Story of a Failed Mind Control Subject

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 9
Escape

When I was 13, Edna moved us kids to Nebraska. I never really forgave her for that, for a simple reason… she sold my horse. I was promised that I could have the foal born from our horse thanks to a stud exchange for boarding someone’s stud. But of course, as soon as the filly was born, they named her what the other kids wanted to name her.

But I was the one that spent time with her. Her and Chloe, my dog. Chloe and “Apache Queen” as they named my filly, were my only two friends in the world. Quite literally, I must point out. So Chloe and I spent our days and evenings whenever possible in the field or in the barn with ‘Pache. Then one day, I came home, and they were taking my horse. I can’t begin to tell you how much I loved that horse. I trained her, loved her, treasured her… and she was more than a horse to me.

And she was gone, just like that. Gone.

Then we went off to Nebraska so Jacob and Annette could get a good education and Edna didn’t have to take care of the farm anymore. In the meantime, I was asking Edna to have my dog put down. I wanted to go to the vet with her and be with her when she was put down. She had cancer, and she was dying, and she was SUFFERING. I wanted her pain to end, and I wanted her to see me there with her to the very end.

Edna went and had her put down, and then lied straight in my face and told me that my dog, too sick to walk, had broken her chain and run away. I hated her for that. I still can’t own a dog, because of that. I own cats, but never dogs.

I can’t eat ham, either. Remember the pigs that ate my mother? They made them into ham. I can’t stand the stuff. Can’t and couldn’t bring myself to eat it. Probably never will be able to.

Sorry, randomness.

Getting back to the story now, honest!

So I was going to the attached Elementary school at the Academy (Platte Academy or something like that. I guess I can look it up if it’s important). I made a friend there, of sorts. But she was miserable at the Academy, and wanted to go home to… Kansas. I agreed to take her, because I wanted to see my horse. And like any 15 year old (by that time), I figured I’d be able to find her… somehow.

Thus I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of a car while she tried to figure out how to drive it. Only she couldn’t, because it was a diesel. But I knew how to drive a diesel… so now I was not merely an accomplice (little did I realize), but I was the DRIVER! Whoo hoo.

Off we went, and then we ran out of fuel. She insisted we fill it with gas, and so we filled it with gas rather than with diesel… oops. It didn’t get us much further. We parked it in a cornfield, and scrubbed the fingerprints off of it with some wet wipes (which of course, failed utterly, but what did I know?). Then we walked to town and ended up at a church after realizing we had nowhere to go.

The cops drove us back. Then I was moved to the school in town for a few weeks, until the cops came a-callin’. They asked me questions, and the officer finally got me to admit that it wasn’t my idea. He knew it wasn’t already. Then he took me in a separate room away from Edna and asked me why I did it. I found myself telling him about some of the abuses that I’d experienced. I told him how much Edna hated me, and how much the others hated me.

A few days later, I was removed and put into a foster home in Kearney, NE. There, I started to slowly begin to feel normal. I went to Kearney High School. I got a crush on a boy (wow!). He tortured me by pretending to like me when he didn’t. Schmuck. *Shakes fist* It was a typical game, but I handled it with far too adult a manner. I told him I liked him and asked him if he really wanted to be the kind of person who hurts other people the way he was hurting me or not. He left me alone after that– mostly.

It was at this point that I began to realize that I had far too mature an outlook on the world.

It was also at this point that I laid out a grouping of clothes on the floor to see how they went together… should I wear these pants… or these?? My foster family reported this odd behavior (really? that’s odd?) to my social worker. I was removed from their home and sent to a psychiatric lockup facility called Rivendell Psychiatric Center. I was driven there in handcuffs in the back of the social worker’s car. I was humiliated and fought back tears much of the way there.

When I arrived, I was stripped of everything that was mine. I was treated like a criminal. I was put into a room and had to leave the door open so the “hall monitor” could walk past while I slept.

I got my evaluation the next day. The psychiatrist told me afterwards, “Well, you’re a bit neurotic.”

Then, when I started to panic, he told me, “Relax, everyone’s a bit neurotic! You’re fine!”

I went on to tell him a fair amount of what had happened in my life. Not all of it– nothing of the Rituals, nothing of having seen my mother, nothing of the Other Man. Just the basic things, abuse, from family to family… that kind of stuff. This was the first time, though far away from the last time, that I heard, “it’s amazing you’re not an addict or something. Are you SURE you don’t do drugs?”

No. I didn’t do drugs. I wasn’t an addict.

He decided that some drugs would help me, though, since I did seem a bit depressed. Was I depressed, he wanted to know. Yes, I was a bit depressed. Not surprising, was the general response (with a whole lot of talking sprinkled in there), after all I’d been through.

So he started me on Emipramine. I reacted badly, so he gave me cogenten for the side effects. I didn’t like either one… I couldn’t think. I couldn’t understand people. They all looked far away, unreal… I didn’t like being out of control like that. So I quit taking it, as is my legal right. I was punished, put into the “rubber room” for refusing my meds. I was lucky, one of the kids there was strapped down and injected if he refused- he had schizophrenia.

Then the doctor tried me on Stelazine. I reacted even worse to that one. My muscles would clench up, my eyes would roll back and my head would roll back. I had to consciously drag my head back down… I could barely think, couldn’t react, and couldn’t understand speech. Again I quit taking it. Again I was punished– loss of all privileges and back in the rubber room. Again.

In all, I ended up there for four months, because they lost me. My social worker quit, and no one else took up my file for four months.

During that time, they tried to get me to take more medications, but I wouldn’t. Because I’d lost something VERY vital. Before I took their medications, I had an eidetic memory. I could read a book I’d seen just once. I never, before that, forgot anything. Now, sometimes I forget things (not nearly as much as other people). Sometimes I have difficulty thinking, in a way I didn’t before.

I was punished often there. I never got above a low ranking. Most people were there and gone within weeks… I wasn’t. It was misery. I tried so hard, but I just didn’t get it. I was socially stupid. I couldn’t understand their rules; I couldn’t understand their expectations. I refused their drugs. It was surreal, like a whole other place, removed from time and from the rest of the world.

4 months of no contact with the outside world. The only time I actually got to go off-campus was to see the movie Willow. It was like… I dunno… like a step into the sunshine. Still love that movie to this day. It reminds me of stepping out of that dark place (and I don’t mean it wasn’t lighted), and into the sunshine of seeing a movie.

They put a LOT of pressure on me. I didn’t understand what they wanted from me. I couldn’t seem to placate them; no matter how hard I tried– just like Edna. Just like Bill and Ava. And I annoyed them. I pissed them off. Just like… all the rest.

Finally, though, someone remembered I existed. And they took me out and put me in a group home for girls called Whitehall.

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Written by sandit4glp

July 30, 2010 at 1:37 pm

Posted in Chapter 09