Gypsy Rose Blanchard Recalls Being ‘Chained’ To Bed After Shooting Mom With BB Gun In Desperate Attempt To Flee

Gypsy Rose Blanchard is telling her tale.

The mom to be is on the cusp of releasing her new memoir My Time to Stand, one year after being released from prison. In the new book, she’s opening up about what her “last straw” was before conspiring to murder her mother, Claudine “Dee Dee” Blanchard, with then-boyfriend Nicholas Godejohn.

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In an extended excerpt from the new memoir obtained by People on Monday, the 33-year-old reflects on all the lasting trauma her mother inflicted upon her. From “unnecessary surgeries and medications” to the emotional turmoil Dee Dee’s callous words had on her — all stemming from being the victim of Munchausen by proxy. But everything came to a boiling point just one month before Dee Dee’s murder when Gypsy felt her mother “tried to cut [her] throat.” She explains:

“One month before the murder, my mother tried to cut my throat. At least that’s how I saw it. The cause of concern, suddenly, was my voice. ‘It’s so high-pitched; it’s so squeaky,’ my mother complained to my ear, nose and throat specialist. I thought my voice was distinct, like my uncommon name. Or maybe it was a family trait to be proud of. We both knew women on my mother’s side of the family with similar high-pitched voices.”

Gypsy goes on:

“But on the way home, I went on and on like, well … a squeaky wheel. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my voice,’ I said with a whimper, as she pushed me in my portable wheelchair to the parking lot where our car was parked, outside the hospital in downtown Kansas City. ‘You heard the doctor. That voice of yours might mean there’s a problem with your larynx, and that problem could be causing your sleep apnea,’ she said, her word final. No matter my sassing, we were going to go ahead and meet with the pulmonologist the ENT had just recommended, though we both knew very well I didn’t have sleep apnea.”

You see, at that point, Gypsy was 23 years old and no longer under her mom’s spell — she knew something was up and she tried to claw her way out from under Dee Dee’s thumb. So, she took a shot — literally:

“By this point, the entire ruse had been up between us for a while. I was 23 and had tried to run away twice. I’d shot her with a BB gun. She’d chained me to the bed. I was getting older and much harder to control. The older I got, the more physical and harsher her punishments became. She stopped letting me use my custom-made Jazzy HD power wheelchair because she couldn’t control it. I sensed she was becoming more erratic, more desperate.”

How awful! She noted her mother “muzzled my mouth shut at nighttime, with a CPAP machine for my fake sleep apnea,” and even “numbed my mouth with Orajel [a topical treatment], so I’d drool and slur,” which was in turn responsible for her “teeth falling out.” Yikes! She writes:

“By speaking for me and scripting my every interaction, she deprived me of finding my own voice. Now, the way I saw it, my literal voice, squeaky as it might be, could be taken from me. Her final play.”

When Gypsy tried to speak up with the pulmonologist, it came across as nothing more than a muffled whine coming from a child, the book details:

“When the pulmonologist spoke to my mother, it was as if I wasn’t in the room. ‘Why don’t we do an exploratory surgery of her larynx,’ he suggested. ‘A simple operation of the voice box will get to the bottom of any respiratory or vocal abnormalities.’ What I heard was, Let’s cut Gypsy’s throat for no reason at all. I’d had previous surgeries on my neck, and the scars brutalized me. But there was something about this particular surgery that felt more threatening than the others. Even more so than all the other body parts that had been constantly searched, explored, against my will, without my consent. I turned to my mother: ‘That sounds like it hurts. I don’t want it. I don’t want to do it.’ Tears didn’t form; rage did. My mother put her arm around my shoulder and pressed me close, a signal to quiet down that had been programmed long ago. ‘It’s simple, Baby, it’s painless; it will help,’ she said, side-eying the doctor. What I heard was: I don’t care what you want. The doctor assured me there was little risk. He kneeled down to my eye level and spoke slowly to me, like English wasn’t my native language. Who could blame him? He thought I had the mind of a seven-year-old. Except my trapped adult brain suddenly felt the urgency to avoid this surgery at all costs.”

Just truly so, so awful.

My Time to Stand hits bookshelves on Tuesday… Will you be reading? Let us know (below).

[Images via ABC/YouTube]

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