The Weight to be Me

One day my brother calls from New York and tells us that he’s registered and paid for all of us to take the “Est training” here in Seattle. I’m like “the what training?”

Two of my brothers, who both live in Manhattan, have both become simultaneously involved in Amway and “Est” since our brother Kim’s death. And they both get hyper passionate talking incessantly about multi-level marketing. 

One brother is a former dancer/actor turned astrologer/tarot card reader; and the other is a one-time master chef – and they both have a propensity for drinking the “pyramid scheme” Kool-Aid. And while “Est” appears as more pyramid scheme-adjacent (on the surface anyway), it is their latest obsession, and they won’t be satisfied until we, and everyone they know, have all been through what they’ve deemed is a “life-altering” training. If you tell two friends, and they tell two friends…I mean, I think you see what I’m getting at.

“Est” is described on Wikipedia like this – “The purpose is to create a space for people to participate in life – to experience true space and freedom.” Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? Over two consecutive weekends, roughly 250 people over four full days are given the opportunity to experience a one-of-a-kind personal breakthrough. It’s the quintessential 70’s pop-psychology trend of the times. Perfectly suited for the me-generation. And the training is not cheap, so we feel obligated to attend since my brother has paid in advance for us all of us to go.

Our attendance is staggered over a few months, with mom going first in September, then dad in November. To be honest, I don’t notice much of a difference in either one of them post-Est. But I’ll give them credit, they’ve both always been more open-minded than most – I just don’t think my middle-aged grieving parents are going to change or snap out of the unbearable pain they’re in by attending two fatiguing weekends ingesting psychobabble and buzz words.

It’s January, and it’s my turn. I’m feeling more unsure and anxious about participating than ever. But my parents think that given what we’ve all been through since Kim’s death, it won’t hurt, and might possibly be helpful. Their concern about my well-being and my future is palpable.

My mom drives me to the first day of training, but on the way, she tells me to listen for an announcement they’re going to make regarding transportation. Because there is limited parking, participants are encouraged to volunteer to give rides to others who live in proximity to each other. I am shocked at what I think she’s suggesting, and I beg her “Please, please, PLEASE don’t make me ask anyone for a ride mom! Please come pick me up!” I get that she doesn’t want to drive me back and forth, but really? She thinks this is a good idea and will be good for me? I feel backed into a corner because she isn’t interested in negotiating.

I am so unsettled with this expectation. Not only for having to ask for a ride among all these adults that I don’t even know, but because when the time comes to find out who is offering to carpool, I get paired up with the only person who lives in Rainier Beach, an older gentleman who volunteers to be my driver for the duration of the training. And while it’s quite gracious of him, and he never does or says anything untoward, the unsettling part, is that both he and the crushed velour interior of his Carmine Red Cadillac, evoke an aroma that I can only describe as an obnoxious mix of Hai-Karate and sweat socks. It’s sensory overload beyond anything I’ve ever known, and while I try to smile and behave politely, the smell keeps me in a constant state of nauseousness.

The entire training is held in the enormous and drafty gymnasium of Seattle University, where there are several rows of chairs set up facing a stage. The days all start promptly at 7 am, and end whenever the instructors deem it’s time for us to go home, which is never confirmed in advance – and every day goes well past midnight. But you’re expected to rise and shine and be back the next morning, on time. No exceptions.

As I do my best to pay attention, I can’t help but check my watch constantly with an intense disappointment that the day is just not moving fast enough. It’s a lot of sitting and listening to boring lectures, with occasional questions from the participants that lead us down and through various paths, depending on what a fellow attendee wants help with. The days are way too long, and all I can hear are instructors regurgitating A LOT of buzz words and catch phrases that not only go over my head, but that I’d feel ridiculous introducing into my teenage vocabulary.

We also engage in several smaller group sessions that I do my best to appear willing to participate in, but so far in my life, the main story or “issue” I have is that my brother Kim’s suicide occurred 6 months prior to my being here. And while it’s always heavy on my heart, I don’t have the slightest idea how to talk about what I’m feeling – to myself, my family, let alone to people I don’t know. I am literally the youngest, and only teenager in the room, and I’m understandably withdrawn and shut down. The grief over losing my brother is still buried under the trauma of how he died.

I’ve been through a lot of family drama over the past few months, and as a result, I have both a melancholy and a maturity that makes me feel different than my peers, but I’m still a kid. A lost kid in a room full of hundreds of adults, wondering what the hell am I doing here? Why do I have to do this? And what do they expect I’m going to get out of this exactly?

The most challenging exercises are the role-plays, where we are seated across from one other person and are guided to communicate using honest and transparent communication, creating trust with our partner. It feels incredibly awkward for me to do this, face to face, eye to eye – it feels so stupid. I can’t imagine that the adult woman I am paired with is any more comfortable working through her stuff with a 16-year-old. It isn’t a good match for either one of us. But we soldier through it.

They always provide us with a continental breakfast and brown-bag lunch on-site. But for dinner they encouraged us to carpool and go out to one of the nearby restaurants with some of our fellow attendees. The first night, I’m invited to join a small group to go to Tai-Tung for some Chinese food. As soon as we get to the restaurant, I excuse myself and use a payphone to call my mom. I plead with her to come and get me. I don’t want to do this, not for one more minute. She calmly tells me to stick with it. That I’ll be fine. Although I’m sobbing, I tell her I’ll suck it up and I go back to the table. 

When we get back from dinner, I’m not sure exactly what is causing the wave of sickness that hits me – probably a combination of the egg rolls and my resistance to being here, but either way, I’m a hot mess. One of the many ground rules is that you can not get up and go to the bathroom except during scheduled periodic breaks. Let’s just say my need to barf isn’t lining up with our designated times to use the bathroom. All of the exits are guarded by facilitators, and when I try to leave, looking green and wildly indicating that I am about to be sick, I’m strongly encouraged to go sit back down – that I’ll find a paper bag under my chair, and if I need to throw up…well, that’s what the bag is for. 

Through tears of defeat and discomfort, I surrender and return to my seat, where I promptly grab my trusty bag and relieve myself in front of everyone – of not just my dinner, but every bit of the pent-up frustration I have been carrying around inside of me for the past 24 hours. And once again, I can look forward to the drive home in the Cadillac with the smells from hell, wondering what I did to deserve this.

The week between my training weekends feels particularly isolating. Other than my parents and brothers who have done it, and who are all between 11-41 years older than me – they cannot relate to how I’m processing the experience as a teenager doing Est. I don’t know how to talk or explain what all of this is about to my peers. I don’t have a single friend who has been in therapy, let alone have a clue what Est even is. And while I have no idea what I’m going to do when this is over, I’m determined to finish and then put it all behind me. 

The last six months of my life have been one over-stimulating set of circumstances after another. Suicide. Disclosures of affairs and incest. Family members cutting each other off with threats of violence should boundaries not be respected. My parents are in a state of deep sorrow, and it’s making my home life feel unbearable. My father can’t stop crying and is drinking again after 10 years dry. And my mother must be shedding her tears in private, because I have only seen her cry one time since my brother’s death, but her sadness is palpable. Spider and Casey are convinced that Est is the thing that will fix us and put us all back together. My pain feels like it’s being outsourced, and I don’t think it’s working for me.

It’s the last night of Est, and everyone is all a buzz about “getting it.” After roughly 60 hours with these people, all I hear is a lot of chatter – “I got it!” “Did you get it?” “Have you got it?” And truthfully, I don’t know if I got “it.” At some point I just acquiesce and say “sure!” to get them to shut up about “it.”

My experience of Est isn’t a complete bust. On the last day, one of the instructors, in mid-monologue about something, stops abruptly and calls me out in front of everyone – “You know what young lady? When you first arrived, you looked like you were about 40 years old. Right now, you look like the sweet 16-year-old that you are. You’re already showing up lighter.” He’s not wrong. I stopped feeling like a care-free teenager the day my brother died.

When “Est” officially ends, I do have a sense of accomplishment for having completed it, despite the many moments of unease. I’m now an unemployed high-school drop-out with the Est training under my belt. Look out world, I’m coming in hot.