Late on another night at Two Bunch, in a nightmarish reminiscence of the movie, Stepford Wives, that I had been required to watch years before, I robotically responded to programming as I trekked out to the parking lot in the white robe provided by the spa. A limo pulled up and mindlessly I climbed inside where a man immediately injected me with a drug. When we arrived at a big warehouse-type building in the desert that was like a robot reconditioning facility, the man had to help me out of the limo because I was so drugged. Once inside, doctors in surgical greens placed me on a gurney and started an IV. It may have been filled with a truth serum drug, because that is the type of questions they fielded me. They were trying to identify what I was doing in therapy, what I was remembering. Repositioning me to a chair, they slapped me over and over and I wasn't allowed to go to sleep. If I began to fall asleep, they slapped me again. They were very upset about the therapy and told me lots of lies while they made me look into bright white lights. If I didn't keep my eyes open long enough, they would hold my eyes open and face me directly into the bright lights. They kept injecting my arm, as they yelled at me.

A man, approximately 35 years old, dark-skinned with brown hair, wearing a green tie, tan tweed jacket, white shirt and tan pants, entered the room. He directed the doctors what to do and told them what he wanted to find out, then they supplied the drugs, electroshock and lights. Returned to a metal gurney, he asked me questions over and over that didn't make sense to me, while I sat on the edge of the gurney with my head hanging down, totally out of it. He showed me pictures of people, men usually, and asked me questions about them and kept slapping me. Parts of my personality system would not comply and talk to him and it was making him very angry. In response, he took something sharp to the bottom of my feet. Then he called in the bright lights, and when my eyes could no longer stay open as he commanded, he had another man hold my head up, prop my eyes open and direct the lights in my eyes. They kept this up for what felt like forever. Then he laid me down and put a long rod up my vagina to shock me as he said, "She'll talk, just give her time — we have all the time in the world."

But I was dissociated deep within myself and really didn't care if they killed me or not. I had been conditioned from birth to take what they dished out and if I died, I just wouldn't have to endure any more. No more suffering, it would be over. His frustration level saturated, this man instructed his assistants to lay me down and they took an electric sheer, the type you use to clip a dog, or prep a person for surgery and ran it up my pubic hair, up my stomach, all the way up to my chin. He said it was something to remember him by, "To keep remembering what happens if you don't comply."

After I'd given up and was «gone» they pulled a plastic cap dotted with little metal electrodes over my head. They told me over and over that they would make it much easier on me if I would just cooperate and quit therapy. But I didn't stop. They had to carry me out to the limo and when we arrived back at Two Bunch, the man accompanying me snapped his fingers in my ear and commanded, "Snap out of it!" and followed up with the suggestion that I was very, very tired and wanted a nap. Slowly, I trudged back to the room and went to sleep. I don't know where Craig was.

Desert Hot Springs was a place of horror for me as I attempted to get well by working hard in therapy with Stuart and Margie. I remember Stuart saying to me after I continued to show up day after day with more pieces of my painful past to process in therapy, "I have never seen anyone who is more motivated than you; it's like you're running a marathon."

I responded, "I don't feel like I'm doing this fast enough." No wonder — neither he nor I consciously knew that I was still being tortured and reprogrammed; reporting to the Federal Building, to UCLA, to my political abusers and to Bob Hope when assigned. Consciously, I thought Two Bunch Palms was a place where I went to get rejuvenated to do more abreactive work in order to recover. But even in the midst of the chaos there was a divine plan and timing to my life; I just had to be extremely patient.

As my healing defiance continued, I was returned to Two Bunch. One night I got dressed to go eat in the restaurant. There was a very large clock that hung over the entrance of the restaurant and my instructions were to, "walk to the clock at 6 o'clock." But instead of going inside, I was instructed to turn and walk to the parking lot where a man in a white suit drove me by limo late at night to a club. He took me inside and seated me in a maroon colored booth tucked away in the darkened club. Sonny Bono came out and told me to enter the cleared area. He was twirling a whip like he was going to lasso something. Then he cracked the whip. He did it over and over and it terrified me, because I felt he was going to hit me with it. Sonny said there was nobody there to hear my screams. "Scream all you like," he said laughing. Jokingly he added, "I kinda like it." He went on to explain that he was "giving me what I deserved for trying to break the mold."

I was helped up off the floor where I was huddled and delivered to a group of men in suits. They said I was the guest of honor, but it wasn't fun. They said I was stirring up a bit of trouble back there in Southern California and they just wanted to make sure that nothing bad happened to me. They took a long time to tell me all this, slowly, calmly and smoothly, before another man took me to a dressing room type of partition in a back room and, holding me up by one arm, threw me up against the wall and beat the living breath out of me. I ended up in a heap on the floor with my mouth bleeding. Giving me one final kick with his pointed boot, he said, "There, that ought to do ya."

Another suited man came in and began "taking care of me," he said, while he took pictures of me all beat up to send to my family and friends, and he told me over and over, things that didn't make sense to me like, "You are a queen. You will always be a queen; you have no successor so you must always remain the queen. It's a matter of privilege; you must remain the queen." His last instruction was, "Lay by the pool and get a tan," that I was going to be visited by "the man." I knew the man he spoke of was Bob Hope.

After I was returned and spent the next day recuperating and tanning by the pool, I was picked up again. On the way to see Bob they said my clothes weren't suitable to see him so they stopped at a dress shop in the Springs and one of the suits went in with me and picked out white slacks, a yellow shirt, a gold belt and sandals. Throwing my clothes in the trash he said, "these are more befitting."

We met Bob in a public place. I was taken to him and he broke free for a moment and came over to me, "Tsk, tsk, is this anyway for a woman to be showing a good example to her offspring?" He was referring to my attempts at freedom.

To further frighten and intimidate me, he pulled a picture out of his coat pocket of Kelly and I naked together and said, "The time will come my fairy princess to speak of better things," and he continued, finally commenting that he needed to, "teach me appreciation." Roughly, he took hold and squeezed my collar then abruptly let it go and walked away, like he was through with me. Unfortunately, he wasn't. I was taken back to Two Bunch where I left the new clothes in a massage room and returned to my room with another white robe on.

Another occasion Craig was with me at Two Bunch, when late at night a limo picked us up in the parking lot. We were taken some place and reprimanded for the therapy I was doing and were threatened with the "loss of many things," if I didn't stop and if my husband didn't make me stop. A man in the limo took hold of Craig by the shirt and warned, "Bob doesn't want to have anything happen to his important asset. Do you understand?"