Treatment Abuse, Behavior Modification, Thought Reform > CAN ~ Collective Action Network

Katie's Story

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Oscar:
I am happy that you can use telling your story as a tool to heal.

None here are pushing you for a new chapter of your story, so you don't need to apologize.

Now where you are living on your own and away from a zone of constant confrontation it is important that you use whatever time you have left for work and school to come to terms with what did happen to you so you can move on. It is not the same as forgive, but now you have to focus what is important for you rather than what is important for your family.

Moving out is kind of scaring, no question about that. But several have been in the same situation as you, where you start out from a even worse situation than most youth because you were stolen from the reality, kept in a cubicle and not given the proper time to be trained in navigating everyday challenges.

Keep in contact with former WWASP survivors and use their experiences.

Remember to relax and recharge your batteries. Take some long walks alone where you can enjoy the freedom and discover the strengths you have inside.

I wish you the best of luck.

katiesthoughts:

 :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:  :birthday:



I am still being faced with challenge after challenge… trust issues are popping up over and over. Not only with my family, but with people I thought I could get close to… I guess this journal entry might clear up some of it. It is dated September 29 2007: two years and six days after I was put into Cross Creek Programs.

“In so many I ways I wonder why I am kidding myself- - But then I remember that somewhere deep inside me I am never alone, no matter how  much I feel it on the outside. In so many ways I can express what I am feeling at this moment. I barely even understand it. I do know one thing however… my freedom resides in my heart.”

I look at the past year of my life in wonder. Its been a year since I was pulled from Cross Creek… and not only am I surprised at how fast it went, but others are as well. I have developed relationships, graduated high school, moved into my own apartment, and got accepted into college. Who would have guessed? To be honest I did not expect myself to get to this point. I thought that my life would come to abrupt end sooner than that. In fact in some ways I was almost hoping and planning on it.

I have come a long way since Cross Creek and I wont be the first to admit that. Part of me want to deny that my life has turned out decent. No matter how many times I am told how well I am doing part of me laughs in the faces of those who tell me this. “How can you be doing well if you are not following the program??” It is then my turn to laugh. For even now, a year after I have left the blindingly white walls of the facility, there is still part of me that wants to believe in it. I don’t know how long it will take for me to finally let go of that part of me but until then it is a constant battle.

The truth of my situation… its hard to come by. Those of you who are program supporters come to read my stories to further support my father and his view; and think that what I am saying is a bunch of lies.. Those of you are not program supporters read my story and understand my pain. Then there some who cant decide which is right. That is not for me to decide, because in truth, none of us is right. It is all a matter of opinion.

I am not saying that it hasn’t worked for everyone, but most of the kids who go there, don’t come out the same way. I know it has taken me a long time to become the person I was before the program and even then I still have work to do. I was stripped of all senses of individuality… of personality. I am now just beginning to get that back.

The last year has been hard, and if there is anything you get from this post its this. I have struggled. I have been hurt but most of all I have become a woman that I am beginning to be proud of. Sometimes it seems as if I am still trapped in the walls of cross creek… but I know that I couldn’t feel the way I do now…and that feeling?


Is happy.

“And suddenly it isn't what it used to be
And after all this time it worked out just fine
And suddenly I am where I’m supposed to be
And after all the tears, I was supposed to be here” - “Suddenly” By: Superchick

I am almost confused. In the lyrics it says “I was supposed to be here”. And I am. I am supposed to have found fornits. I am supposed to go through the program because I am stronger. I am a force to reckoned with LOL.

I recently spoke to my mom. I leaned a lot of things that I haven’t known. And in all reality I was too blinded to see. She is actually not at all the person I thought she was. She was forced not to talk to me, forced not to care. My mother is not my enemy.  My mother loves me. Period. I know the truth now… and I know that a lot of things I have been told were lies concocted by other people. She told me recently “Don’t let ANYONE tell you that you are not worth it, and NEVER think that I don’t love you…” and though she may not know it… that has helped me know I am not alone.

This is my one year anniversary of freedom. LETS CELEBRATE!!!


My thoughts for you who are considering programs for your children:  Look at those stories around you. Look at the pain in the words of the survivors from these places. Then look at your children. Even if they have done things to hurt you and your family, do you want them to hurt? Do want them to cry themselves to sleep at night wondering if you still love them? Then please… please don’t send them to a program… If you love them, get them help some other way some other place. These programs have destroyed lives, homes, families. Look somewhere else, but just know that as a program survivor, I beg you. Care enough about your child, about your family… don’t put them though hell because that is where you are sending them.  

Oscar:
Congratulation

You have come a long way and you have done the work on your own. You have allowed yourself to get some of the issues out of your system by writing your story. Now where a year has gone, you must have realized that every word you put down represent some ounces of the contents you have carried around in our emotional backpack.

You can walk with your head up due to the work you have put in this process. Consider yourself lucky because you have gotten this chance. Every detainee released from a program is in a condition of shock. The program didn't take care of their issues but warehoused them and institutionalized them. Like inmates in prisons you had endured the torment and got used to living a life where everyday issues are taken care off. It is a shielded world. A program does not prepare you for a life. Sadly the victim list does prove that.

I have read your story from the very start. I cannot find that single point in your story that points in a direction where an inpatient placement is needed. Cutting is normal. Problems from a divorce is normal. Being used as delivery boy of harsh, unneeded messages in a torn family is normal.

Those issues were not dealt with in the program. For one reason only as far as I can see. You have not spoken to your mother for years. Why did you not get to speak to her in person? Answer: Because she didn't pay and she didn't go through the parent seminars so she was brainwashed enough. A big no in any program is to let a parent see the child without having the parent prepped.

39 month took it. 14 days inpatient therapy for both your parents and you would have made so much further progress.

But done is done. No one can turn the clock back. I am not telling you to forgive anyone, but just to move forward in life. Pick the people you want to speak with and don't use time on people you can be in the room with. If presense of certain members on the extended family means confrontation, do not see them even if it also means that means that you have to stop seeing some you do love. I had to make that choice without having been in a program. I can assure you that living with the decision is rather easy once you have taken it.

Some time to time you will find that some of things the program learned you will help you. It is because if you pull the program components apart, they on their own is recognized efficient therapy methods. Some of the material in the seminar do function, they are right, but it is the way you were taught, the use of force  and the black/white way of telling you that is wrong. The world will always be a kind of grade shades.

That means that you can choose to believe parts of the program material and not choose other parts without anything being wrong. You do only have to choose what parts which works for you given the situation you are in.

Now where your story is written down hide it for later processing. At some point in your life where you have both surplus and money, you could benefit from real professional therapy for a change just to fill the last gaps, but we are talking years. Right now reading this last post, I sense a very strong person who can make it. Believe in yourself, accept that life sometimes sucks and move on.

katiesthoughts:
For the longest time after the program I have been assaulted by nightmares about the years I spent there. This post may seem horrifying to some... it is especially horrifying to write it... This post will not be in chronological order, however it may enlighten some of you... It sure scares the hell out of me, and I cant even imagine what people will say... even as I think about it I feel like a monster.

While I was in the program, one thing occurred to me above all else. I had to keep going. I had to survive whatever way I could. The first year I was assailed by feedback... my personal form of hell. I remember going into group and dreading it, The girls could, and would point out every weakness I had, saying things about my mother, about how I used my weight as something to hide behind, they mentioned Christy, cutting, saying things about how I was the cause for the divorce between my parents. Therapy group time consisted of sharing and feedback. I dreaded every moment. I learned to keep my head down, to be inconspicuous. I learned that good feedback consisted of finding every insecurity and using it against a person, making fun of their issues and making them cry. If those criteria weren’t met it was seen as unreal or fake. I learned very quickly that it was an eat or be eaten world.

That first year was torture for me. I saw feedback and the girls who gave it as the enemy. I realized that it was my only weapon to fight with. I turned what had hurt me so much and forced it onto others. I turned into one of them.

I remember the day exactly. Group was especially difficult. the night before I had hurt myself in my room, scraping the skin off of both of my arms with my nails leaving jagged gashes. The staff found out the next morning and notified my family rep and therapist. In group that day nothing was said about it. I was waiting for the bomb to drop, because I knew that they knew. My therapist didn’t even cross the subject on why I was in an orange, and My cuts were hidden behind the baggy orange sweater we were allotted if it was cold. For a moment I was relieved he had not said anything... but then I realized that I wasn’t through the fire yet. Our family representative had a meeting with us everyday after group and when my therapist was gone she came over to me. "why are you in orange Katlyn?" I looked down avoiding eye contact. Its a submissive position that I had taken. If I didn’t look them in the eyes they couldn’t hurt me. "I... I hurt myself ma'am." I tried to sneak a glance at her but I was caught. her eyes bored into mine. "Lets see it then Katlyn" I didn’t move an inch as she pulled the sleeves of the sweater up over my arms. Some of the fleece caught on the skin and pulled. It hurt badly but I didn’t care. she was looking at me in the same way my parents had so long ago.

All of the sudden I was on my feet. she took me by the elbow and had me face the group with my arms out in front of me. "Look what she did ladies. THIS is why Katlyn is in orange.(She pointed out the raw gashes on my arms as she spoke) she decided to hurt herself." every single word that flowed form her mouth sounded like she was spitting it out. like it was painful for her to be holding the revolting thing in her hand. the revolting thing was me. There was a silence in the room, then one girl said to her "Can we give her feedback?"

The wolves descended upon me. For the next hour I was given feedback. Girl after girl... the same message, telling me I had copped out and that I was worthless if I thought cutting would help, saying I was setting a bad example this was the reason my parents didn’t want me at home, etc., etc., etc. I was mortified. The feedback process not only consisted of the hatred spewing from their mouths but for them to stand directly in front of me, look me in the eyes and tell me how horrible I was. I wanted to die right there. As each of the girls delivered their feedback I found myself wishing and hoping that our family representative would have had enough and tell them to stop. I was hoping in vain. It finally ended and I was allowed to sit in a chair and nurse my wounds. At that moment I realized that I could tune them out. I could survive the feedback and not listen. to go into a happy place so to speak. I realized that to be them I had to play at their own game. I HAD to become one of them. I promised myself that day that I would never allow myself to be hurt and humiliated like that again. I would defend myself, so that I would not have to be hurt again.

That night I realized that I could beat them. I would play and beat them at their own game. That night I locked part of myself away. I promised myself that one day I would open up my heart again, but until it was safe part of me had to be hidden from the world. I had to push away my thoughts of right or wrong, push away my nature to be kind and thoughtful. I locked up everything that was good inside of me, and let myself become a monster.

The next few months I watched and listened. I saw how the game was done. I was smarter than most people took me for. I made my own standards for feedback and every time I would give it, I would follow those to a "T": Pinpoint the insecurities and weaknesses of the person; Use those insecurities in the feedback, and make them cry. Tears were a sign of success.

I was relentless. I was harsh. I was cruel. I turned off every part of me that would see my actions as wrong. I had to because if I didn’t I wouldn’t have made it.
I soon became a favorite with therapists and the program director. I was strait and to the point. Harsh and "realistic".

I remember one day, the program director came into our group and pulled me out. He said he had a favor for me to do. I knew what was coming before he asked. He was going to use me as a weapon against someone. It was normal for me at this point. I didn’t look at him, and I didn’t speak as we walked to our destination. I was concentrating on turning off my emotions. We didn’t stop at one of the classrooms I had expected. We didn’t turn the corner to first floor like I thought. He was taking me over to the boys side.

I was terrified. We were told horrible stories about how the boys in the program would and hurt us if we got close to them. We were told they would only see us as stupid cunts, or free pussy. We were told that they would use and abuse us and they were not to be trusted. For a moment I was so scared I thought He was leading me to my death, and then I got my emotions in check. I was not going to be beaten at the game. I was not going to give in and give up after all the hard work I had done to finally make MYSELF safe.  I was not going to allow ANYONE to take that away from me. I used my fear to fuel my thoughts, and I was ready. I would not let anything get to me.

The director walked in first and announced they had a special guest to join them for group. The boys were excited. I heard one of them say "Is it my Dad?" I felt my heart trying to burst forth from its steel cage I had locked it in, because I felt sorry for him. I again checked out my emotions and left them outside when the director said " Katlyn, sweetheart come and join us please."

The feel of the room drifted from easy going excitement to tension in about a second. I was dressed in the usual uniform, my hair pulled out of my face. I felt naked. I saw the looks on the boys faces and realized that the stories weren’t true. Looking at each one of them I realized that the boys were just as scared of the girls as the girls were of them. I used it to my advantage. they were afraid of me and I used it. I sat down next to the director. I didn’t notice that I was shaking until he grabbed my hand. I don’t know if he believed he was giving moral support, or hiding my weakness. I controlled it. I pulled my hand away and looked strait into the faces of those boys. I was not afraid anymore. I was safe in my head and they couldn’t hurt me.

The therapist asked one of them to share. He looked up for a moment then shook his head saying ,"Not in front of a girl" The director did something I will never forget. He got up out of his seat and asked the boy to stand. I thought he was going to hit him so I prepared myself. Instead of hitting him the director pulled the boys chair to the middle of the circle facing me. He told the boy to sit. And as he did , the director came to my side and said "Honey, this is important I need you to face him and listen to what he says Ok???" I nodded. He led me to the middle of the room, and sat me right in front of the boy. our legs were almost touching. He looked petrified. I knew what my face looked like. I had rehearsed my expressions so many times in the mirror so nothing escaped. it was a mask of calm and collectiveness. It was a hard lined expression with my eyes boring into his.

His breathing was haggard as I I stared him down. finally he started sharing looking everywhere but at me. My eyes were locked on his face, finding his weaknesses, finding his flaws. I couldn’t break my concentration. It was vital I find out what he didn’t want me to know, or I would become his prey instead of him being mine. He spoke about how he had used drugs to get into women's pants. He spoke about how he had molested his cousins, but the therapist kept shaking his head. It was not what he wanted the boy to talk about. Finally the boy gave in. He looked me in the eyes and said "I raped my sister" I was shocked but I didn’t let it show. He continued talking about what he did, and giving details I don’t think anyone should have heard. He looked at me the whole time, as if pleading with his eyes. He was silently asking me to have mercy on him. I could see his apology for what he had done in them. I could see the remorse there. I couldn’t feel it. I could not let my guard down. I had to survive.

He was finished. I was asked to give the boy feedback and I did. I was relentless. I was harsh. I was cruel. I could see his heart breaking as I tore him up. I felt no pain for what I was doing, only a sense of survival. I can remember the dead look in his eyes as I told him how sick he was. I remember the downturn of his lips as I told him that he was perverted. I remember the tears as I asked him what his sister thought. How she felt. I remember everything about that face as I tortured him.
I will never forget it.

As I said I became a monster.

I knew what I had become and the part of me I locked away was revolted by it. I would look at myself in the mirror and not recognize what I saw. I would see someone who looked like me, but was an imposter. The eyes staring back at me were not mine. The game I was playing was one of deception and lies. I was winning, I was going to beat the bastards at their own game. I was going to make it.


The nightmares I have been having lately also bring to mind another face. A little girl.

Again, the director had called me out of group for a “favor”, and again I knew what he meant. This time he spoke to me as I walked with him. He told me how proud of me he was and how good of a person I was. In my head I thought, “Good asshole. It means that I can fool you.”

As I walked into the meeting, I searched the room for the person I was going to confront. It was a little girl, maybe 12 years old… blond hair and bright blue eyes. She started to cry and shake as I looked at her. I knew at that moment that I was a monster. When a small CHILD looks at you and begins to cry you know what you are. And I knew. And I still do. I knew at that moment that I would regret for my entire life what I had to do to survive. I knew that I was someone who was going to hell. My heart almost shattered at that point but something inside of me kept it locked away. I heard a voice in my head telling me “DON’T LET THIS KILL YOU! SHE IS NOT WORTH YOUR LIFE”. I knew what I was, and for the last time, I sealed away my heart. The girl was afraid of me. She knew I was going to tear her to pieces and so did I.

I was frightening. I was scary. I was heart broken.

The feedback was delivered. I saw her eyes go lifeless long before her hands stopped shaking. She was dead inside. I knew from that moment that she was trying to fight it. She was trying to survive just as I had. And it killed me. I wondered what she would be like later on. If she would become a monster just like everyone else.

I will never forget her face. In my dreams it haunts me. In my dreams I see her there shaking and crying and I turn into a monster, fangs and teeth. I kill her with everyone watching and then the people begin clapping. As I look down and see the mangled body of the girl her eyes are still staring at me. I scream.



I am so sorry for what I had to do.
I am sorry for what I did.
And I wish I could take it back.

Oscar:
Whatever they did to you, whatever they made you to do, do remember that every man and woman have a breaking point. You just reached yours.

You are not alone. Read about John McCain:


--- Quote ---They took me up into one of the interrogation rooms, and for the next 12 hours we wrote and rewrote. The North Vietnamese interrogator, who was pretty stupid, wrote the final confession, and I signed it. It was in their language, and spoke about black crimes, and other generalities. It was unacceptable to them. But I felt just terrible about it. I kept saying to myself, "Oh, God, I really didn't have any choice." I had learned what we all learned over there: Every man has his breaking point. I had reached mine.
--- End quote ---
You were taken to meetings after meetings. At some point they got to you.

The reason I want you read this story is that inside the story there is something to learn:

Don't feel bad about either the girls who hurt you or the girls and boys your hurt. You all were just following orders in a psychological war. You have to move on. Hate forwards the leaders who ordered it is another story. From the story:


--- Quote ---Now I don't hate them any more—not these particular guys. I hate and detest the leaders. Some guards would just come in and do their job. When they were told to beat you they would come in and do it.
--- End quote ---
I am not going to lie to you. The nightmare will come and go. Not for 5 years, not for 10 years, but for the rest of your lives according to other survivors.

The main lesson is however that you should never hate yourself. Neither for the person you are, nor for the actions you did.

Whenever they appear, write them down and get them out of your system. Then move on and fulfill the potential you do have despite of what they have told you.

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