It wasn't long before I began to lose consciousness, drifting back and forth from the excruciating pain into reality until I wasn't sure which was real. I hated, deep in my heart, and wanted nothing more than to murder those that had done this to me. I fantasized of murdering their entire families - right before their eyes, and I said so, I yelled it, and I chanted it until I knew I was beginning to become completely delirious. I couldn't take the pain, and I didn't know how long the agony was to go on, so I figured that if somehow I could make myself bleed, they would have to do something. Whatever that "something" was, it had to be better than what I was experiencing at the time. I began biting the inside of my mouth and spitting the blood on the chest area of the straight-jacket.
It worked, they came back into the room, removed the restraints, and I huddled myself in the corner of the room, quiet, looking at them with hate and loathing only I could understand, wishing somehow that mere looks could kill them all. I desperately wanted each and every one of them dead!
I was released from the A.C. Unit approximately ten days later and returned to the Unit I had attempted to escape from; it made sense to them, but to me it was just another part of the torture that had now become my life. Suicide was becoming an option.
Back to the Adams Family
I was back in the unit now. Nothing was different, that is, unless you count the change in my attitude; I was fast learning how to hate, my thought process was changing, and at an extremely rapid pace. If I did something against the rules I learned to be very sly about it; I didn't want Mr. Albright to get his revenge on me, and I damn sure didn't want to go back to A.C. I knew I was going to escape, but this time I was going to plan it and when I tried again I would accept nothing less than success.
The "Outer Limits" name stuck, and I really never learned, at that time, to fight with the cunning or viciousness that the other kids possessed. They were from different backgrounds and fighting was a way of life to them, while to me it was a learned behavior, one that I was wishing I could acquire a lot faster! I didn't seem to have the ingrained hatred and viciousness that most of the other kids seemed to have; I was having a hard time understanding how those so young could hate so fiercely, yet the more I was exposed to the treatment of the inmates and employees of the California Youth Authority, I found I was learning at a frightening pace. As time progressed fewer and fewer pleasant thoughts permeated my daydreaming, while more and more vicious and hateful ideas and fantasies filled my head. I was changing and changing faster as each day progressed. Thank God. I had to find the strength to survive this nightmare, and hate was the cure.
Through the months, I learned to survive at Nelles; it wasn't a matter of being good; it was a matter of not getting caught. In order to survive, an individual often had to participate in breaking rules, etc., as the normal course of business. The worst possible thing to happen to an inmate in these settings is to be known as a "do-gooder" or "ass-kisser", therefore it was important to maintain the status quo and be as much a part of the group mentality as possible.
Besides, there was much to learn. I was naive' a complete idiot as far as drugs were concerned, glue sniffing was something you heard about on the news, and Marijuana was that horrible drug that was only whispered about in circles of "hip" people that I had never come in contact with. For some reason, those "in the know" found it imperative to educate those of us whom had not been properly educated on the streets. My life of crime lasted at best a month prior to being admitted to the CYA, while many of the other kids had been in trouble their entire lives. They had much to teach us of lesser experience; the Judge sent me to the California Youth Authority for rehabilitation, and I often wondered if he even knew what the word meant, how it was to be accomplished, or if he even cared.
In eight months I appeared before the Parole Board for the CYA. If I remember correctly, I had tried to escape once, had been in quite a few altercations, although nothing very serious. You either fight or lose everything to other, tougher inmates. All in all, I was happy to appear before the board because I thought I would be going home. Freedom was beginning to become a fantasy and a dream, but, here I was, and I thought I was being paroled. I was sitting before the Parole Board, smiling from ear to ear as I expressed my desire to go home, and in my naive manner, promised that I would never do anything wrong again. It was genuine, I really meant it, as this was no life for me, and it was time to get back to living and attempting to be normal. I also found out they would not inform me of their decision that day, and every inmate had to wait 48 hours to hear the results. They worried how inmates would react to negative decisions while in their presence, thus the 48 hour wait.
But, I didn't really worry, in fact, I was trying to decide who to give all of my personal belongings to when I left, and I was excited. And then came their decision! I was in my Counselor's Office and he read me the news with a grim face; The Parole Board had given me another full year's continuance, which meant that no matter what happened, I had to do at least another full year in the CYA. I didn't even get mad or explode. How could I be mad? I was in complete, utter shock! I cried, I screamed, I prayed, cussed God, cussed all of the staff, in fact, to the point that I was back in A.C. again. Funny, I had calmed-down for months, yet here I was again.
Yep, straight-jacket too, with all the trimmings! Only this time I didn't care. I reveled in the pain, I wanted to kill people, to scream, fight, and do anything to make them kill me. If I remember correctly, I also did a pretty good job slicing up my arm and hurting myself in any way I could. The denial of parole, of my freedom, to a teenager that had never even been out on a date was crushing. I didn't know then, but I was losing one of the most valuable and informative years of my life. Even now I wonder about what I missed, the joys and pains of growing-up in a stable environment that contained love rather than hate, and I often wonder who I would be today if yesterday and the CYA hadn't happened.
A few days later I was out of the A.C. and back at the Adam's family, but now I was cold, icy in my thoughts and determination to get out of that place. There would be an escape, this time I would make it, and God help anyone that got in my way. If I am ever able to articulate the inner frustration and utter despair that goes along with lost freedom for children, the silent crying at night a child goes through with the loss of his/her parents and freedom. Bitterness begins to develop, that if not alleviated in some way, can change an individual for a lifetime and we release animals back into society, not caring human beings. We, in our judgments made without cause of effect, often bring forth the very worst in people whom we know will eventually be released and instead of solving a problem, we provide a system that is guaranteed to further the criminality in people rather than lessen it - a system that is self-defeating and decidedly broke. Writing these words so many years later actually knots-up my stomach and brings back some of those old feelings that I have worked for half a lifetime to forget.
Escape from Nelles
I was back in the unit now, but my mind-set wasn't the same; I had to get out of there and it had to be soon. There was a new kid that came into the unit, and sadly after all of these years, I cannot remember his name, only the rotten nickname the others in the Adam's Unit gave him; if you didn't come from the Barrio (hood) or were a bad-ass when you walked in the door, or if you looked strange in some manner, it was assumed there was something wrong with you. As young as they were, the little bastards were cruel and could smell fear a mile away.
Anyway, this kid was over-weight, had a fat butt, so was nicknamed "Judy Booty", which at the time even I thought was kind of funny. Oddly enough it turned out months later that he really was gay, but by then I didn't care. He wasn't interested in me that way, we seemed to be natural friends, and he would fight at the drop of a hat, was pretty tough, so was left alone after a while except for the occasional use of his nickname - which sometimes resulted in an ass-whipping. To this day I remember him as a kind person and would never be ashamed to call him my friend. But back to the story;
I finally had a friend I felt I could trust, and since I was going anyway, I decided to tell him about my plans. Without complete and utter trust, such talk would result in being Rat-packed again or even worse, being another of Albright's "Chests" victims for the night, and I didn't want either. Over many weeks we planned and plotted our escape, trying to figure out the best way to get out without getting caught or hurt, the two actually being synonymous. Sad fact was, we were only a couple of kids and didn't have the best sense in the world; what we thought would work was absurd, but we were both miserable and wound-up stealing a butter-knife from the kitchen. We were going to pull it on the night counselor, tie him up, and then have all night to get out. Better at night when there was no one available for a Ratpack! It's pretty hard to explain what it feels like having fifty people trying to kick the sh*t out of you at the same time...
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