occurrence, but they remained ignorant of the fact that she had administered peyote to me without my consent or comprehension of the situation.

I remain uncertain what form of healing was intended to result from this ceremony, but it unfortunately produced the opposite effect from what she had hoped to achieve.

The trust you give ends up burning you.

With hot arrowheads. Literally.

Rather than healing, my distrust of her deepened, and I found myself unable to entrust her with my safety. It was evident that my mother was willing to drug me—what else might she be willing to do? I had not consented to have my mind so scrambled, and at such a young age, I cannot be certain what impact such an experience might have on one's brain.

After this ceremony failed to yield the desired results, our conflicts resumed, and she began ejecting me from the house again. Alternatively, I would run away, as the conditions at home were so intolerable. To clarify what I mean by "intolerable," I should note that my mother rarely raised her voice to me and seldom struck me. Occasionally, she would hurl an object at me if I became highly emotional, but generally, after I attained her height, she knew better than to hit me. She attempted it once; I retaliated, and that was the end of that. Instead, she would berate me with the still calmness of a placid lake, and she largely abandoned me. She was seldom present, and during her absence, life was peaceful. I was content because I could establish my own rules and set my own schedule, but when she was present, she was demanding, assigning me tasks and berating me incessantly. There never appeared to be an end to her verbal cruelty, and she never inquired about my life, my daily activities, or my schoolwork. She demonstrated absolutely no interest in my existence, my friendships, or my concerns. I was expected to listen to her trials and tribulations at the university or in her employment and to ensure the house was clean upon her return. Thus, I was essentially a roommate passing like a ship in the night, subject to belittlement if I failed to clean the apartment to her standards.

I was apprehended by the police so frequently that eventually they assigned me a caseworker at the juvenile hall. She conducted home visits to speak with my mother, and they devised a plan whereby I would pay rent to earn my mother's respect for me and my personal space. She often entered my room, and her method of cleaning was to gather everything from the floor and discard it without consultation. I frequently discovered my clothing or treasured possessions in the trash; this occurred so regularly that upon returning from school, my first action was to inspect the garbage for my belongings before entering the house. Imagine the sensation that nothing you possess truly belongs to you and that nothing you value will remain in your possession. Welcome to the karmic credit card of childhood trauma. Spend now, pay forever. Interest compounds daily.

We agreed that I would pay $200 monthly. The minimum wage was $3.15 per hour. Let me repeat that. Three dollars and fifteen cents. Per. Fucking. Hour. This meant I needed to work approximately 64 hours in addition to my demanding full-time high school schedule, which ran from 8:00 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., excluding travel time. This is how I measured out my life. In hours worked. In dollars earned. In freedoms forfeited. One can calculate how little free time remained for me to see friends or maintain any semblance of a life beyond these two obligations. I worked from 5:00 p.m. until 9:30 p.m. and at least one weekend day, sometimes two. This arrangement provided me with extra spending money and funds for food, as my mother often neglected to feed me, and I consumed most of my meals at work.

Despite this arrangement, my mother evicted me again, and once more I was apprehended by Officer Pratt. This final time, however, was different. He intercepted me while riding his bicycle and escorted me to the downtown police station, where he summoned a patrol car. When we approached the vehicle, he indicated that I could sit in the front seat. On previous occasions when I had been in a police car, I was required to sit in the back, so it was notable that Officer Pratt treated me with what felt, in that moment, like dignity. He then drove to Dairy Queen, parked outside, and asked if I desired anything—another unusual departure from the standard procedure. I obtained some variety of sundae, and he procured something for himself, and we sat in the front of the car, largely in silence, consuming our frozen confections. He engaged in minimal casual conversation with me before driving to the juvenile hall, where he informed me that I would not be changing into the customary jumpsuit and that matters would proceed somewhat differently.

He brought me into a small courtroom and inquired whether I had ever sat at a judge's bench before, to which I replied in the negative. He then motioned for me to ascend and sit there while he fetched me some dinner. He returned with a substantial plate of spaghetti and instructed me to eat my fill. I recall it being uncommonly delicious.

He returned one final time and said to me:

"Cyan, you are going to be all right, all right? A public defender will come in and speak with you. She will manage the situation from here. Just know, you are going to be ok."

I had no conception of what awaited me. I smiled, nodded at him, and expressed gratitude for the meal.

Moments later, a woman entered, guided me down from the bench, and took my plate. She introduced herself. I do not recall her name, so let us call her Jenny. Jenny said, "I am your public defender. Shortly, the judge will enter and take the seat you just occupied." She gestured toward the bench. "When he enters, and you are directed to rise, you must stand. When he addresses you, saying your name or asking a question, you respond with 'yes' or 'no, Your Honor.' Answer all his questions truthfully, and if there is anything you do not understand, I will explain it to you. Understood?"

I nodded. In truth, I did not understand. I had no idea what was transpiring, yet thus far, everyone behaved as though I were privy to the situation. Additionally, I failed to comprehend why I required someone to defend me from the public.

My mother entered and was seated on the opposite side of the room, where she sat alone, staring straight ahead. She made no eye contact with me whatsoever. I observed her face, hoping she would look at me, but she never did. She stared, emotionless, directly forward.

The judge entered, and we were all instructed to rise and then sit. After certain legal formalities were stated and recorded, the judge addressed me.

"Cyan Callihan, is there anything in this book"—he held up a volume; I presume a law book or perhaps a Bible, I remain uncertain—"that states you are above the law?"

"No, I do not believe so, Your Honor." I decided not to question the nature of the book. Were this a school setting, I would have requested to examine it, but in this context, I deemed it prudent to remain silent.

"Do you wish to spend your life residing in a cardboard box?"

"No, Your Honor. My ambitions extend considerably beyond that... sir."

He appeared both satisfied and puzzled by my response. He then turned his gaze to my mother.

"Patricia Harper, do you want this child anymore?"

"No, Your Honor."

Three words. Four syllables. One pause. Eleven letters. The sound of maternal love being switched off like a dinky table lamp.

Click.

He stared at her for what seemed like five minutes but was probably only a full minute. It felt like an eternity. He then looked at me and did the same. He summoned my counsel and conversed with her in hushed tones for several more minutes before pronouncing:

"Cyan Callihan, by the power vested in me, I am making you a ward of the state. Your new guardians will greet you after this court session concludes, but you will be assigned a probation officer who will explain the practical aspects of this arrangement. Good luck."

Good luck, indeed.