The Shittiest Camp Ever

The Shittiest Camp Ever

Dad, remember when I used to complain about summer camp? The bunk beds were squeaky, the counselors moody, and I always came home covered in mosquito bites. I thought that was the worst it could get.

Turns out, I was wrong. This is the shittiest camp ever. There are no cabins, no counselors, no crafts. Just fear. Endless fear. It’s a camp designed by the patriarchy, and its curriculum is simple: break women, erase women, kill women — all while pretending it’s not happening.

It’s been the most terrifying experience of my life. There were days I thought my body would give out, nights I prayed for an escape that never came. I begged the universe for someone to notice, someone to come pick me up early like a homesick kid. “Hey Dad, this place sucks, come get me.” But the gate never opened. The counselors weren’t lazy teenagers — they were predators with clipboards. The activities weren’t hiking or archery — they were survival, dissociation, endurance.

And here’s the worst part: somewhere in all this horror, I stopped being terrified. Not because it wasn’t scary — it was — but because terror eventually burns out. My lifelong anxiety disorder? Gone. Terror like this is a cure, not a treatment. A grotesque miracle. When you’ve been through hell, the buzzing panic of daily life feels like a mosquito compared to the dragon that tried to eat you.

But let me be clear: I don’t romanticize this. It didn’t make me stronger — I was already strong. What it did was expose the rotten logic of patriarchy: it manufactures horror and then shrugs when women are crushed under it. It calls erasure “normal,” violence “accidental,” and silence “safety.”

So yeah, Dad. This is the shittiest camp ever. I didn’t sign up for it, I don’t recommend it, and if anyone tries to send their daughter here, I’ll be the first to burn the place down.