Narconon- Rehab Series- Part 48

Objective 5, Book 4b

This Objective is almost as bad as Objective 2. Buster has EP’d; however, I am stuck walking circles around this table. The laughable part is that we are to document very good indicators (VGIs) on our paperwork and not supposed to fall into bad indicators (BIs). Some BIs include being dull and lethargic. Well what in the actual fuck do they expect you to do to avoid feeling dull and lethargic when you are forced to walk around this stupid table for hours, alternating between touching the damn thing and your nose?

Buster isn’t making it any easier. He insists on giving me nasty commands. I realize that other twin sets joke about touching genitalia. However, him and I don’t have that friendly relationship and I don’t find it funny at all. It is creepy. I continue to walk around the table.

“Touch the table,” he commands. I comply.

“Touch your nipple,” he commands.

I glare at him. “Knock it the fuck off Buster. It’s not funny and by the way, you didn’t acknowledge me after touching the table,” I point out.

“Lighten up,” he laughs.

I am not amused. Time feels as though it is standing still, as I continue to remain ambulant.

“Touch the table,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch your right ankle,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch the table,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch your nose,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch the table,” he commands.

“I have a cog,” I confess.

“What you realize girl?” He asks smugly. Drawing every word of his statement out with his hillbilly Virginian accent. (What choo realiiiize girrrrrrl).

Several other students overhear him and mock him by repeating in their best Virginian accents, “What you realize girl?” The classroom is filled with laughter. Madison does not look amused.

“I realize that the table is cold,” I cog.

“That’s it? That’s all you realize?” Buster asks.

“Yes. Write it down. Makayla said to keep it simple and not over think it. It’s not your responsibility to feed me what you think the EP’s are,” I respond.

“Yeah, but I already Ep’d. So, I think I know them,” he expresses.

“Well, Buster,” I say irritably. “I don’t think you know them. You ran this Objective for 7 sessions. In other words about 14 hours. You said all kinds of shit. So shut the fuck up and write down my stupid cognition,” I demand.

Buster scribbles on the paperwork. Makayla has already expressed to Buster that his handwriting is not legible at times. It is frustrating to see that I can’t read what it is that he has written. I remind him of what Makayla said and ask him to wrote more legibly.

“It’s not like this is the EP anyways,” he scoffs. However, he rewrites my cognition down. While legible, it is still poor handwriting.

“Touch the table,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch your right foot,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch the table,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch your left knee cap,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“I have another cog,” I express.

“What you realize girl?” He asks. Again, using his Virginian accent to put a country drawl on every word of his question.

“I realize that my body is in communication with my environment,” I cog.

“That’s good and don’t forget to talk about walking circles,” he suggests.

“Dude, are you freaking kidding me right now? Just write down what I said” I demand, angrily.

It takes me repeating my cognition, four times, before his is able to get it written down on the paperwork. This is beyond irritating. I didn’t have a realization paragraph. We aren’t writing a novel here. I realized a simple, one sentence cognition and he is not capable of writing it down without me repeating it four times?

“You don’t have to be so mean,” he informs me.

“You don’t have to be so irritating,” I snap back.

Perhaps I have been a little meaner than I need to be with Buster. It is difficult to not approach every minute I am forced to spend with him without irritability and hostility already set in my tone. The fact that he told the boys that he is the player at Narconon and has all of the girls eating out of the palm of his hands, was my first real annoyance. I always welcome the new students and show them around the center. He mistook that as controlling me and having me at his beckon call.

That statement, accompanied with his daily requests for cigarettes, sodas and CLEs, makes his presence intolerable. He always adds that he will get you back on his Walmart list, but has failed to ever repay anything he has ever bummed from anyone back. However, the most detestable thing about him, is that he has a fiance and newborn baby girl at home, and yet he continues to make vulgar statements, sexual innuendos and attempts to flirt with me. It’s disgusting.

“Touch the table,” he commands. I comply.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges.

“Touch your head,” he commands. I comply.

I alternate between touching a body part and the table for the better part of ten minutes without having a cognition. This is mindless. I continue to circle the table. Buster is irritated that I am not cogging more frequently. He keeps suggesting that he write down what he thinks the EPs are so that I don’t have to think of the cogs.

“Buster! I am a writer! Do you know that? I have won writing awards since I was in elementary school, all the way through college. I am perfectly capable of articulating a statement of realization. Although, I am unsure of your ability to properly record my dictation. I am certain that my vernacular, includes of plethora of words that you may construe as big words, for which you do not know, or understand the meaning of. If I chose to, I could speak to you in a manner that would force you to grab Mr. Webster over there (I say while pointing to the dictionary), and clear (define) every other word in my sentences,” I scream at him.

This has the attention of several students in the room. I can feel my blood boiling, as I continue to belittle and degrade my twin.

“In fact, Buster, I am most certain that if I were to sit down and write my own cognition statements, you would be forced to reach for the dictionary. I overuse my commas and am guilty of the occasional run on sentence, but I know how to fucking express myself!  I went to college you little inbred piece of shit. I am not a complete fucking moron, just because I used drugs. I made a mistake. I was lead down the wrong path and I fucked up, but that does not mean that I don’t know how to express a moment of realization, or that I need you to feed me my cognition. Quit acting superior. You are nothing to me. No, scratch that! You are the biggest fucking bitch I have ever encountered in my life!” I scream.

“Now, stop being a fucking pussy and write down the fucking words that are coming out of my mouth, document my bites and stop acting like you have all the answers, bitch,” I rage, before flipping over the table.

Madison runs over to me, but I am making my way to my bag. I need a cigarette. My blood is boiling. My adrenaline is pumping and it is taking everything in me to not punch Buster in his throat right now!

“Liz. You know you can’t smoke,” Madison encourages. “You need to get back in session. Buster, get her back in session.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” I rage. “I need a fucking cigarette and I am having one!”

I light my cigarette, walk out the classroom and slam the door. I can’t take this anymore. What the fuck is this shit? These Objectives are all about control. It is obvious. Every single one is designed to break you. They want you to manifest blows! Well I have manifested the mother of all blows. I can’t control myself. I am 34 years old and am behaving like a teenager who just had their video game or cell phone privileges revoked. Buster opens the door and I scream at him to leave me alone and get out of my face before I drop him like the little bitch he is. He closes the door. I can hear students expressing their disgust with my behavior. Others are laughing and think that my blow up was awesome. Still, others, are concerned with whether or not I am okay. What is happening to me? Who am I? Am I really so spoiled and immature that I can’t control myself? These demons in me won’t let me go. Am I regressing back to the age of 15, or have the drugs emotionally stunted me and I’ve never grown past here…

Today’s Theme Song- When World’s Collide- Powerman 5000

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**DISCLAIMER: This is my personal experience at a Narconon Rehabilitation Center. This is not an expose or journalistic documentation. It is not meant to bash the program in any way, or suggest that it is the only rehab facility that works for recovery. I have been clean and sober since 09-27-13 and attribute much of that success to this program. All of the names in this series have been changed to protect the identity of my friends and sober family’s privacy! Thank you for reading!**

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