Released: Conversations on the Eve of Freedom

by Gypsy-Rose Blanchard

I’d like to think of this endeavor as a rewrite of a misinformed story you’ve been told, like the Taylor’s Version rerecordings. I’m no Taylor Swift, but if this ebook were an album, I’d title it Gypsy’s Version—the only version that should be told—raw, revealing, and in rhythm with the real me.

Grabbing the hand of her mother to cross a busy intersection, a child does not ever think she might be flung in front of a bus.

I didn’t realize there were things in my life that weren’t normal until I got to prison and worked through it all.

I was a lie to myself. I was a healthy woman, not a sick girl. I had a father who loved me instead of the deadbeat one I thought I had. Nothing made sense,

How was it, handling all of that during discovery? I mean they call it discovery for purposes of the crime, but in your case it was literal, discovering your medical abuse for the first time.

I mean, I have definitely lied and I have broken trust and had to practice breaking out of the habit of deception. There are times I omit things to benefit me or make me out to be better than I am. Knowing this and finding the pattern is what makes it possible to undo bad habits.

I don’t recall the Bible saying love is deviant and humiliating, but at the time, I mistook these behaviors as attention, and any attention at all made me feel seen and beautiful.

The spell my mother said she was conjuring with that cow’s tongue had two intentions: to cleanse my sinful soul, and to cast upon me a lifelong curse.

Gypsy shall never find happiness; she shall never be free.

So my mother was not only my sole caretaker, without whom I could die for any reason at any time; she was like a god to me, with omniscient powers. If I wanted to sleep alone once in a while, she would say with indifference, “I hope nothing happens to you tonight.” And then close the bedroom door.

Doctors would ask her what school district was I in, and she’d just say “she’s homeschooled” and they never looked into it. That’s the story of my whole life, right? So I only went through first grade. When I got to prison, they were, like, assuming I went all the way through high school, but I didn’t know anything, except maybe a little addition and subtraction, but I mean multiplication and division . . . I was lost. So they put me in the education program, where I worked for five years to get my high school equivalent diploma.

I didn’t know there were different categories or levels of friendship, that acquaintances play a different role than friends, or what an inner circle was or how to build one.

I learned that friendship isn’t about just leaning on people when you’re down, but having someone equally as happy for you as you are for yourself, maybe even more so.

I would see pictures of her going to prom and graduation, a stark reminder of how close I had come to having a normal existence. It’s hard to not slip into a dark place, looking at her life and mine, me in prison with no teeth or formal education.

While Mia experiments with eye shadows and cream shimmers and lip glosses, a special occasion for me means putting my dentures in. Because my mother numbed my gums to make me drool in order to convince doctors to remove my salivary glands, my teeth decayed. Some teeth fell out on their own while others required extraction. Some of the medications I was unnecessarily taking also had oral side effects, so whatever the actual culprit was, my gummy smile is destined to be a permanent reminder of my abuse.

With every person who marveled over her sacrifices and loyalty to me, she got a high. I see that now, but didn’t have a clue when I was in it.

Melissa: You didn’t say before if you’ve forgiven yourself. Have you? Gypsy: I’m still working on it.

Am I even an actual person, or am I just a character?

What I have seen of The Act is limited to a clip that was played during one of the prime-time award ceremonies. I think it was a scene of Joey on a bed with a cell phone; it was so far removed from my reality, it was hard to be sure what I was looking at. I just remember seeing Joey glammed out on the red carpet, the stark contrast of our lives casting a dark shadow over me.

Kristy said, “Baby, you survived something that a lot of kids would’ve died in. People are not proud of your crime; they are proud that you survived and are making yourself do better in life.”

Every time an interview request comes in or someone asks me for my autograph, I say to myself, You’re a murderer. No high horse here. That stays at the forefront of my mind.

This person just wrote on social media something like, “She doesn’t belong in prison. I wish I could bust her out.” That’s all. And someone reported that post to the prison and that was it. I was literally in my pajamas, at around 10 am, having my morning coffee, watching the Food Network, and they had gloves on and they said, “Miss Blanchard, come with us.” They took me to the guard shack observation cubicle, and said, “Turn around and cuff up,” which means you’re going to the hole. I was like, “Wait. What? What did I do? What did I do?” And they’re like, “We don’t know.”

My medical history was not a red flag. It was a goddamn red banner that reads, HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW?

My public platform will become a podium on which my self-worth and identity will blossom, and I hope that others, especially helpless children, will benefit from the sweet smell of the bloom.

According to the penal system, I don’t qualify for therapy. I’m too “well.” For a person who was always told she wasn’t ever well, this makes me laugh out loud.

Love was a dangling carrot that made me jump higher to please her, even if it meant going against what felt right.

When you’re groomed to believe you’re not worthy of love or even of “like,” you tend to lose yourself to people-pleasing. Narcissists prey on insecure people. Validation and love become mechanisms for control, and later, as with most childhood grooming, validation- and love-seeking patterns learned from childhood seep into adult relationships, and not just romantic ones.

I was familiar with the carrot-and-stick game. My mother loved me when I was sick and took her love back when I wasn’t. In order to be accepted and loved, I needed to meet the expectations of others.

Being a people-pleaser requires you to submit a part of yourself to the person you aim to please. You give up your own needs and desires, and put the person’s interests in front of your own. In return you expect a payment in the form of validation and acceptance. This kind of currency is dangerous because the cost is you.

You don’t have to go beyond your mind to grow and develop self-worth; to form a secure identity. Like a flower, I can bloom where I stand.