Paris: The Memoir(30)

No mention of Marilyn Manson.

No mention of candy, pizza, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, lasagna, McDonald’s, Burger King, or Wendy’s.

No talking about bikes, skateboards, or inline skates.

No looking out a window without permission. No opening a door without permission. No going to the bathroom without permission. No asking for permission to go to the bathroom, open a door, or look out a window.

No asking for food or water. No eating outside mealtime. No leaving food uneaten on your plate. No asking why or why not.

No eye rolling.

No sighing.

No snoring.

No slouching.

No shrugging.

No fidgeting, nail biting, skin picking, or scratching.

No whining. No crying. No yelling.

“Except during Rap,” she added. “During Raps, you have to participate. Really get in there and use your big voice. If you don’t participate, you’ll get blown away. If you see someone who’s not working the program or staying in agreement, you should totally call them out during Rap. And report them to a counselor. If you don’t report, you’re just as guilty as the rule breaker, you know? And you’re, like, harming that person if you don’t tell on them, because you’re keeping them from doing their emotional work.”

I was beginning to understand the need for a glossary. Bans, Raps, Propheets, in agreement/out of agreement, working the program, running your anger, taking care of your feelings—it was a lot. And a lot of bullshit. The rulebook was a labyrinth of setups where it was impossible to avoid punishment. Like the whole thing was designed to make you suffer and fail.

That night, in the upper bunk in those gross pink sweats, I sobbed my guts out for hours. I finally drifted into a headachy half-sleep, but I kept jolting awake from a nightmare—a hand gripping my ankle, a grimy palm clamped over my mouth—and then I sobbed again until I drifted again, repeating the cycle over and over until Blanda poked me and said, “Paris. It’s five thirty. We gotta clean the room.”

We made the beds, straightened our drawers, and wiped down every surface including the floor. There was no mirror, but I caught a glimpse of my face in the window, and I looked beat.

“You’re not allowed to look out the window!” Blanda hissed, and I wondered, if they really didn’t want you to look out the window, why were there no curtains? Before I turned away, I tried to take in a breath of sunrise.

Someone came to inspect the room and let us go to breakfast, which was some kind of grayish hot cereal. Jobs were assigned. I vaguely recall a group with a couple of other girls and a few dudes carrying wood from a stack at the bottom of a hill to a stack halfway up the hill. Eventually, we were told to go to a table for lunch. Two slices of bread and a slice of bologna. After lunch we worked for a few more hours, and then Weaselmug yelled that it was shower time.

We went to the place where the showers were, and girls started to peel off their clothes. I just stood there. Lined up against the wall were half a dozen staff people—male and female—watching the teenage girls undress and shower. These men and women chatted and laughed and called out pervy remarks.

I stood in the doorway.

Like, frozen.

Like, What. The. Actual. Fuck.

The most disturbing thing was the blank stares of the naked girls as they washed themselves in the lukewarm spray. They were used to it. This was their life. They just accepted it.

Weaselmug rapped her knuckles on the back of my head and said, “What are you waiting for, an invitation?”

A middle-aged male guard said something like, “Need help with your panties?” and the rest of them laughed.

Staring at the floor, trying to face the wall, I undressed, showered as quickly as I could while the staff made cow noises and dog noises and limp jokes about carpet not matching drapes. I wrapped a scratchy towel around myself and stood there shivering until we were allowed to go to our rooms.

Whoever was working in the laundry had left clean socks and pink sweats on my bed.

“When do I get my own clothes back?” I asked Blanda.

“After they get labeled, I guess. But you won’t need those,” she said. “They’ll give you whatever they want you to wear.”

I’d slept only a few hours in the past three days, so I said I wanted to lie down and skip dinner.

“Dinner’s not optional,” Blanda said. “And after dinner, we go to Rap.”

I don’t remember what we ate for dinner, only that I forced myself to swallow every last bite because a girl across from me whispered, “If you don’t eat it, they’ll feed it to you.”

It was early—maybe five or six—when we went to the “Rap” thing. I can’t separate that night from any other because this bizarre thing happened several nights a week for literally three or four hours. I’ll try to describe it, but I don’t know if it’s possible to fully understand it unless it’s happening to you.

A bunch of people sat in a circle of chairs.

Loud music played over the house speakers.

I don’t mean loud music played; I mean music played loudly.

It was always some insipid soft rock or easy-listening-type song—John Denver or Kenny Rogers or something—I don’t remember ever hearing the voice of a woman. I’m trying to think of some specific ones, but I’ve blocked those songs out for the most part. Fellow survivors have mentioned the Randy VanWarmer song “Just When I Needed You Most,” and I do recall that one getting a lot of play at CEDU and the CEDU sister schools where I was held later. You’ve probably heard it in an elevator. The chorus goes “Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu left me just when I needed you most.”