In 10th grade I reached my breaking point and attempted suicide. Three months later I was sent to an all female residential treatment center in Erda, Utah where I spent 16 months trying to find my ground for the first time in my life.

I had therapy four times a week. Individual therapy, family therapy, group therapy, and hot seat therapy. Hot seat therapy was with the 10 girls in my house and the therapists rotated every month (I think?). Every week one girl would be on the “hot seat” where each girl in the house would give a piece of constructive criticism and a praise and then the therapist would do some mumbo jumbo exercise.

There was one hot seat group that stuck out to me and it surprisingly wasn’t the one where I got roasted. The therapist leading the group passed out some papers and a rubber band to each girl. We were first instructed to put the rubber band around the rolled up papers once, without stretching it. She explained that while the rubber band was still holding the papers together, it was loose and not doing it’s job to it’s best ability. Comfort. Next, we wrapped the rubber band around the papers as many times as we could, crushing them. Uncomfort. Lastly, we stretched the rubber band around the papers so that it was stretched enough but not too much, holding the papers the way you would expect a rubber band to do. Doing it’s job at it’s best ability. Uncomfortably comfortable.