Discover extra content in the blog post Sex Offender (SO) Treatment!!

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During my prison experience in 2012, I initially resisted a sex offender treatment program, feeling misunderstood and defensive. Embracing change, I pursued a new job and healthy lifestyle, losing weight and feeling better.

I share difficult experiences such as a misunderstanding in jail, and I describe parenting from behind bars and my joyful reunion with my children after a year and a half.

I discuss my difficult journey in personal growth and relapse into deeper depression. Are you working towards change today? Are you fearful it won’t ‘stick?’ Learn the difference between behavior modification and permanent life transformation and how you can start today.

TRANSCRIPT

Are you interested in extraordinary personal growth? Do you want to feel great and live a transformed life?

Join me as we explore my prison experience, navigating a sex offender treatment program, a new job, and newfound opportunities. Discover unexpected moments of hope and profound lessons learned along the way.

From resistance to redemption, we’ll uncover the secret to permanent total life transformation and how you can begin today! Listen until the end, you won’t want to miss a word! This is sex offender treatment.

Told sex offender treatment would remove barriers and open doors to privileges, I nevertheless began in December 2012 with an attitude problem. I’d asked repeatedly over the past year to be admitted to the program as early as possible, yet now that I was here, I felt vulnerable.

Intake began with hours of psychological testing, both written and interviewed. Afterwards I sulked in the treatment director’s office, arms crossed, sullen. Noticing my posture she pointed out, “You look upset.”

Miserable, I explained, “I don’t understand why I need sex offender treatment. This is stupid. I am NOT a pedophile!” Having voiced my concern, I glared at the wall. My face burned. I felt hostile, defensive. I was ready to do anything necessary to remove barriers for myself as a parent, but I was outraged at the requirements.

The director leaned over and responded, “We don’t think you are a pedophile. That’s not the purpose of the treatment.”

Surprised, I removed my glare from the wall and shifted my gaze to her desk, considering. My thoughts returned to a time nearly 3 years earlier. Recently arrested, I sat in county jail waiting for bail to be posted. One day I was told a psychologist was there to interview me for sentencing recommendations.

“Ms. Aho, you have a professional visit. Come with me.” Sitting at a table I looked up in surprise. The guard nodded and pointed at the door. I turned to follow her gaze. Another guard waited outside the red door, his face visible through the window.

I stood, smoothed my shirt, and walked to the entrance of the pod. The door clicked open, and I joined the guard in the hall. We headed for a small legal visiting room. As we neared, I could see a woman waiting for me inside. A metal table sat in the middle of the small room.

The door clicked open, and I was led inside. I studied the woman as I sat. She was medium everything, medium size, medium coloring, medium age. She didn’t smile as the guard left us alone, the door clicking behind him.

Nervously I looked around and waited. I began to feel shaky, anxiety tightening my stomach up. The woman coughed and introduced herself, “I am here to ask you some questions, a psych evaluation,” she explained.

I nodded slightly, wondering. The woman picked up a notepad from the table, clutching it in her arms. She studied it a moment. Waiting, my ankle suddenly itched. Mumbling, “Excuse me,” I leaned forward to scratch my leg. Startled, the woman jumped backwards, away from me in fear, staring at my hand.

I am a small person, a mere 5 feet tall, 120 pounds. My crime included no violence, no weapons, no drugs, no addictions, nothing that would indicate a surprise physical attack from me might be likely. Bent forward, my hand still halfway to my ankle, I paused in surprise. Her fear scared me.

I peered up at her questioningly, my eyebrow arched. Frozen, she stared at my hand and didn’t notice. She looked terrified.

I finished scratching my ankle and sat back. I wanted to leave this room. This lady scared me. It seemed she had my psych eval already completed, some conclusions already formed. We hadn’t yet started but it couldn’t end well.

Returning to the present day, I studied our treatment director, my hostility returning. I demanded, “What am I here for then?”

Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her legs and responded, “Let me ask you a question. Why did you have sex with your son’s friend?”

“My marriage was awful. I hated my life. I wanted a divorce. I wanted…to run away from all my problems.” Embarrassed, I turned away, fusing my stare to the floor in shame.

Leaning forward again the director asked, “I wonder then, why did you use sex to solve a problem?” Surprised, I met her eyes. She appeared kind and respectful. It was a good question. My resistance slipped, a little.

Have you ever felt resistant to acknowledging personal challenges or seeking support? Does this resonate with any moments in your own life when you felt vulnerable or avoided asking for help?

Early in my incarceration I was told the prison had a step-down process for receiving visiting privileges if you were an inmate deemed a possible threat. Visiting privileges were assessed, from no visits to all privileges.

The visiting room at Shakopee is welcoming, with carpeting and toys and books for children. Blue chairs in rows face each other and march across the carpet. Tall windows to the outdoors bookend the room.  Smaller windows line a third wall, facing small rooms where non-contact visits, visits behind glass, occur.

My criminal charge placed me on the list awaiting assessment when I arrived. Thankfully I was allowed visits with my children, however the visits would be behind glass. To increase my privileges, I could take parenting classes and complete SO Treatment.

By this time My four younger children were now living 3,000 miles away from me and hadn’t visited in over a year, ever since my husband had kidnapped them from my parents. We spoke on the phone, and shared letters and emails but I missed seeing them, hugging them.

 I didn’t know when I’d ever see them again, but I planned to be prepared for that day. I completed parenting classes immediately and now treatment provided the next goal, a finish line. I attacked it.

This clear motivation focused me. I had spent the last half of 2012 in a fog of depression, gaining extra weight and feeling unhealthy. I began going to the gym, working out a little, easing into feeling better.

“Have you thought of getting a job in here?” Laying on my back I twisted, looking around. Kelly was heading across the nearly empty gym, making her way over to me. Not waiting for an answer she continued, “We need another worker in here, Linda just went home.”

Kelly, while not exactly a friend, was a familiar face. She loved the gym, worked there. I considered her question. I’d just reached top pay in the kitchen, despite my poor attendance record. They gave you a raise no matter what. If you were not being fired, you were moving up.

Switching jobs would mean dropping back down to base pay, being poor, more poor, again. I did want to be thin again, though, and working at the gym would mean constant access.

“I’d like that,” I replied, excitement building. Kelly smiled. Without missing a step she pivoted, heading for the gym office. “I’ll tell my boss. He’ll get you transferred.”

Kelly wasn’t kidding. I applied formally for the job, but I was transferred before that paperwork even hit the mailbox. It felt good to be wanted and I eagerly attacked the new job and lifestyle. I became a gym rat. Working out became a passion. I ran, lifted weights, and sweated. I felt good, looked good.

“We’re going on vacation to Washington,” my mom told me over the phone one evening. “Your husband has agreed to let us see the grandkids, so we are going to spend a week with them.” It was April, and the news stirred many emotions in me.

It had been over a year since I’d seen my children, and pictures were rare. During my 8 years of incarceration there were times I went so long without pictures of my children, that when photos finally arrived, I didn’t recognize them at all.

In my mind my children remained the ages I left them. In life they aged. On the phone their voices changed a lot. Sometimes years passed without a picture and then – and then I didn’t recognize their sweet faces. I’d stare and stare at photos, feeling distance and sadness. It was horrifying. As this had already begun to happen, I was desperate to stop it. Desperation in an already unhealthy person can lead to worse behavior.

“I want to see them!” I stammered. My mind began racing, worrying. “I want to see them, too!” I reiterated more forcefully.

“What do you mean?” My mom asked slowly, thinking. I didn’t know what I meant but my mind was screaming.

“What if we never get thi