Reparative Pal Program Three

What the treatment turned out to be was group therapy. Something that I hadn’t been expecting from everything. In fact, I was anticipating something out of American Horror Story. Maybe it was proof that I wasted too much time on horror. Or rather I hadn’t researched what mental health or faux mental health facilities do. Then again, I hadn’t ever anticipated being forced into the ‘Woodrow Clinic’. Being forced to ‘revitalize’ myself and become a ‘Companion Prisoner’ to someone in need. Or whatever they want to call me. It doesn’t matter. Nothing will ever matter again. I look at everyone in the group as I’m wheeled into it. There are people in various forms of ‘treatment’. Some were looking quite calm and collected. A few were somewhat hesitant about everything going on. Though I could see some reluctant acceptance in their eyes when they glanced at me. A hint of pity, possibly. I’m not quite sure as they weren’t maintaining eye contact with me at all. In fact, they were doing their best to avoid looking me in the eyes as if they would taint them if they stared.

Except one.

A man around my age that was slender. So very slender. Like a gymnast’s figure. He seems to be as weak as I was. As he was in a wheelchair like me. Wearing a similar hospital gown as well. His hair had been shaved very short almost right to his scalp. Boyishly short. There was this feminine look about his face. It makes him appear much younger than I think he is. He made eye contact with me and didn’t break it as we all sat together in a group. And I couldn’t bring myself to look away from his eyes. When I scanned his hospital gown, I spotted a strange little symbol on his shoulder. One that vaguely reminded me of something I learned when I was younger. It was sort of a small triangle with blue, white, and pink coloring. I know what the coloring is, it’s contraband pride colors. Stuff that I know my so called ‘friend’ had seen in my room. Looking down at my own hospital gown, I spotted a similar triangle on it.

Why did we have this? Looking around, I spotted a few others with it on them. There were at least three others seated in the group circle with it. My mouth twisted into a frown as I tried to understand why that was. And before I could dwell on it further, a woman at the head of the circle was staring at me. Her face conveyed this odd mix of pity and something that I couldn’t entirely understand what it was. But I had this feeling that I was going to find out whether I was going to like it or not. And my stomach twisted inside of me as I watched her. My heart was pounding hard against my ribcage as I glanced back to that person in a wheelchair. Who was looking at me with this strange look on his face. One of dawning horror and I felt even more horrified as I couldn’t entirely understand what this was about. Looking back at the woman, I felt her sharp green eyes looking me over. Like they were physically pinning me down to my wheelchair. Sending an icy chill down my spine while I averted my gaze to the floor. What the actual fuck was wrong with this woman? Who even is she? The way she looked at me it was like…it was as if she saw me as less than the human being that I am.

As if I were a bug she had to stomp.

Or something of this nature. Maybe more like a cat that’s finally caught and wounded a poor little mouse she’s found. One that she’s toying with after injuring it brutally. Which she was waiting to pass on its own. Possibly debating on whether to claw open if it didn’t. This strange woman claps her hands together as she cleared her throat. Causing me to jump a little in my seat and stare up at her. Calmly, she stated,”Hello, all. Settle down, it’s time to start our session.”

“For all you new faces, my name is Alya Dwight.”,Alya introduced herself. A hand weirdly pressed to her chest for emphasis. Though I didn’t understand why she would want to do that. An odd smile on her face as well. One that was sort of patronizing as well as faux-warm. Like some of my former teachers would give me when I was younger. Like after I tried to tell them about the bullying that I experienced. Or how I needed their help on a subject, and they would refuse to assist me. This glint in her eyes told me she wasn’t someone to open to. That she wasn’t going to be trustworthy or treat me like I’m human. Her eyes were cold as cold ice and twice as biting.

“And like some of you in the group, I was so deeply troubled and confused about myself. About my identity as a human being.”,she prattled on. Her tone was soft but there was this odd edge to it that I couldn’t place. And I felt her gaze go from me to the young man in the wheelchair. As if we were representations of everything that she had been through. And it clicked for me what these little triangles are on our hospital gowns. It shows to everyone here that we are transgender. Or as John would call us ‘gender-freaks’. There were similar triangles on everyone else’s body clothes as well. One was brown and white. Along with green. Yellow with a small purple circle on it. And I wondered just how far these others were in their ‘therapy’. I saw that other person in the wheelchair in front of me, I saw that look in his eyes. That slight discomfort as he seemed to be glancing around at the other shirts as well and getting what I realized. Before I could even continue to think about it, Alya sighed softly as she continued,”Allowing myself to be peer pressured by the LGBTQ support group into taking those toxic hormones. Becoming a ‘man’ when I was just feeling body dysmorphia if anything.”

“Just how vulnerable and young I was when these people twisted my mind into believing that I was something that I wasn’t.”,Alya lamented. In a tone that on the surface sounded like she was deeply saddened by what had happened. Traumatized possibly. But there was still that edge to her tone that had me bristle. I wasn’t entirely certain of what it was. Yet it had me staring at her while I toyed with my nails. Trying to resist the urge to rip them as I sat there. As I had this fear that Alya would be staring at me if I tore them in any way. A slight chill ran down my spine while I stared at her saddened face. She added,”I nearly permanently ruined my healthy feminine body with everything that I had done.”

“Had my healthy breasts removed to become more masculine. Even destroyed my long, luscious, red hair as well.”,Alya wailed. Her hands covered her face while she cried. Or rather while she fake cried for a minute or two. As I hadn’t seen a hint of a tear in those cold, dead, green eyes. Not a hint of a runny nose or anything like that. It was an act, clearly this was her pretending to be sadder than she felt. Despite it being clearly fake, there were a few folks in the room that were sympathetic. One of them was gently rubbing her back to ‘soothe’ her. While another person got her some tissues to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Which wasn’t necessary in my eyes. Her tone and behavior were like most detransitioners I had read. People who blamed the trans community for why their lives went to shit. On Tumblr when I felt safe enough to have a blog. As well as on a few other social media sites. YouTube was one of the few spaces that I hadn’t found them. Now here was one given a job. Along with power over people like me and the person in the wheelchair in front of me. One that was trying her hardest to sound like she had grieved for a long time. Regretted her transition as well. That she was doing us all a favor in helping us detransition or something like that. What a load of shit. Setting her hands down, I frowned as I watched her dab the non-existent tears from her cheeks with a sad smile. That looked practiced as she looked at every one of us and gave a soft sigh. Hugging the person that had rubbed her back so lovingly and patted theirs with the fakest look of admiration. When she had ‘composed’ herself, she breathed,”But thanks to the wonderful doctors here at Woodrow Clinic, I have regained my beautiful feminine body. Getting back the perfect shape I had before.”

“As well as my wonderfully feminine voice that I had before. Which I had been told would never come back from the testosterone that I had taken.”,she added. Tapping her throat with two fingers as if for emphasis. It almost made me want to roll my eyes. And it takes everything in me to not allow myself to do so. As I feared that any form of action could attract her attention towards me and that was the last thing I wanted. Since it feels as though Alya despises trans men after her own transition. Unfortunately for me, it doesn’t work in the slightest bit. Those cold bright green eyes turned towards me and narrowed. Lips drawn in the worst scowl that I had ever seen anyone give in their entire life. A cold wave of fear washing over me as I shiver slightly in my seat. Slinking down as I had an irrational thought that this bigot could hear my thoughts. That everything that I had thought about her and her bullshit was just that. Then I realized that I probably wasn’t as subtle with my body language as I thought I was. And that my genuine feelings towards her had shown more on my face than I had wanted. Chewing on my bottom lip, I shrank back in my wheelchair to try and make myself seem smaller.

“Is there something you would like to say, Amelia? Get off your chest and share with the rest of the group?”,Alya demands of me. That tone of hers felt as sharp as a knife and cuts just as deep into me. I drop my gaze to the floor to avoid the intensity of her eyes. Never had I been in the presence of someone as terrifying as my mother had been. Or had this much power over me in so many years either. Having so much sway over other people around me. Whom I could feel their gaze upon me as they whisper. Most of it is insults and jabs about my physical appearance as well as what they think of my personality. I could also feel the person in front of me staring at me once more. His gaze didn’t feel anywhere near as burning as the others had. In fact, it felt strengthening. And probably would have been as such if there weren’t so many loathsome eyes on me. Mostly that terrible woman’s, Alya’s. I shook my head as I kept my gaze towards the ground. Not wanting to look up at her as my face burned bright red. Out of anger and humiliation from how Alya put me on the spot like this. There was some laughter from the folks around me. A few jokes were made about how stupid I was for questioning her. Nothing from the other wheelchair bound person in front of me. I risked a glance in his direction to see a sympathetic look in his eyes. As if he felt similarly about the therapy session leader as I did.

Or maybe I was imagining it, as mother always said I had an overactive imagination.

At any rate, my public humiliation seems to soothe Alya’s anger towards me. And I hear her give a little huff. Vaguely I glance at her to see her nod in satisfaction with how easily cowed I was. Or what she probably perceived as me being easily cowed. Whatever makes her feel better about all this bullshit she’s spewing. Keeping my face neutral, I stare down at the floor. In an annoying tone, she continues,”I was one of the first voluntary detransitioners here at ‘Woodrow Clinic’. And the biggest success case.”

“My mental and physical health have never been better.”,she insisted. Though there was something to her tone that was just so certain. So, trying to convince me that this was the right thing for me and the other wheelchair bound person. It made my stomach twist harder as I did my best to keep my face neutral. Not wanting to be singled out by the group once more. As I feared that Alya wouldn’t be satisfied with merely embarrassing me this time around. Instead, I tuned her out as I stared at that person in front of me. Catching his eyes as I sat there with a similar neutral expression on their face. Almost as if he was trying as hard as I was to keep from being singled out by Alya like I had before. And I felt that we had a similar feeling about Alya’s words along with her mannerisms about the program. That she and the program were bullshit. So, over the top full of it it was seeping out of Alya’s mouth in manipulative poisonous words. Ones that I can tell had helped in making these people feel…I dunno. Hopeless? Safe? The fact that most of them were cheering this terrible woman on, disgusts me. When I looked into the eyes of that person, I hoped that he was thinking as I was. That painful feeling in my gut lessons as I look into his eyes as well. There was this gentle feeling flooding through me. And I wasn’t entirely certain if it was a relief just yet. Or maybe this was the beginnings of admiration. Either way, I hoped it would blossom into a friendship. If I were able to speak to him by myself that would be true. Would they allow us to even speak together by ourselves in a place like this? Maybe. If John and or any other orderly were watching us speak together that might happen.

I would prefer to speak to him alone.

While I look at him, I fully realize that I never had friends before this. Or rather none that were lasting in any meaningful way. That I was never a good judge of character when it came to friends anyway. There were a few people that I had tried to befriend when I was younger. It never panned out no matter how hard I tried. Every friendship that I ever made just fizzled, or they weren’t someone that I liked much. And the last friendship that I made was…well, it landed me here. But the idea of making friends with someone that is in the same situation as myself. If I could possibly have a moment alone with him. Just one. See if I’m entirely right about what I’m thinking then maybe things might pan out differently around here. But I’m not entirely certain that trusting him will be the wisest decision either.

Last time…I don’t want to dwell on that. I need to keep my mind on the here and now.

I was dragged into it by someone setting a hardcover pink book in my lap. With an equally bright pink pen taped to it. One that vaguely reminds me of something out of ‘Mean Girls’ or something like that. Just without the social commentary about society. Holding it in my hands, I glanced over at Alya. Trying to understand just why I was given this book. It feels unnecessary for me to have it at all. Unless it’s for what I think it’s for. Then it isn’t going to be a gift in the slightest bit. And she confirms this for me as Alya informs,”Now, for you new members of ‘Woodrow Clinic’. I’m gifting you a journal to use on your journey through your rehabilitation and training.”

“To get your thoughts and feelings on paper as you recover over the year that you’ll be here.”,she explains. In a tone that sounds overeager and sweet. Way too calm as well. There had to be a catch to this journal. This book had to be a trap. One that I know is going to make any ideas of escape nearly impossible. What she says next makes my heart drop into my stomach. Alya warns,”I do have to disclose that our friendly staff will be reading all of your entries at the end of each week.”

“Just to monitor how well your healing process and training is progressing week by week.”,she assures. Her tone somewhat hasty as she glances around at each of us. Her grin grows smug when she looks at me and then at that other person. Like it was completely normal and fine. That it was alright for them to do to us. Another way of depersonalization or control that they’re lording over us in this hellhole. And I was going to be sure to tell the ‘truth’ the best that I could. Just like I did when I was writing in my diary as a little girl. This is something that I suppose that I should thank my mother for now.

After all, she helped me learn how to fool adults into thinking that I was a perfectly normal little catholic girl. That I was straight, cisgender girl. One that loved Jesus, the bible, and wanted to grow up to be like her. Just like her. Oh, it took several tries to make it believable when I was younger. As my mother didn’t always believe everything that I wrote. Despite my own beliefs, mother wasn’t entirely stupid. Just overly religious and cruel. This took me about five months to write believable bullshit for her to get. Pretending to be that precious little all American patriotic straight girly girl she always wanted. Not the asexual trans man that she disowned the minute that I transitioned. Mother will never see me now. Nor she will never see me again after the reformation that they’re going to force on me. To be…whatever is going to be forced upon me. Shoving those thoughts, I try to focus on the positive. That if I was good enough to fool a Midwestern catholic mother of one, I can fool a facility like this into believing that I was changing. Or healing. Or whatever bullshit phrasing this Hellhole considers what it’s doing to me is. No matter the phrasing it wasn’t going to be anything other than destruction for me.

While I held the book close to myself, I looked up at that man in the wheelchair. Who was holding a similar book to my own. Only blue. With a blue pen. One that looked slightly metallic in nature. Like it was supposed to look like a bullet. Both were similar in size. Nine inches in height and very thick as well. Probably enough for a year. If I don’t write more than one page or so. This thing is Barbie pink as is the pen. My brain vaguely wonders if the ink is a similar ghastly shade of pink. As it’ll hurt my eyes to write with it. Either way it’ll serve its purpose. Something to write to keep the powers at be at bay. While I plot how to properly get the Hell out of this Hellhole. Put up a decent front for them to believe that I’m reforming. And I may not be sure how long that’ll be but, I’m optimistic that it'll be a month.

Maybe two.

Soon as I can get on my own feet again. Get my strength back from whatever the Hell they did to me. My stomach healed from whatever they did to it. Soon as my legs were strong and my stomach didn’t hurt, I’d be able to escape finally. Get out of this damn wheelchair first then everything else will fall into place. While I sat there with my journal, I felt something pull the wheelchair backwards. A small yelp escaped me before I could reign it in. A familiar voice laughs as I turn slightly to see who it was. John was smirking at me as he started pushing me back to ‘my’ room. Smirking, he chuckled,”God, you’re so damn jumpy. For a horror fan, I thought you’d be less easy to scare.”

“Guess you’re more of a pussy than I thought.”,John snickered. With that, he quickly rolled me back to the room. Right up to the foam mat on the floor. Soon as I was situated, I noticed John pulling a needle out of his pocket. One filled with something that I couldn’t tell what it was at first. Then it hit me what it was. A sedative. Trying to scoot backward, I opened my mouth to scream or anything. But John’s hand grasped my throat tightly to keep me from screaming. In a low voice, he warns,”Shh. I won’t hurt you, baby.”

“Just relax and enjoy the ride…”