Treatment Abuse, Behavior Modification, Thought Reform > Daytop Village
DAYTOP Did Me Great Harm in the Long Run
SEKTO:
Please chant and be happy! I have been nibbling the mail-order seeds.
http://www.venganza.org/
Inculcated:
Giggles!
…and whew. SEKTO, you had your accountabilibuddy a little worried.
That’s a most complex carbohydrate.
While I respect the rights of the Pastafarian to their beliefs,
I’m saddened that they’re going to hell for their inability to either disprove or acknowledge Bertrand Russell’s Tea pot.
I was on the precipice of sleep when a vision of the invisible pink unicorn came to me.
She told me I would have to take one of Virgil’s guided tours of hell (passage back not guaranteed), and give the dragon in Sagan’s garage a name before I could ever hope to ascend from the unbearable “likeness” of being.
She cautioned, “There’s enough psilocybin in this to get a Pegasus through the Mitote and back before dawn. So, just a nibble”. Then she used my voice to quote Ingrid Berman from Gaslight. “Then, I don’t know what I do anymore! Dream. Dream.Dream...”
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream- Edgar Allen Poe
Quoth the raven,” nevermore”
SEKTO:
Inculcated, I hope you're not starting to imagine things again...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?gl=GB&hl=e ... jDcvlWUk9E
Inculcated:
SEKTO:
Of course, I’m imagining things. The principle of indeterminacy teaches us that it’s what keeps gravitas from getting us down. (winks)
Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ttv5dyvtF4o
Inculcated:
(WARNING the following is a mercilessly emotive blog) :suicide:
inculcation:
I’ve been in the program for what seems to be a long time to me.Ultimately,my time served within Daytop will span over two years.
14 now.The director smiles at one of my acerbic quips and tells me that I am something else. I’m flattered. I’m someone else. This is what I’ve become.
I’ve become one of them. When I first arrived my blushes were reserved for the excruciating embarrassment of being called upon to read the philosophy aloud in morning meeting. I had stared down at the paper in my hands, unable to look up and see myself being seen.
I can’t see myself anymore. I see what they see. I am in a way I can’t grasp as invisible behind this façade as I had silently willed myself to become during my first morning meeting.
I am a coordinator. I take my status very seriously. I carry my clipboard everywhere. My hypocrisy goes with me. I actually believe I am showing love most ardently when I do so at the top of my lungs.I hold no reservations about holding even counselors accountable for missteps. They are expected to be the embodiment of the” refuge” I’ve been promised.
Secretly, I kiss the boy who looks like Keifer Sutherland. This is a titillating rebellion. Moments afterward, I will fear and resent the possibility that he may out me by dropping his guilt. I resume my composure by spurning his attentions as if nothing happened. Later in the week, I get his ass busted down to Housekeeping, (my crew) so I can keep a watchful eye on him.
I’m not all bad. I’m the best person to have in charge of the new members and the ones that” need help working their program”. I am a bully’s bully and dropping a slip on one of my crew comes with the threat my feedback.
I’m much smaller than most of my peers, but intimidating. I have the advantage of being raised in a way that prepared me for the arena. In encounter groups, the kids that are into conflict lean into the heat while I clear my throat. Others stare at the floor the way I once did.
The Tuesday following getting my tonsils taken out, a record number of slips are dropped on me. I may have found my voice in encounter groups, but my peers decide it’s time they had their say.
Dissonance, I’m living it. I am hurt by the feedback and can’t tolerate the truths. I’m angry and self righteous and tenaciously clinging to my image conscious awareness of not seeming to image.
A new staff member takes an interest in me. I tried to be oblivious to the intent. Later, when Holly comes across the parking lot and expects me to be flattered that he “likes” me, I’m grossed out. “He’s like twenty something"(which seems ancient to me at the time. I had seen Logan’s run and thought the outfits were cool and didn’t see the big problem about the whole ascension thing). He’s on the fringe, but he takes us to the lake and organizes a car wash so we can go to six flags. This nice guy creeps me out. I actually didn’t believe the rumors that he was into pot. I try to ignore him.
The tryciclics I’m being prescribed (again) kick in. Suddenly, I can be counted on for little more than sitting in the corner with my hair drawn over my face and pulling at my split ends. I am endlessly told that I am slipping, and I truly ache from the conflict of having disappointed them.
Each night I leave the daycare facility to go home to a hell I never did trust a Daytop staffer enough to try to describe. They were ignorant of all of that they were reinforcing with their punitive love. The trauma attributed as the cause of my "behavioral issues" was treated so brutally so often, that I would rather die than “dare to share” anything more with them.
I am put on chair. I am quietly indignant. I am not offered an explanation for why I’m sitting there. (Sweating you out is part of the process.) When brothers K&K who are also on chair decide it’s time to split, some mixture of outrage and a nic fit causes me to join them.
Michael Gorman does something unheard of. He gets in his car and tries to get me to return to the facility. I am crying because I’ve let him down, but I don’t understand how. And, it’ll be years before I could ever attempt to understand that my feeling let down by him was valid. I cross traffic to avoid him and run. K&K who were walking ahead of me catch up with me on my new trajectory. We were never close, because they never fell in lock step like I did, and I never liked them.
We’re in this together, I guess. We wander for a few hours. The boys have a plan and a place they’ve been told they could go.
By evening, I am seated on the couch at my counselor’s apartment being smoked out. He tells me the pot is good. I don’t know what nightshade means. I try to follow the conversation, but my head is spinning. Nothing makes sense. Well, the only thing I’m real fucking clear on is he’s sitting way to close to me and is telling me I can crash there.
D. comes over. He was my expeditor. He’s got a promotion coming. I’m confused by his appearance and by the casual way he scores before leaving. I’m just waking up to the fact that my hypocrisy has had plenty of company. I suppose among some of the kids the dual role of this counselor was common knowledge.
I’m high and I don’t want to be there and I’m running through the fog trying to come up with an alternate destination.
I can only speculate that it was D. who called the cops. There is a knock at the door. My name is called. The sounds of their radios tell me what to expect as I walk over.
I’m handcuffed. One of the officers stands with me outside and the other questions the counselor. Must be one smooth talking S.O.B.
During the ride, the officer sitting in the back with me chats me up. I’m not interested in making any new friends. I respond honestly that “nothing happened”. I can’t remember how (or if) how I came to be so obviously stoned was addressed. The friendly one asked me about the counselor and I respond with something so sweetly spoken and lewd that the one driving glances back at me over his shoulder. That pretty much ended the discussion.
It will be a long time before I ever feel like making friends again.
I’m sent to NY. I am strip searched three times upstate. The dose of sedatives I was given for travel numbs me for the first (Thanks Mommy). It is my resignation to my situation that causes me silently to allow the other two searches.
I am brimming with the invectives poured into me at the last house meeting. It was announced before my departure to NY. that I am TOXIC. I have been taught to believe them. I am also succumbing to the overwhelming sense of betrayal. I turn fifteen in the 30 day center. I don’t want any damn cake.
I am suicidal. I am a problem for them to deal with, but not one so easily dispatched of as my parents have them in a bit of a bind.
A push pull of no you take her no you keep her plays out in slow motion, during the months that I was transferred through three residential locations.
The month I am returned from Daytop a friend of mine who was rejected by Daytop’s approval process is killed as a passenger in a drunken driving accident .
I actually convinced myself of the possibility that I would arrive at her memorial to find her alive and well, like some sort of weird surprise party.
She’s gone.
Guilt hate rage...I spend a lifetime painting it black.
I’m capricious to say the least. I’m fun to be around for anyone who hasn’t pissed me off.
I spend a small amount of time in the public school environment, before another suicide attempt. I will cry while a nurse combs activated charcoal from my hair. While being extubated, I curse god for my survival.
I will spend the rest of my teens being shuttled from one inpatient setting after another. (Until that cosmic joke of a private school, graduates me).
There is a shade of blue that Armani had in their collection a few seasons back. Suicide blue. It is exactly the colour of the scrubs issued to me at the crisis intervention centre to signify that I’m a risk.
Suicide becomes the refuge that keeps me alive. The only way I can think of to describe that is to say it’s easier to get through anything for a while if by whispering to yourself,” It’s just for a while it’ll be over soon”. Sick, but empowering.
I require of those saints and martyrs who know me incredible amounts of tolerance.
My adulthood becomes a tightly drawn circle of control. Every once in a while I break the spells with recklessness.
Later in life, following the death of another friend I will be overcome by survivor’s guilt. I’ll be 5150d for threats.
Inculcated likes to be medicated. It becomes not enough...or never was.
I will come very close to allowing them to perform ECT on me. "Just to see", I say of it.
I announce to my new doctor that I am “toxic”. I tell him I’m unreachable. I tell him the ghosts in the room are his colleagues. He nods and scribbles.
I haven’t even told him the all of it (and there is so much I don't understand).Yet, he tells me he understands. He gives me a quizzical look while I laugh.
Thanks for the memories monsignor! When you die, I’ll spit on your grave and blog about it.
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