Paris Hilton Breaking Code Silence about CEDU School, Ascent, Cascade School, & Provo Canyon School

“I was kidnapped in the middle of the night when I was 16 by two escorts who stood over my bed and said to me, “do you want to go the easy way or the hard way?” I started screaming and crying so they pulled out handcuffs. I was taken on a plane across the country to CEDU, the first of many “troubled teen” residential facilities I attended. To this day, I still have severe nightmares where I am kidnapped against my will, brought back to one of these programs, and can’t escape. No child should ever have to go through that.  

When I arrived at CEDU, my personal belongings were taken from me and I was strip-searched in front of staff and one student. It was one of the most degrading things I’d ever gone through at that point. I was given a rulebook that was seemingly impossible to memorize, no less follow. After a few weeks, I decided to run away but was eventually caught and brought back. Because of that, I was put on a “boy ban” which meant I would be punished if I looked at or spoke to any of the boys. Then, they put me on an “all ban” where I wasn’t allowed to speak to any of the students ever. The staff would constantly verbally abuse me, calling me a slut and every other name you could think of, but I couldn’t say anything back. They would also constantly threaten to send me to Ascent, another residential program, if I didn’t conform to the program and its rules.

CEDU made us participate in rap sessions where they force everyone to scream and throw things at each other. It was horrifying and I would pray every day that I didn’t have to participate. The staff would encourage students to pin themselves against one another by giving out “points” to kids who tattled on their peers. Students would purposefully set each other up just so they could receive points, progress through the program, and leave CEDU. I never told on other kids or conformed to the program which did not bode well for me.

Because I had ran away, I was considered a “runaway risk” and was forced to sleep in the common room with all the other kids they deemed “problem children.” The lights were kept on and the staff would watch us sleep. One night, two new escorts came in and said, “do you want to go the easy way or the hard way?” I had no idea where I was going and was so scared. They brought me to the airport, we boarded a plan and all of a sudden I was in the middle of nowhere in Idaho at Ascent. I was brought into a tent where I was strip-searched. After having just come from CEDU, I don’t know why I had to go through that again, but I guess it was their way of breaking you down. The staff at Ascent were even crueler than the staff at CEDU – they were sadistic, cruel, evil adults who enjoyed abusing children.

Ascent was run like a military camp. The staff would yell, scream, berate, and verbally abuse you every day. I had zero self-esteem because of the abuse I endured. We lived in teepees in freezing cold weather with a thin sleeping bag and no pillow. Everything was timed. When the staff would wake you up in the morning, you had 5 minutes to get up and fold your sleeping bag to their standard. If it wasn’t perfect, they would tear your space apart and make you do it again. We were also timed and watched by staff while taking a shower which consisted of a tin bucket outside with cold water, a cup, and a bar of soap. You only had a few minutes to shower and the staff would stare eerily. I was constantly berated with sexual remarks about my body and I was only a kid. We were timed while we ate and were forced to finish everything on your plate. You could not leave your seat until you finished. If I did anything wrong, they would put me in isolation – purposefully starving me and trying to make me go crazy. I also wasn’t allowed to speak to my parents because the staff said I didn’t deserve to.

During the day, we were forced to help build another Ascent camp. They were using children for labor, making us carry huge logs and boulders, saw wood, etc. Being malnourished, it was really difficult. The staff would throw us to the ground, hit us, and force us to watch other kids get abused. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, scared for my life. It was living hell at Ascent.

One night, I planned to run away with another girl. She escaped the teepee and a few minutes later, the meanest staff member pulled me outside and made me sit on a log. They asked if I had anything to tell them. When I said no, they told me I had to sit there until I confessed what I did. After sitting there, the entire night, I found out the girl who escaped was the one who told them it was my idea. But I still would not admit it, even after almost getting hypothermia from sitting there for so long. The staff member came up to me forcefully, put her arms around my neck as if she was strangling me, then slapped me across the face and said, “If you ever try to run away from here, you are going to be sorry.” She did the exact same thing to me the next day in-front of all my peers to instill fear. For the next week, she made me sit on the log all day. When I cried, she would laugh and tell me to shut the hell up. It was so traumatizing. Finally, after sitting there for days, I gave in and told them I would do anything to move forward in the program.

They decided to bring me into the Montana mountains to camp. That night, I ran away with another girl. We eventually were caught at the Amtrak Station while we were boarding a train to Los Angeles. Two male staff members brought us back to the camp. They beat and slapped us in front of the other students. After that experience, they made me hike in the mountains through snow with an insanely heavy backpack. We were barely given any food and slept in raggedy tents that provided no warmth. When we got back to the main Ascent campus two weeks later, we had graduation. I had been there for four months and thought I was going home but instead was sent to another program – Cascade in Redding, California.

When I got to Cascade, I knew something was off because all the kid’s eyes were glazed over. I was given a rulebook with unreasonable rules again. The staff were verbally and emotionally abusive. There was no actual school and I learned nothing. The staff were unlicensed and unqualified therapists. They used rap circles as a form of therapy where everyone would scream at each other. I witnessed numerous restraints where staff would put their knee on a child’s neck to the point of suffocation. Kids didn’t go a day without being punished here. It seemed like they would set you up for failure just so they could punish you.

I ran away from this school and when I was caught, I was brought to the infamous school everyone talked about. The school that, if you had run away before, would be impossible to get out of – Provo Canyon School. This would be my final stop.

I arrived at Provo in handcuffs because I was a “run-risk.” I was brought into a hospital room where a student and staff member strip-searched me again. I had to squat and cough like a prisoner in jail. They handed me clothing with a number on the tag. From that point on, I was referred to as the number not my name. I have completely forgotten the number because I blocked out the memory. They left me in an isolation room with a binder full of rules to look over. It had more rules than any of the other facilities had – you would get punished for absolutely everything. They had rules on how to open the door, use the bathroom, even to move. I was scared to do anything in fear of being punished. I saw children restrained, hit, and strangled on a daily basis. Some of the staff even sexually abused the children.

There was a level system at Provo. I was on investment (the lowest level). We would have to walk in lines like soldiers. We were made to sleep with the lights on and with the doors open. The staff would come in every few minutes and lift our bedding to make sure we were still there. I barely slept during the 11 months I was there. The staff would watch while using the bathroom and in the shower, ripping the shower curtain open and staring at me while I was naked.

Provo forced me to take medication daily that made me feel numb, exhausted and completely out of it. At one point, I tried to fake swallowing the medication because I knew medication wasn’t the answer for me.  One girl told on me and I was punished by being locked into an isolation room for 24 hours. The isolation room was a locked bare cement room with no bathroom. There were scratch marks on the wall and smeared blood. Provo markets itself as a place of healing yet instead of providing any support when you needed it, they instead threw you into an isolated room and left you alone. It was inhumane and traumatized me for life. 

Most of the time I was at Provo, I was made to sit upright in a chair against a wall. If I slouched, closed my eyes, or moved – they would immediately start over the clock and make me stay for hours. I didn’t get the opportunity to go to school because I was forced to sit in the chair the whole day. Sometimes they would bring me down to the gym and make a group of us run in circles. If anyone in the group stopped running, we would all get punished. The food was inedible to the extent that I became a vegan because the meat looked rotten and I was terrified to eat it. The staff said I was just trying to be difficult and punished me for being a vegan. 

Their method of therapy consisted of manipulation, brainwashing, and fear tactics. In group therapy, they forced us to admit to things that didn’t happen. The therapy sessions were not therapeutic at all. It seemed like all they did was use information to hurt and humiliate you. In therapy, they let me call my parents every once in a while but would disconnect the phone if you said anything negative about Provo. They would convince my parents I was lying and was manipulating them to get out. If I wrote them a letter describing the abuse, they would rip it up and I would get punished. My parents had no idea what I was experiencing at these schools because there was no way for me to communicate to them.

The staff at Provo targeted me. There was one woman in particular who enjoyed humiliating me and she only left Provo *THIS FALL* after my documentary came out. She was employed by Universal Health Services at Provo Canyon School for 20 years after I left. Other survivors told me that she would brag to them that she “was the one who broke Paris Hilton.”

It is difficult to remember everything that happened because I have tried to block these memories out to protect myself. I had so much anxiety and was severely depressed. I was terrified of the other students because we were living in an environment, enforced by the staff, that you couldn’t trust anyone because they would tell on you and get you in trouble. I felt like a robot. We weren’t allowed to socialize, touch, or even speak at times. When I got out, I had a really difficult time looking anyone in the eye and receiving or giving hugs. I have major anxiety and PTSD from my experiences at these schools.

There is so much more to say about the psychological, verbal, and physical abuse I endured at these programs but it would literally fit into a book, so this is just a small part of my story. It breaks my heart that children today have to endure the pain, torture, humiliation, and abuse that I went through on a daily basis. It is sickening that these facilities and their parent companies are profiting off the abuse of children and I will vow to help ensure these schools are held accountable and the children are safe and taken care of the way I wish I could have been.”

Jiffy Wood Dahlgren Breaking Code Silence about Ascent, Northwest Academy (CEDU), & Hyde School

One month after my 15th birthday I was dropped off for a visit with Harold, a ‘therapist,’ I had only met a few times. As my Mom pulled away in her big blue van,  Harold informed me that he would be escorting me to a wilderness program in North Idaho. Overwhelmed with intense anger and fear, I ran. He tackled and restrained me as I cried out for my Mom.  We later heard that Harold had sent multiple kids to these programs and was financially compensated by CEDU per kid. If this is true, it is against the ACA code of Ethics.  

When I arrived at Ascent, my first CEDU program, I was instructed to strip and squat. Like most teenage girls, I was taught to say no when something felt wrong and this felt dangerously inappropriate so I refused. They told me that we could do this the easy way or the hard way and I knew that the staff members were more than prepared to force my clothes off of my body. They almost seemed to hope that I would resist. I chose to remove my own clothing as they laughed and mocked me for crying.  I was terrified. For the next six weeks I would bathe in a bucket with pink hand soap while staff watched. 

My memories of Ascent have come in waves over the last 20 plus years. I remember arriving at base camp and knowing immediately that something was off. It was clear that Harold had been here before and was quite familiar with the staff. I will never forget one of the kid’s eyes fill with rage when he saw Harold, but he restrained himself.  This was really bad. The other kids there seemed dead inside. They didn’t present as normal teenage kids, but more like prisoners. Their lights had gone out. No one spoke. Their heads hung as if they had been defeated. I watched them continue to be broken down as staff members screamed in their faces. They were yelling things like, ‘You’re a piece of shit! This is where you are now! Deal with it! Your parents don’t want you! Get over it!’ There was no way that my parents knew this is what they had signed me up for. I thought that they would surely figure it out and come rescue me. 

I learned very quickly what happened if I resisted the program. We were restrained, physically attacked, forced to wear food tied around our necks, sit on narrow logs in the center of an unshaded perimeter for hours, your shoe laces were taken if you ran, and we were expected to participate in attack therapy and strenuous work crews until our hands bled and our muscles felt torn. That is, if we wanted to graduate the six week program and ‘go home.’

The brainwashing began on day one. CEDU instructed my parents to write an issue letter. This is a letter that explains in detail why they chose to send me away. The staff would take turns shadowing me as they read my mother’s words out loud so that everyone could hear. I could tell that the other kids had been through this before me and I felt an automatic sense of empathy for each and every one of them mixed with embarrassment. 

We were silently in this together, but could not fully trust each other. At CEDU, you gained privileges if you threw other students under the bus. This was survival. Throughout the reading of my issue letter, staff would throw in jabs. They called out to each other as if I were not there that it was no surprise that my family wanted to throw me away. They would call me names and laugh with excitement if I looked angry. They wanted me to react so that they could unleash their own aggression and rage. If I cried they would turn up the intensity, which was incredibly intimidating. They would yell things like, ‘You’re not so tough now are you! You spoiled brat! Your parents don’t want you. That’s why you are here! Get over it!’

The staff were cowardly human beings that chose to hide behind the program and abuse kids. I knew it then and I know it now. I fantasized about healthy adults coming in and pushing the staff to the side as they rescued us all with ease.  It never happened. 

I made the mistake of asking to speak to my Parents only one time. My request was met with wild aggression. I was convinced that they did not want to talk to me. As a matter of fact, staff told me that they were paying thousands of dollars to keep me in a place that ensured they would not have to speak to me at all. I was a mistake in their country club life and they had plotted to hide me away and pretend I never existed. Some staff members even pretended to express sympathy for me and would later use my vulnerability against me in raps (https://www.cedulegacy.org/blog/tag/raps).

To a 15 year old on top of a mountain across the country having been tossed on a plane with someone I barely knew without even a good bye, I believed the staff. It was the only thing that made sense. I was the family burden and my parents had the resources to make me go away. 

The staff were trained to turn me against my family and my family against me. Mission completed. I did not trust my parents. If I were to have the opportunity to talk to them again I could not tell them what was happening at Ascent. They wouldn’t believe me or, even worse, they were paying for these things to happen to me! Either way, they would tell staff and I would be punished. At the time I believed that This was my parent’s way of showing me who is boss. I was on my own and I armored up by pretending to be broken. I turned my lights off and tried my best not to feel. 

To this day, I’ll never be able to illustrate what it is like to feel that much love and home sickness paired with the level anger and hate that I would feel for years to come. 

At the end of my stay at Ascent, I was taken out on course. This was a two week hike through Montana and the Canadian mountains. Despite the treatment by staff members, this was an amazing experience. Part of course was to go on a 24 hour solo. I am sure that the staff were watching from a distance, but I couldn’t see them. I was just told to survive. I roped up my tarp, crawled under it for shade, and began to assess the bag of food left by the course leaders. I was thrilled to see a SNICKERS! At night, I could see every star in the sky and during our hikes I would encounter a moose among some of the most beautiful wildlife I have ever seen to date! The air was so clean and the trees were so green. I remember thinking that my heart was being healed and restored to its original form. It was spiritual and Cedu can’t touch what is spiritual. I was going to be okay. This would be the highlight of my entire year as a 15 year old girl. I loved what was meant to torture me. 

I returned to Ascent’s base camp and because I was compliant, I was assigned a simple work crew task. I made a sign for the outhouse. While another kid on course with me was forced to dig a six foot grave and sit in it. I cried all day watching her try to climb her way out. I hid my tears and threw up quietly in the outhouse potty. A horrifying experience. 

When the time came for graduation. I felt like I had done it! This was it! I was compliant and I would find out if I was going home to be reunited with my sisters or if I would be taken to another school. In my mind, my parents were coming either way. I tossed and turned all night. If my parents showed up for graduation then the staff were wrong about them wanting to discard me.  

I would wait until I was safely on the plane and heading back to Myrtle Beach before telling them what had happened at ascent. I fantasized about my Dad taking down the system and my Mom calling all of the parents of all of my new friends that were stuck in the CEDU system. The longing I felt for them to hug me was the most painful tightening within my chest that I have ever felt. A tightening that I was introduced to far too young. 

CEDU convinced my family not to attend graduation so they did not. My course group was divided that day. On one bench, I sat with my new escorts and the other kids that would not be seeing their parents or going home. On the other, I watched kids reunite with their families. Of course, no restraints, yelling, or raps occurred on the day of graduation. Witnesses were present.

I learned that I was being transferred to another CEDU program called Northwest Academy. The school told my family that coming to graduation would disrupt my progress and I would surely regress. What they did not tell my parents was that a riot had recently occurred at Northwest Academy and several people were placed in ICU. I arrived at NWA in September of 97. This riot was not reported to the state until 1998 when the school went under investigation and was closed down due to financial issues thanks to several law suits involving allegations of abuse. 

When I arrived at NWA there were not a lot of kids there because they were relaunching the school post riot.  I was assigned a ‘big sister’ who was supposed to keep me (and my spirit) controlled. This was a tactic used by CEDU. Kids are easier to control if they are controlled by other kids. Instead, she secretly explained the system to me. 

She explained how to fake my way through the program. She left me notes with stickers all over them to cheer me up and a showed me the ropes. I knew that she was putting herself on the line so I kept my mouth shut. She didn’t crack either. This is rarely heard of within the CEDU system. 

She is only two years older than me, but protected me from a lot of the abuse that you hear most CEDU survivors speak of.  I owe her my sanity. 

At, both, ascent and NWA there were night staff that shined flashlights on us every 30 minutes or hour throughout the night to confirm there were no runaways. This also disrupted our sleep. Showering was a privilege and you had less than five minutes to be in and out unless a staff member decided to target you. 

I remember noticing that all of the girls were overweight. This makes sense considering ascent would tie food around your neck and force you to eat it later. I went to CEDU at 115 pounds and left ten months later weighing in at just shy of 200 pounds. I am 38 years old and have chosen to not have children. Yet, I bare the same stretch marks due to my time at CeDU. I later learned that this is a common tactic used within cults to break self esteem. It worked. 

I was assigned a peer group. These would be the kids that I would go through every Propheet with until I graduated the 2.5 year program. Propheets are 24 hour ‘psychodrama’ workshops lead by UNTRAINED staff members. These are not counselors or therapists running these workshops. One of the counselors was a maintenance man that was promoted to a counselor. I only Know this because he was one of the nicer ones so he actually answered when my husband and I contacted him last year. I can’t imagine where they found the other staff members.

All of the propheets that I attended at Cedu Included sleep and bathroom deprivation, horrific psychological abuse, and covert sexual abuse (https://www.cedulegacy.org/blog/propheets-fornits). Many staff members had a few students that they would target. I was one of Glenn’s. He must have gone out of his way to make a special appearance in my one of my propheets. He informed me that my good friend, Kevin, would not be at the school once I came out of my propheet. He said it was because of me. Kevin and my ‘big sister’ had been sneaking off together to kiss and that made me ‘dirty.’ Kevin committed suicide several years later. 

Glenn had some more fun with me that night. He forced me to skip around the room singing I am a good ship lollipop as I held and licked a lollipop because this was a song that illustrated a ‘Whore faking innocence .’ I was a virgin. Glenn screamed for me to tell him more truth about what I had done. I hadn’t done anything. He told me that Jiffy was a stripper’s name and informed me that they would be calling me Jennifer for the rest of my time there. This is the same man that used to lick kid’s faces. His wife, Lisa, also worked for the program. Lisa used to always tell me that she knew when I was dirty because I would become ‘too nice.’ I have reached out to Lisa via Facebook to give her a chance to help me understand where they were coming from. No response. 

I was forced to engage in ‘Dyads.’ This is where I had to scream, ‘my mom made me (fill in the blank)’ and ‘I hate my mom because (fill in the blank).’ I also had to repeat this around my Dad. I went into the program in July and would not see my parents again until December so by the time I saw them I fully believed that I was not really part of our family. Again, a tactic used in cults that worked. 

1. Wilson was also a staff member during my time at NWA. He went on the run the school after it was shutdown more than once. He played good cop, but often smelled of alcohol. I could usually tell which days to stay away from Him. I never felt abused by B. Wilson. I did feel unprotected. I also remember seeing him go after his ‘target students’ and feeling grateful that I was not one of them. 

During these months, Cedu was sending my parents report cards. I received several letters from my parents telling me that if I pulled up my grade point average, I could move to a ‘normal’ boarding school. It was baffling to hear that I had grades when I did not attend any classes that I remember other than a biology class that wasn’t really a class. I never completed 10th grade classes, but apparently I was a great student. What???? 

Part of the daily routine at NWA was to tell our story to other students and staff members multiple times a week. We were also encouraged (forced if you want to move up in the program) to engage in ‘smush piles’ with staff members. This is when we would lay across their laps or rest our heads on their chest while other students and staff joined in creating a literal cuddle pile.  It was horrifying. I would lay there cringing while grown men stroked my hair and rubbed my back. 

I was able to contact my parents once every couple of weeks with a staff member monitoring. If I told them about what was happening the call would be disconnected and staff would tell my family that I was manipulating.

All letters that came in and out of NWA were monitored. A kitchen lady, Wendy, once helped get me to a phone to call my sisters. I’ll never forget the phone ringing and then hearing one of my sisters answer before I was restrained by several staff members (there was no need to restrain me … I dropped the phone), and my head slammed against the floor. I still have a scar. 

Wendy was eventually fired and I was placed on a ‘table.’ I later learned that it was my younger sister’s voice on the end of that line. Chrissy recently told me that she still recalls the sound of me screaming for her. This was five months before I was finally pulled out of the system. 

My table: I complied with my punishment  to sit at a table pushed against a wall day in and day out for several weeks. I preferred to comply to avoid further humiliation or even worse … Provo Canyon or back to Ascent. I was on banns from all students (this included eye contact) accept for upper class, I was humiliated by staff when they felt like having a good laugh, I was on work crew all day, and I had several journal assignments that were psychologically Abusive. Examples of writing assignments are: 

• Telling my dirt 
• Reflecting on raps (attack therapy)
• Why I am out of agreement 
• Etc. 

As expected for anyone on a table, I was ripped apart in raps by students and staff. Kids that were on a table were an easy target in raps to prove that we were ‘working the program.’ 

I vaguely remember the end of my CEDU experience. My mom once described the day I was pulled as bittersweet. On one hand she had me safely in her car. On the other hand, she could not save the group of kids chasing our car down the mountain as tears streamed down their cheeks. That day would haunt her. 

Many of those students graduated the program. Some of them have never recovered (addiction, suicide, mental health issues), others will tell you that they feel indifferent towards the program and just want to move on, some trauma bonded with the program and they cling to the idea that it was good for them, and then there are those of us that will fight for the rest of our lives to ensure these places are shut down or at least we will die trying. 

I left CEDU and was transferred to another therapeutic boarding school called Hyde. I have never considered Hyde as abusive. As a matter of fact, I referred to this school as a ‘great place’ in an interview I did several years ago. I was allowed to speak with family and friends unmonitored. I could leave campus and walk into town. Hyde was located in Bath, Maine on a beautiful campus. 

My parents later honored their promise to allow me to attend my home town high school for my senior year. My friends and I were all too young to understand the level of trauma that I had endured. I did my best to fit in, but socializing without paranoia was extremely difficult. It wasn’t hard to live up to my ‘crazy Jiffy’ reputation. I suffere(d) from CPTSD, Anxiety, Depression, and sleep paralysis for 20 years. 

For survivors: In 2011 I graduated with my masters degree in counseling. I had little interest in actually getting Licensed and becoming a therapist. Instead, I planned to penetrate the TTI and burn these programs to the ground. I’ll spare you the details of what changed for me and how, but in 2015 I decided to begin doing my own therapy around trauma. This is something I know we all fear. Therapy was not kind to us in the past and trusting therapists feels insane after CEDU. #iseeyousurvivor

There are so many details of stories that I could share of my experience at Cedu. I have several letters written to me while I was at CEDU as well as those written to me from kids within the program after I was pulled. Some of these include letters from PROVO that are very dark. I hope that what I have written so far gives you an idea of what happens to our youth in these programs everyday. If you are still reading this … THANK YOU.  I pray that this helps find a high level of motivation to fight these programs with us. #breakingcodesilence

Keagan Autry Breaking Code Silence about Alpine Academy

No one should have to recover from recovery. This is something I’ve said a lot when talking about the Troubled Teen Industry. It’s been and is continuing to be a very long and difficult healing process for me due to my time at Alpine Academy, an all-girls program in Erda, Utah. The first time I was ever validated by someone in the psychology field was in a Health Psychology course. I decided to take a chance and tell my professor that during my time in an inpatient treatment program in Utah, one of the punishments for doing something “wrong” (anything ranging from wearing earrings that were bigger than 22g to kissing a girl) was not being allowed to talk to anyone for a day or up to weeks. Without missing a beat, she told me that it was abuse. And she’s right.

I’m going to be very clear about this. If your “therapy” involves using isolation, shaming, physical force, or humiliation to change someone’s behavior it’s not therapy. If your “therapy” involves invalidating someone’s pain or identity, it’s not therapy. If your “therapy” involves telling someone they won’t get better without believing in God, it’s not therapy. If your “therapy” involves hiring people to kidnap a minor and take them to a treatment facility by force, it’s not therapy. If your “therapy” is leaving people with PTSD or C-PTSD, it wasn’t therapy. It was abuse.

This kind of abuse in these programs is continuing to happen today. I wholeheartedly believe that the Troubled Teen Industry needs to be reformed and that we need to make a complete change in how we go about treating youth who are in genuine need of treatment, like I was, but are getting abused instead. But first, people need to know that this is happening. And they need to care. This can’t just be left up to those of us who have lived in these programs. We need allies. We need you to listen to our stories and care enough to share them. We need you to help us take a stand against an industry that has failed so many us, and is making money off of it. I’ve been and still am afraid to speak out against an industry that I had once thought saved my life. It always takes an enormous amount of energy for me to make these posts. It’s my hope that anybody reading this is willing to listen to those of us who are making an effort to speak out about this, especially if you are a parent, working in the Psychology field, or know someone who has been to one or more of these programs. Please tell the people in your life that this is happening. Things won’t be able to change until there’s more of an uproar about this. I don’t want to see any more kids who are already in vulnerable positions being sent to these programs.

Julie Peysakhova Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

“Recently, some things have come to light about something I experienced when I was younger. There are many things about this experience that I had blocked out for many years, and even still some of my memories are fuzzy. I never realized that I carried trauma with me, and just how much that trauma affects my life today. After seeing new information come out, it’s almost as if I’m now re-living the trauma that I felt as a child. The trauma that was buried so deep inside of me.  All of the emotions of feeling abandoned, neglected, terrified, and completely hopeless came flooding back. Documents have been retrieved about my experience, and so many others experiences with this program.  I have been feeling more and more emotional with each picture and document that I read. I’ve been angry, anxious, and sad, but also thankful for the group of people that went through this as well, and who are here to go through these emotions with me now. I feel like in order for me to begin my healing process, I need to finally open up about what I went through, and maybe then I can start to move forward. This is not an easy thing for me to talk about, but it’s something I need to do for myself now. I also want to say that my experience was very mild in comparison to some others. I had the most simple and basic experience of a girl at Academy at Ivy Ridge, and I will share just the very basics of what the day to day life here was like. And as you’ll come to read, that alone was enough to cause irreparable emotional damage. I want to add that I still have many blocked out memories, so what I’m writing down is just a small portion of what I remember, and not my whole story.

When I was 13, I was sent to a boarding school for “troubled teens” called Academy at Ivy Ridge. This school was not a normal boarding school. It was more like a children’s prison. While I can admit that I wasn’t the perfect child in my teenage years, I never did anything so serious that warranted being subjected to the emotional trauma and abuse that this place inflicted upon me. The program worked by using manipulation and brainwashing tactics, on both the students and the parents. Parents were typically unaware of what this place truly was. The reason was that the school marketed themselves as being something entirely different. Students were also not allowed to speak with their parents, aside from writing one weekly letter to them and receiving two letters a week from them. All of our letters were monitored by the “family representatives”, so if there was anything negative written about the program, the letter would be blocked and our parents would never see them. The same thing went for the letters from our parents. If our parents tried to mention that they wanted to pull us out, we would not be able to see those letters and were instead told by staff that our parents were committed to the program and we would be stuck there no matter what. In fact, I was told this exact statement up until the night before my parents finally took me home. When I first entered Ivy Ridge, my parents were with me. Other kids were literally kidnapped straight out of their beds by very large men and thrown into vans to take them there. So I was lucky to have my parents bring me. When my parents left, I was brought into a small bathroom and was told to remove all of my clothing. They made me take off all of my jewelry and told me they would be sending it home to my parents (something they never did and I never got back). They made me bend over and cough, and they made me jump up and down, completely naked. I was only 13 having to do this in front of a strange woman. I remember my first day in the program, I started hysterically crying after realizing what I was in for. A staff member pulled me out of my group and sat me down on the floor. She got in my face and told me I needed to stop crying and get over it, because my parents would not come to get me and I was stuck no matter what I did. And if I continued crying, they would stick me in the intervention room (essentially isolation) until I calmed down. The thought of that terrified me, so I forced myself to stop crying and get back to my group (family as we called it). I refused to eat for my first 3 days. After that I was threatened with corrections (punishments that would cost points – I’ll get into that later). So I decided to eat my food but tried to hide the parts that were absolutely disgusting. My “buddy” at the time raised her hand immediately and told the staff member in charge to “tell my buddy that she needs to finish ALL of her food”. This of course got me in trouble. I was so angry for a while about that, but quickly learned that this is the way we all had to be just to survive in there without being targets ourselves. The food was so incredibly fattening that I gained over 50 pounds in just 1 year and was covered in bright red stretch marks. I came in at 100 pounds and left at over 150 pounds at just 13 years old and 5’0”. Even with the rigorous gym program, nothing could stop what that food did to our bodies. Speaking of gym, you always had to do everything you were told. I remember the first time I was told to run 50 laps around the gym. I made it to about 20 and couldn’t breath. I was literally hyperventilating and felt like I would pass out. I wasn’t used to running like this yet. The gym teacher screamed in my face that I needed to keep going or I would be facing a category 3 correction. I didn’t have enough points yet so I knew this would put me into study hall. I ran the rest slowly, being screamed at the entire time while crying and barely breathing. It felt like being in military school.

I was there for exactly 1 year. Others spend over 3 years there. The family representatives would often tell our parents made up stories to paint us in a negative light to try and manipulate the parents to keep us there longer, because  we “weren’t ready to come home”. In some cases, we would be dropped levels (I’ll get into that in a second) for no reason at all, or for a made up reason that the staff decided would work, just to show our parents “proof” that we couldn’t come yet because we were still not doing well. The documents that were recently released (by former program students who retrieved them) actually show proof of this manipulation, as well as show us that these staff members actually made commission based on how long they could keep us there, so of course they did everything they could to us to get that extra paycheck.

The program was based off of a points system. You start at level one – zero points, meaning you have no rights or freedoms at all. You couldn’t speak without permission, to the point that people would lose points even for just sneezing out loud. You couldn’t sit or stand without permission. You couldn’t go to the bathroom alone. There was no TV, no music, nothing. We had to walk in straight lines in the hallways and every so often, staff would yell “hand check” (or something like that – I don’t remember the exact words) and we would have to touch the person in front of us to show that we were walking at arms length. If you couldn’t touch the person in front of you, you would lose points. We had to pivot at every corner. If you turned your head out of line, you would lose points. If you looked at a boy who was passing in the hallway (boys and girls were split up), you would get a correction. Not following any of these rules would result in corrections – loss of points. If you did not have enough points to cover your “corrections”, you would be sent to study hall, where you had to write pages and pages of things from the student handbook. I still have a bump on one of my fingers from how many times I had to write for long periods of time. If you refused to follow the rules, you would be sent into an isolation room or be restrained or tackled. Many people were even tackled, for no reason at all. If you search “Academy at Ivy Ridge” on youtube, you will even find some video evidence of it. We were threatened with being sent to a worse program in Jamaica if we didn’t comply. A big thing was that you could leave Ivy Ridge when you turned 18, but Jamaica had different rules and laws, so that was a terrifying threat. We had to wear our hair in braids, which caused many of the girls to get mold in their hair. We were not allowed to shave. We only had 7 minutes to shower, get dressed, and get back in line and were repeatedly yelled at to hurry up. We had to eat all of the food that was given to us, no matter what it was, no matter how disgusting. If you threw up from the food, you would also be punished.

All of our schoolwork was done on computers and was basically self taught. You needed an 85% or higher to pass, which was fine, if we would have at least had real teachers to help us. In my year here, I was helped by their unqualified teacher maybe twice. Many people received their high school diplomas here, except it was later found out that the school was not licensed or accredited and all of these diplomas were fake. People who did 3 years of school and thought they graduated now had to come home and get their GED because all of their hard work was for nothing. You can find the lawsuit about this through a simple google search.

Once you acquired 200 points, you would get to Level 2. The “privilege” for this level was to get a candy bar once a week. Otherwise, the rules were the same.

Level 3 granted you permission to have 1 phone call a month with your parents, which was completely monitored and you would be punished if you tried to “manipulate” them with the truth. Level 3 was the highest level I achieved.

The abuse and neglect happened in many different ways. Many of the girls in there were sexually abused by staff members. (I, thankfully, was not). Many people were physically abused. Pretty much all of us suffered emotional and mental abuse. They wanted you to have trauma in your life and talk about it. If you didn’t, you were punished for it. Many of us had to make up things about our lives just to get through the discussions because we would be called liars if we didn’t have some crazy emotional story to tell.

To go to the bathroom, be it during the day or the middle of the night, you had to have a staff member and another student, your “buddy”, come with you to watch you. My first week here, I was made to sleep on the floor out in the hallway with night staff watching me because they put me on “suicide watch”. I was never suicidal, so this is just one indication of many that something was wrong with this place. To my knowledge, all new students were made to do this. Why would you have new students on suicide watch for their first week if there was nothing wrong here?

We also had to go through seminars in order to progress through the programs. If you had walked into any of these seminars, you would probably be horrified. Some of what we were made to do almost seemed cult like. We had to bang on floors and scream with rolled and taped up towels. There was one activity in which we were given a scenario of a sinking boat. Everyone stood in a circle and one by one, we had to go around and choose 3 people to save. So as you walked in the circle, you had to point to every person, one by one, and either say “you live” or “you die”. Imagine how it must have felt for a 13 year old child to hear “you die” over and over by multiple people. People that they even considered to be friends. Another activity had us remove our name tags and have to walk around and say each persons name. If you didn’t remember their name, you would have to say something along the lines of “You aren’t important enough for me to remember your name”. It was like a sick and twisted mind game. We had to sit in groups and talk about our traumas. I remember a girl talking about being molested as a child, and the staff member telling her she needed to “take accountability” for it. This was the normal “blame the victim” mentality that was had in the program. My first time in these groups, I talked about the things I thought stuck out to me that I felt bad about. Apparently, my stories weren’t real or traumatic enough for the staff, so I was kicked out of the seminar and made to re do it all over again at a different date. This time, I knew I had to over exaggerate things and make up situations just to get through. Little did I know that these stories would be told to my parents as well, who now believed things about me that were never true, and of course I wasn’t allowed to tell them otherwise. It was impossible to be believed even when you did somehow get a chance to say something. I remember that I didn’t get my period for the first 6 months I was there because of how much stress my body was under. I was given a pregnancy test, even though it was impossible for me to have been pregnant, and even though it was negative, my parents were still made to believe that I could be pregnant. I couldn’t even defend myself and try to say that I wasn’t sexually active, because the program said I must have been. Just so that my behaviors seemed worse to them and would justify them telling my parents that I had a need to be there longer.

Parents also had to go through seminars, but they could choose to leave if they wanted to. When I spoke to my dad about it recently, I found out that at his seminar, the group was hell bent on making parents say they would keep their kids in the program for as long as possible. When my dad said he planned on taking me home after my year was up, he was attacked by everyone for not being 100% committed to the program. They did everything they could to try and keep us there, so I’m thankful that my parents at least kept their promise to me and pulled me out after the year was over.

There were many staff members here who truly loved being as evil as they possibly could be. They were the ones to shove you down just because you made a look they didn’t like. They were the ones who would give you corrections for forgetting your water bottle somewhere, or maybe just not walking the way they liked. They were the ones that would watch you be sick as hell and purposely refuse to let you see the nurse because you were “manipulating” them. You just couldn’t catch a break with them no matter how good you were being. Some of the rule violations were so vague that you could be punished for nothing at all, just because staff said so. There were also staff that were better and tried to show us in small ways that they cared. One would wake us up with songs. There was one staff member who even updated me on how one of my friends was doing on the boys side, which was definitely a huge no no. Those staff members made at least a fraction of time there more bearable. But even the good ones never did anything to help get us out. They went home at night knowing what was being done to us and did nothing about it. But staff members weren’t the only ones that were involved in absurd punishments. The program was designed to pit students against each other as well. We were all expected to call one another out on everything and anything we saw fit. You couldn’t just skate by this place by following the rules. You also had to stand out and give out corrections to your peers. I remember the first time I tried to “vote up” to level 3. Any level after level 2, you had to be voted up to by being approved by multiple peers and staff members. I was told that I wasn’t going to level up because I was too quiet. I followed all of the rules and was completely unproblematic, but I didn’t issue enough corrections or call people out for doing things they shouldn’t do. So I had no choice but to start being more “seen” and I basically made a deal with a few girls I knew that we would be okay with giving each other minor corrections, just so that it would look like we were working the program but not have to be cruel to each other. Other girls were very programmed and brainwashed, and felt like they had no other choice. You do what you have to do to survive. Because if you weren’t moving up in levels, it would immediately be spun to your parents that you weren’t working the program, and then you would be stuck in there even longer because they would believe you weren’t ready to come home yet.

During my time in the program, I witnessed so many instances of mental breakdowns and nothing being done to help. I witnessed a girl chug a bottle of bleach. I witnessed a girl in her room screaming at the top of her lungs about the devil coming for her. I heard horrifying screams coming from behind locked doors every single day. It was truly gut wrenching, and even worse that at some point, you become so desensitized to it because you know there is absolutely nothing you can do.

I just want to add in my story, that I am no longer angry with my parents for sending me here. I will never forget the feeling of being abandoned and betrayed, the feeling of telling the truth but not being believed, the feeling of being neglected every day and having nobody to tell and no way out, but I have forgiven my parents a long time ago. They were also manipulated and made to believe this place was something it wasn’t. They were desperate to do something, and thought they were doing the right thing. Though the trauma will stay with me forever, I made the choice to not punish my parents for it, because they have long made up for that decision and helped me become the person I am today.

I have a good life now and I’m proud of the person I have become. I moved on from this experience many years ago, but realized that in some ways, I will always be susceptible to triggers from it. Trauma never fully goes away, but I am learning once again to cope with it and heal so that it can never again make me feel trapped, or control my life.

While this school closed down years ago, there are still many programs like this that still exist. To any parents reading this, if you find yourself in a situation where you are struggling with your children and want to help them, please be sure to do as much research as possible before making any decisions. Don’t ever let your child feel abandoned by you, because the times that they are struggling are the times they need you the most.“

#BreakingCodeSilence, #UnitedWithOneVoice

Alexa Breaking Code Silence about Provo Canyon School

“On July 16th 2004 My father committed suicide by shooting himself at our house. Less than 2 months after On September 11th 2004 a strange man showed up at my house to take me away. I was told I was being sent to a therapeutic boarding school to help me in the grieving process because I wasn’t ‘grieving properly’.

Upon arriving to Provo Canyon School my life was turned upside down. I don’t remember a lot of the first few weeks but I do remember crying uncontrollably all day and developing a deep seated fear that my mother would die and I would be left there. After losing my Dad in such a traumatic way a lock down boarding school was the worst thing imaginable for me and my depression got so bad that I had to be medicated to function.

The whole time I was at PCS I was absolutely terrified. I could not speak to my family with out a therapist present and I felt like I had been completely abandoned. While there nothing terrible personally happened to me aside from the PTSD I incurred from being sent but I did see terrible things happen to other girls, one who was my Roomate. My Roomate, who I will not name, was raped by her father starting as a small child, eventually he committed suicide and she found him hanging. This girl did not have behavioral problems so far as I could see. However they had her so drugged up to the point she couldn’t stay awake and constantly was sent to Observation because she would fall asleep from all the drugs she was put on.

Because the staff at PCS were all young Mormon girls with zero therapeutic training or life experience in general they often couldn’t connect with us. I was good at being supportive of my peers and was often used to try to get other girls to comply. One night I was woken up at about 2 in the morning and asked to go speak to my Roomate who was in Observation, a cell where girls were sent when they wouldn’t listen. When I walked in the cell she was in a caterpillar suite thing and was crying uncontrollably, she had been sent there because she kept getting in trouble for falling asleep and was absolutely hysterical. I will never forget sitting with her in that cell and trying to help her get out of there by staring at the wall until staff said she could move. This poor child had been sexually traumatized since early child hood and did not deserve the negligence or abuse she received at PCS. After the incident I was rewarded with a candy bar the next day for helping staff and it still bothers me to this day.

In December 2004 I was released from Provo Canyon School after the staff had come to the conclusion I didn’t “belong there”. Still the damage had been done and I was severely traumatized by the time I spent at PCS. Provo Canyon School is NOT a “therapeutic boarding school” and is a prison for children, many who have suffered from abuse. I will never be the same after being sent there and while I have grown into a healthy responsible adult the wounds that were inflicted from the time I spent at PCS will stay with me the rest of my life.

I am sharing my story in hopes that not one more girl will have to be sent to this terrible facility and that the centers for troubled children would be reformed to actually help children instead of hurt them.”

Elizabeth Martin Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry

“I will never forget January 13, 1999.  In the middle of the night there was a knock on my bedroom door.  My mom and dad were outside my bedroom door with two other people.  They told me I needed to get up and get dressed because I was going somewhere.

The other people- a man and a woman – entered my room. The man asked me if I had weapons.  I laughed a little- my weapon- a riding crop I slept with it next to my bed for years.  He said we were “doing some traveling” and I must get dressed and ready to leave.   I argued with him- and he was patient with me until it was really time to go. It was unavoidable. He said one way or another I was going. This statement was foreboding. 

The woman accompanied me to the bathroom and I brushed my teeth, used the toilet, and got dressed. I wasn’t one to self harm, but the idea did cross my mind then.  This seemed so crazy.  So bizarre. Even now – looking back to that morning- I can see the sink, the mirror, looking at my legs, the feel of the sweater, the texture of my jeans.

The night before  (January 12, 1999), I had come home from mock trial team and spread out all of my school work in the formal living room. It was close to the end of the semester and I had a ton of projects and papers I was working on and what felt like a million tests to prepare for. I had my Spanish group project that I was working on and my physics paper that I had to go over the edits for. The guy I was seeing and I had an argument- he thought I was hiding things from him (I was hiding my home situation, the severity of my eating disorder and some weird suspicions I had- for a while I suspected something- I had been having nightmares about being chased, unable to escape, cornered these proved to be prophetic).

We arrived at the airport and we waited for the flight. I made friends with the escorts- what was happening wasn’t their fault and it did get me away from my house.  The woman told me that she was pregnant, clearly they knew I posed no threat. They let me wander in the airport without them.  Soon boarding was called.  I took my violin, bear, and book boarded the plane and sat by the window- numb.

I was hurting deeply.  I was also so afraid to admit that I was scared and hurting. My parents hated me so much that they sent me across the country to get rid of me. It was absolute confirmation of everything that I had thought.  Somewhere over -maybe Nebraska (?) breakfast was served: a cheese danish, orange juice, yogurt.  I refused to eat.

Shortly, we landed in SLC.  I was met by Danielle, Matt, and Mindy.  We got into their car and drove south to Orem and the building that would be my hell for the next 9 months.

Upon arriving at the facility we entered through the regular door, said “hello” to the receptionist, then through huge double wooden doors.  The sound that they made as they closed behind me I will never forget.  Then on the elevator and up to Orientation.

Up on Orientation I met Allison, the Monday- Friday day staff on Orientation. She and a few other staff members had me go into the day room and strip searched me. This was unbelievably traumatic considering my personal history. I froze several times- reliving things that had happened. I had to, very consciously, listen to each instruction and follow it slowly and deliberately as I tried to stop from violently shaking. My ears roared and I was sweating as I counted my breath trying to focus on what they were saying.

My jeans, sweater, and shoes were confiscated.  In return I was given purple sweats.  The elastic was worn out- and even on a good day- they wouldn’t have stayed up, and they were about a mile too long.  I got flip flops to wear.  The other girls on Orientation came back from the cafeteria shortly and brought me another breakfast tray- which I was expected to eat- this one had biscuits and gravy, cheerios, and more orange juice.

Soon the orientation girls lined up and went to school and I was given a LARGE binder that listed the rules, worksheets to check my understanding.  When I was done with the worksheets there was a test.

Later that day, I met the education person (Mary Neal) and found I had more than enough credits to graduate high school- by a HUGE amount, that the teachers couldn’t necessarily teach me, and they didn’t have books to teach me out of- but they would get them, and I could teach myself. 

That same first day I also met my therapist. And then saw 4-5 very large men tackle a teenage girl, drag her into what I would learn was  “Obs” for being non-compliant- meaning she did not immediately do what she was ordered to do.  I saw girls forced to sit on “chairs” for hours.

I was numb and shocked at what I was observing the first day I was there- and it got worse.  While I was reading the binder and rules- it struck me how arbitrary the rules were and how any enforcement would be arbitrary and capricious. I did learn to shut up and not push back until I understood more about how things worked. 

Most of the group living staff was 2-3 years older than me and without a college education (I helped with homework).  This was an area that they resented.  What I saw and experienced during my 9 months there can not be explained in a simple document.  The level and kinds of abuse I witnessed was abhorrent.  Staff physically, sexually, and emotionally abused children who were entrusted to their care. While I was never physically assaulted, sent to obs, or sexually assaulted. I experienced verbal abuse at the hands of staff members.  I experienced having my abuse history dismissed.  I was medically neglected.

Girls there have no way to call for help there.  We were isolated from the world.  If we tried to tell our parents- we got in trouble.  Bearing in mind the only time I could talk to my parents was with my therapist on the phone.  Parents are warned that if their kids allege abuse- it is the kids manipulating and lying.  We couldn’t call the police, we couldn’t call CPS- we were powerless.

It has been 21 years now since I was there.  What happened there will remain with me forever. I still experience nightmares, flashbacks, hyper-vigilance, and I do not trust people.

Girls who suffer this abuse suffer even more- because the people who are supposed to care for them don’t.  The doctor at the facility was laughably bad.  The therapists dismiss the causal factors.  They fail to treat the girls. This means- when and if- the girls do decide to seek treatment- trusting a therapist or doctor is damn near impossible.”

-Elizabeth Martin

A. R. Zimmerman Breaking Code Silence about Tranquility Bay (WWASPS) 

A lot of people know nothing about the troubled teen industry or its affiliates.  These are programs disguised to parents as options to help control, silence and reform children, teens, and young adults. In light locally due to Glen Mills boys school being shut down due to allegations of abuse; I thought maybe people should know about a couple other places too. WWASP, World Wide Association of Specialty Programs was a company incorporated in 1998 by Robert Lichfield. Google it sometime the rabbit hole is endless. My story towards this hell starts in those same years.

I was never what you would call “easy to deal with”. I’ve always been stubborn and mostly self centered. In 2001 I lost my father to Pancreatic Cancer, although I tell myself I was prepared for it, I know now I wasn’t and honestly I’m not sure I’ve ever made my peace with it. Irregardless one of the major things lost along with him was the buffer between myself and my mother. At the time I was a strong willed, big mouth, know it all teenager. Who decided the summer my father passed I was going to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I scared her with every choice I made as I believe my mother thought she would be burying a second Zimmerman that year. In October of 2001 I was what most of us who have been involved as TAKEN. I was woken up in the early morning hours by two men I had never seen before, ripped out of my bed and forced to dress. I was then led out of my home in handcuffs screaming for an explanation to deaf ears. I found out later that most of these “escort” services inform the parents to stay out of sight and not react to their children. That night I bored my very first Airplane and wasnt informed until we were seated that I was headed to Jamaica.

At that time Tranquility Bay was one of WWASP programs operating outside of the US, with the standards and laws being applied differently. When I arrived ,I was informed that I would be undressing down infront of a nurse ; looked over, weighed, and measured. Then taken for my first outdoor cold shower and brought to my new “family”. We were grouped into different families and split up between Men who would watch us. They became our “Father” as the program referred to them. That first night I didn’t sleep at all, mostly because I wanted to know anything and everything the other boys in my room with me ( five of us when I got there, 18 or so in Renaissance Family and close to 200 boys total our side) would tell me. That was the first time I was told the story of a girl who had decided she was going to Jump off the front girls dormitory to her death less than 30 days before. I wondered if they had to disclose that to any of the parents. I realized right then that nothing would ever be the same.

I was sent to TB Oct 2001 and spent 936 days there until my 18th birthday April 29th 2004. Over that period of time I spent most of it on lower levels ( you were rewarded for being compliant and as you rose in levels, privileges were recieved ) staying to myself because I believe it was shellshock. During that time I witnessed unprovoked brutality from the staff and other “students”. From having to lay on my face while others sat on my Back, legs, or ankles. To being severely punished for even speaking. Even losing the most private of things like having to be supervised to even use the restroom. I was there throughout Hurricanes,  sickness that swept the dorms and even a small scale riot in which I got to see violence I’d only seen in movies until that point.  These facilities still exist and everyday kids all over the world are being mentally,  emotionally and physically destroyed be people with little to no training on how to rehabilitate a “problem child”. Most of these lost souls never recover. I have struggled since my return to always find my place. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be ok. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth going on and that’s the truth about mental health and the PTSD alot of us have. I can still hear the screams, I can still see the faces and I’ll never forget the voices.

Picture is from 2002 or 2003. That’s me in the middle rocking our lovely uniforms and shaved head so if we ever escaped we were easily identified.

#ThisWasMyAlcatraz, #BreakingCodeSilence

Jenny Talbot Breaking Code Silence about Ascent and Northwest Academy (CEDU)

“I was seventeen years old in 2004 when I was picked up by transporters and dropped off at a wilderness program, followed by a “therapeutic boarding school”. I was abused and witnessed my peers being abused by the staff. Personally I was abused emotionally, psychologically, physically, and sexually while at the “therapeutic school”.

My story is almost identical to everyone’s I’ve read (kidnapped, strip searched, isolated, attack therapy, raps/profeets, restraint, sleep deprivation, bans, full-times, etc). 

My psychologist (at least I think that’s what his designation was) at the facility told me that he was no longer in contact with his daughter, who was around the same age as me at the time, because she had accused him of molesting her and his ex wife believed her.  He would ask me for specifics about sexual experiences that I had had, and after each session insist on long uncomfortable hugs. I had another staff member corner me one evening while I was alone in the art room and try to touch me. A male student walked by and saw what was happening and intervened. 

I had another staff member take an interest in me and he would take me into a private room under the dining area and he would give me “singing lessons”. He kissed me and groped me every time. The song “The Rose” still makes me feel sick to my stomach. One time in front of other staff and residents he yelled at me about being out of agreement and punished me by making me saw logs all day in the snow. It was humiliating and cemented his power over me. There were so many things that were inappropriate done at this school. 

In the sixteen years that have passed since leaving I’ve mentioned the abuse to a few people but never in depth. I have mostly been dismissed or not believed with even the most basic examples of abuse I experienced. Many people ask, “but what did you do?” I was a child being abused, it doesn’t matter what I did, and I certainly did not deserve it. As a human labeled a “trouble teen” no one believes or listens to you anyway. Your identity is stripped.

The number of people that I was there with that have died since is alarming. The ones who are still living are struggling. My very best friend is a survivor too and refuses to talk about or acknowledge the abuse. We have been trauma bonded for sixteen years but incapable of helping each other because of the secrets and shame this “school” inflicted on us. She is a part of me, my kids call her Auntie, and it breaks my heart when I see her hurting.

In September of 2018 I was diagnosed with PTSD from a call (I am a paramedic) I went to at work, it sent me into a dark downward spiral. Long story short a man had knocked on a woman’s door barged in and raped her and held her captive for hours. He was my patient and recounted his assault in depth while looking right into my eyes. There I was frozen in time, stuck in a small space, unable to leave, with a monster. Sure, its not the same but it opened my past trauma flood gates. I have had weekly therapy sessions and been on steady medication for 2 years. I now know that it was my horrendous experience in the residential institutions that made me susceptible to the complete breakdown I had and my permanent diagnosis of PTSD.

I have lived almost all of my adult life completely disassociated. I’ve been moving through my life as if I’m in a weird movie that no one wants to watch. Intensive therapy has been life changing for me. I highly recommend to any survivor to seek help, you don’t need to be held captive by the lasting effects of this living nightmare!

I now constantly follow the advice of my psychologist and remind myself of who I am today and now, to bring myself into the present. I repeat this mantra many times a day: My name is Jenny, It’s 2020, I’m thirty three years old, I am a wife, I am a mother, I am in charge of my own life, and no one can hurt me anymore.

The truth is my life is not a movie. I am a victim of institutional abuse. It was real, it was serious, and it happened to me. Let’s band together in #BreakingCodeSilence and get these toxic places shut down! “

-Jenny

Marina Eff Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

I have debated to post this but in a way I finally feel ready to share my experience and hopefully save someone from going through this. One thing people don’t know about me and the few that do know pretended that what I told them was a joke. To them it might have been a joke, something straight out of a fictional story that one might have read over a summer break or during their leisure. Those that never attended a facility that I have would never truly understand that the words that I have spoken were never a joke and there isn’t actually anything funny about what I was telling them. In reality I guess I felt if I spoke the words and told someone, maybe just someone might believe me.

I attended Academy at Ivy Ridge located in Ogdensburg, New York. Vividly I still remember staring out the window onto the Lawrence river and thinking if I escape would I be able to make it across to the Canadian border, as many of us have thought many times, I assume. I also vividly remember a train passing by and thinking what I would do to just be able to hop on that train and leave the place I was in now. Although I was brought to this institution by my parents, some kids didn’t have that option and would actually be kidnapped out of their house/ bed in the middle of the night usually, not knowing what is going on. Imagine how scared a child who is 14 felt during that time. They would be woken up and dragged by huge dudes out of their bed and than handcuffed their whole ride to the institution.I was one of the lucky ones that was actually brought in by my parents. I remember driving up to the place, my dad parking his purple minivan and thinking what is this place and is this actually happening. I was met by two females, I said my goodbyes to my parents, actually I just ignored them, pissed off that this is the only thing they can think off to do. My mom tried to hug me but I refused and left with the two women, willingly into a total shit show that would become my life for the next 18 months.

I was taken to a room. I was told I needed to strip. I was completely naked in front of strangers I just met two minutes ago. I needed to do jumping jacks, cough while jumping, bend over, yes you heard that right, bend over in front of strangers. I remember I had a nose ring and I didn’t want to take it out because I was afraid my hole would close and was told that I either take it out or they will yank it out of my nose themselves. They gave me a shirt and sweatpants(navy if my memory serves me correct) and that was it. I was stripped of everything without even knowing it yet. I was given a “buddy” to acquaint me with my new “home” and I am using the term home very loosely, it was anything but that. That was my intake, cold, lonely and scary. I was allowed to talk to my buddy for three days, while she explained the rules to me and situated me into my new “normal”. There was so many rules to remember, so much sadness and crying within those three days. I cried myself to sleep almost daily as did most of the girls. We weren’t allowed to talk to each other, we weren’t allowed to touch each other, hug each other, show any emotion towards another human being, positive emotion that is. It really was a form of emotional abuse as I look back now. Everything was calculated and put in place to completely strip us of every human right we had such as speaking, showering, eating and sleeping. We were manipulated and brain washed to go against each other, especially those that build strong emotional attachments to one another, at the end of the day we only had each other. We were made to eat God awful food that made us gain weight, to this day I still don’t know what they put in our food. A lot of girls came in with eating disorders so again this was an emotional tactic to break us down. We would watch ourselves gain weight to almost obesity, develop stretch marks, watch our bodies become something we no longer recognized or had any control over because we had to eat the food that was given to us or else their would be consequences. The food was so disgusting that someone would vomit from it daily. We weren’t allowed to not eat our food even if the chicken was not cooked. To this day I won’t really eat chicken because I was made to eat raw chicken. We would work in the kitchen, serving others, cleaning, and to some of us that was a reward. Although looking back now to the school it was free labor. We had seven minutes to undress, shower, and get dressed. A lot of us developed fungus on our feet and mold in our hair. Imagine undressing, showering and getting dressed with a timer on while we were being yelled at to hurry up and literally have seconds counted down to us before we had to line up in perfect lines. If we weren’t done another consequence. We weren’t allowed to shave anything or wear makeup until we got into a certain category based off points. We were made to go through “seminars” which in other words was a workshop where they tore us down emotionally. We would look into peoples faces, people that we considered family and tell them to die. We would tell them they weren’t worthy or good enough, they weren’t lovable or pure. I watched girls who were raped having to share their story in front of people just to be told they deserved it and if they didn’t accept that than they were playing the victim. Oh how that school loved to use the term victim in order to furthermore make us feel like complete crap about ourselves. We had no communication with family or friends, everything was monitored and censored. We had no clue what was happening in our parents lives, siblings lives, friends lives, nobody, we had no communication with anybody except a letter once a week. These letters were censored and we were only able to read what the institution deemed appropriate. Parents would be manipulated into thinking this was the best place for their child, if only they knew the truth. We needed to pivot around corners, military style. We were put through fake school, that many of us who did end up graduating the program couldn’t even get a high school degree because this place wasn’t accredited. We were put in front of the computer all day schooling ourselves through an online platform, what a joke that was. There was a point system which measured up to how fast you can graduate the program, unfortunately most of us had to do a lot of emotional damage upon others in order to graduate and out of everything this is what I most regret. I loved all my sisters and I am sorry to those I hurt. This was the only way out for most of us. If we lost our points due to corrections we were put in study hall where we wrote rules out of a book until we would develop warts on our hands from writing so much. The screams at night, the crying for our parents at night, wishing we can be saved still haunts me to this day. There is so much more to say but it can take hours to truly get into it. Everyone has a different story some worse than others. Some were molested, beaten, starved, isolated. As a parent, I am one now, please there are options. DO NOT send your child to this type of school, unfortunately they still exist. This is your child and as a parent you need to do everything in your power to protect them. These places lie to you to get your money. The emotional trauma your child will endure, there are many of us who can tell you will scar them forever. Unfortunately not everyone can tell their story, but I can if it means saving someone else from going what I went through. I am breaking silence on these schools. They need to be shut down. Please do your research.

Elizabeth Anderman Breaking Code Silence about Mount Bachelor Academy (CEDU spinoff) 

“A month after my 13th birthday, I was sent to Mount Bachelor Academy.  I was in the midst of depression when I arrived there; several life-altering experiences happened to me in 1989 that would send any pre-pubescent girl into depression.  My family moved several times before I was 12.  It was very difficult to make friends and keep them, constantly being the “new girl” and I was frequently bullied.  In February, 1989, my family moved from Southern California to the Bay Area, forcing me to change schools in the middle of the year, and quit competitive figure skating, which had become very important to me.  I am adopted, and had dreams of meeting my birth mother.  Also in 1989, I found out that she died at the age of 24 from cancer.  I was having a very hard time going through puberty, including having severe, hemorrhaging menstrual periods.  It became too much for me and in September I refused to go to school.

My parents hired an educational consultant, who suggested they send me to MBA, claiming that the school had “stellar academic opportunities” and had “summer camp-like activities, year-round.” Nothing could have been further from the truth.

There was not one day that went by at MBA that I wasn’t told that I was “worthless”.  I still have a difficult time feeling worthy of happiness, 30 years later.

Groups were confrontational exchanges of which all students were pushed to “work on our issues” by being confronted by staff and students and encouraged to cry and scream until blood vessels popped (it became a competition between a few of my peers to see who had more blue and red dots in and around our eyes from “group”).  A staff member would choose a student to confront, and he/she would get up and walk across the room to directly face said student, with a ritual of changing seats to do so.  Routine group was every other day for 3 hours. It was well known that if you did not have any pressing issues at the time, you would need to have 1 or 2 in your head, or create one, because if they confronted you about not “having anything to work on”, you would be yelled and screamed at for that, and they would end up creating issues for you that may have not even been real. When an all school group was called it was usually to address someone breaking the rules and to use that student as an example by humiliating them in front of the school and encouraging students to join in, screaming at them for prolonged periods of time, anywhere from 6-36 hours.

Lifesteps. were the pillars of the emotional growth curriculum, 9 “workshops” that lasted anywhere from 24 hours to 7 days. They were torture. Peer groups entered the Great Hall, a small, stand-alone building with one large, multi-purpose room, one bathroom, and a large closet. The windows were covered in heavy cardboard and duct tape to keep us from knowing what time of day it was, once inside. They were shrouded in secrecy, each one themed.

Lifesteps were intense sessions of trauma therapy, bioenergetics, confrontation, humiliation techniques. None of the staff administering these therapies were licensed therapists. The length varied from 24 hours to 2 weeks.  The emotional themes varied from friendship, to the child within, to your dark side and more.  There were 9 and these were what the school were centered upon.  Usually a peer group of 6-15 students entered each Lifestep at a time.  The staff insisted that we could tell no one outside of the peer group what happened in these lifesteps.  If the staff found out that someone told another of what happened in their Lifestep, they were made an example of by either calling an “all school group”, self study, or work project.

In the Lifestep named Forever Young, the theme was to get back in touch with our “innocent, childlike” self, our “inner child”. One of the bioenergetic exercises was to lay down on a mattress on the floor as they played the song Mother by John Lennon extremely loud and peers were told to sit around the mattress yelling hurtful obscenities to make each student throw a more “intense tantrum” and “get out” the bad things we have piled on top of our “inner child”; our “innocence”.  When each student was finished, they crawled onto another mattress in the corner and were left alone for about 5-10 minutes to “cry and beg for forgiveness” to their inner child.  Alex Bitz ran my Forever Young Lifestep.  I lay down on my back as “Mother” began to play.  Alex sat on the side on the mattress next to my head and put his head about half a foot above mine.  He looked at me in the eyes and told me that I was so worthless that my birth mother did not want me, and my second parents did not want me, that he and the staff did not want me there and began to yell and ask me how that felt.  I remember every detail of this, down to the spit coming out of his mouth onto my face, the way his goatee patch moved with every word.  I threw my “tantrum”, crawled to the next mattress and begged for water, which was not given to me, instead Alex told me that I was once again manipulating for special treatment.  To this day I cannot hear the song “Mother” without feeling nauseous. 

The Castle, about our “dark side”.  The bioenergetics were done to Neil Diamond songs, (who happened to be my parents’ favorite singer and played frequently in my home).  After a very long session of bioenergetics, we laid face down on a mattress in the middle of the floor, one at a time, with the students and staff surrounding.  I was then completely covered by a large, heavy grey sheet and told to try to “break free of what kills your dreams and holds you down.”  I Am I Said played loudly on repeat as my peers and the staff held down the sheet over me and yelled and screamed obscenities as I had to struggle to push myself up to my knees. 

I am shaking as I write this now.  The feeling of claustrophobia and terror is something I will probably never get over.  When I was finally allowed to “break free” those sheets were labeled as my cloak, and spray-painted with the word that “I tell myself that kills my inner child and holds me down.”  Mine was Worthless. We had to stand with these cloaks mummy-wrapped around us for several hours, facing our reflection in individual full length mirrors in front of us.  We were denied bathroom access and a few of my peers urinated on themselves and still not allowed to move.

In Venture 1, after doing bio-energetics all night, we were blindfolded and walked outside in the backwoods to a steep hill, called “Hell Hill”, where we were forced to continually run up and down until we came up with “the answer” that was to be the most important “theme” for us to “work on” for the rest of our stay.  Of course, none of our answers were good enough and I was at the brink of passing out and was physically dragged up and down the hill, my knees and calves cut and scratched from branches and rocks.

Within a few months of my arrival at MBA, I began a relationship with a boy in my peer group.  He was my first boyfriend. I was 13, and he was 17.  He convinced me to go into the woods behind the dorms that the students weren’t allowed to go, and I had my first intimate experience with him (no sexual intercourse).  I had no idea about any of what I was doing with him, he showed me what to do and how to do it.  We both felt guilty for keeping it a secret and confessed within a month, during a lifestep called Forever Young, in which we were told that “everything would be ok” and how proud they were of us that we confessed.  However, after that, it was not ok.  What followed was torture.  The staff called in an “all school group”. What ensued was over 6 straight hours of the entire student body screaming and yelling at me, calling me an idiot, a whore, a bitch, a slut, and more derogatory remarks.

The voices were deafening, and I hung my head in shame and put my hair over my face.  I was then yelled at to put my face up and take responsibility for being the whore that I was.  The young man and I were pushed to turn against each other and he, as well, yelled and screamed at me, calling me a slut and a whore, a worthless piece of shit, and telling me he never liked me.  The staff encouraged the students to yell and scream obscenities at me, as is what happened in all of our groups, asking some of my close friends how it felt to be “totally betrayed by the slut who always acts like an innocent little girl.”  I was 13, and a virgin. Not once did any staff member explain or counsel me on healthy sexuality or relationships. Instead, I was immediately berated into thinking that I was dirty and worthless and that every sexual experience thereafter would increase my worthlessness.  The image of that all school group scene has stayed with me, and has haunted me, like so many other memories from MBA.—–

As a result of my confession, I was put on a self-study.  I was not allowed to speak or look at anyone, and forced to stare at the floor while walking and the wall while sitting at my desk in the corner.  I was not allowed to go to any academic classes.  I spent 6-8 hours digging a drainage ditch with limited water breaks.  Being on Lithium at the time, this altered my brain chemistry severely and many times I felt symptoms of dehydration and sought help for which I was told to stop “manipulating to get out of work project” and forced to continue digging, in severe heat and in rain.  I was to haul 76 wheelbarrows full of gravel and dirt up a gravel hill, down the dirt road, and empty it into the dirt pile before dark or I did not get to eat dinner.  There were writing assignments, most of them being about how I was a bad person, how I manipulated people, why I was a slut, confess every lie I ever told anyone (called a dirt list), what horrible future would I have if I continued down this path, and more…  I was forced to do dinner kitchen duty, cleaning dinner mess from the entire school completely by myself, a task that was usually assigned to a kitchen crew of 5 to 6 people.  A staff member or staff intern would watch me and if I stopped for more than a minute or made too much noise, I would be yelled at and a day would be added to my punishment.  I was treated as less-than-human, every single action I made completely controlled by staff-when I could talk to someone, when I could use the bathroom, drink water, basic human rights. In fact, my self-study was so harsh that my mentor at the time quit his job.  Yet the brutal level of my self-study remained unchanged.  A new staff member replaced him.  I was on that self-study for 80 days.

I “graduated” the emotional growth program in December of 1991.  The staff whom I had come to be dependent on promised to maintain contact and council me through the “transition” period, primarily the first 6 months home.  I returned home stripped of my dignity, self-esteem, and self-respect.  I did not tell my parents what had happened because I honestly did not know how to, I did not know that what they did was wrong, so I was ashamed and did not want them to know how “bad” I was there, as to deserve the punishment they gave me.  We were told that nobody in “real world” would understand our experience, and would think we were crazy or lying if we tried to explain it.  They drilled into our heads that they were the only people who loved us enough to show us the “truth”, and the rest of the world was false and fake. They told all of the parents not to believe anything the kids said coming out of their experience, because we would be full of lies and stories that were not reality.

This is a very brief, partial summary of my time at MBA.  What is written here does not scratch the surface of the wounds from that place.  I lived out the manifestation of the person MBA made me believe I was.  It was only after I found out MBA was shut down for child abuse that I began to talk about my experiences there.  I was not even conscious of the fact that I never divulged any of the trauma to my friends and family, my therapist, my psychiatrists.  Once I began to tell them, every person reacted the same way-shock, horror, then some form of acknowledgement and understanding, most people saying something to the effect of, “that really explains a lot”.  My therapist and my psychiatrist changed my previous diagnoses to PTSD.

Several of my friends from there have committed suicide. I have almost joined them, several times. I have suffered in silence for long enough.  My son suffers from my suffering. I have isolated myself and never truly allowed myself the joy and peace of living in the moment, without analyzing each thing and being fearful of and distrusting people. I still tremble under my skin, constantly. I push people away. MBA stripped me of my soul. By breaking the silence and sharing my story, I am reclaiming my power and my soul.”

-Elizabeth Anderman

Sami Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge, Tranquility Bay, and Gulf Coast Academy (WWASPS)

Screams bellowed throughout the long quiet halls of dorm 1. I remained standing in perfect line structure with tears streaming down my cheeks. Eyes forward, feet together, arms at my side. No moving, talking or loud weeping was permitted. The screams came from the girl whom stood behind me in line who whispered…”I’m pregnant” while the staff member stepped into the “nurse’s” station to check in. The few of us that were called to see the “doctor” were all there for different circumstances. I was there for my first and only “physical” I had received during my stay here.

Unbeknownst to me, I would leave that hallway unsure of what I’d be in for. I listened to a girl get an illegal abortion that day, in the room I would soon be going into once she was done. I remember standing in that hallway for what felt like hours listening to this 17 year old girl beg for help, that wouldn’t come.

The pain I saw in that girls face didn’t require for her to express that to me in words. I could hear it. I felt it. I was there – footsteps away.

Throughout my stay at Academy Ivy Ridge, there was a man who would walk the halls at night of the girls dorms (many nights) – sometimes he would take over for the female staff and berate the girls while they laid in their beds & other nights he would walk into their rooms.

Many nights I would hear screams from girls being “restrained” and the staff involved would yell for me and the other girls curiously watching and wondering what was going on, to get back in our rooms.

I’ve woken up to loud screams that would come from down stairs and was always unsure as to what was happening. There wasn’t any “helping” or “saving” anyone. That, I think was the most difficult. We all had to stand back or lay in bed and do absolutely nothing.

Before I continue I’d like to tell you that my stay at Ivy Ridge was a long road from the first day I arrived on January 24th, 2004 til the day I left.

The 22 months I lived in this institution, which was said to once be an old nunnery and then college had a very gloomy, old feel to it. Never mind the poor and unsanitary living conditions. The smell of mold in the air, the fungus that ran rampant through every “family”. The lack of attention given if we were ill. The mental and emotional abuse that became a permanent side effect from the experience of this place on mine and many others’ psychological development – the fact that – “getting over it” isn’t as easy as simply “forgetting” or suppressing the thoughts. But a lifelong hardship of work and healing that has taken years to even begin. And yet, the flashbacks and nightmares haven’t gone away.

Healthy love and affection that a child needs for his/her psychological well-being was missing. Which created a whirlwind of beliefs once I got home. It’s been difficult to withstand intimate relationships – as the affects of these institutions have altered my perception into fight or flight mode at all times. I’ve been too afraid to make mistakes in fear of being abandoned – rejected or hurt in any kind of emotional, mental or physical way. I don’t trust people. I have sisters but only those who I share the same trauma as – whom some would call “trauma bonded”.

I guess it all makes sense now.

I’ve been told to shut up for a long time about my experiences with WWASP that I did whatever I could to push these memories (whatever is left of them) deep down. Now, it’s almost like my body is my home – and my mind is the attic. All of this trauma has sat in a box – chained and closed so tightly in the darkest corners there. So forgive me for not telling it all – as I find it has been the most difficult thing I’ve done.

I will tell you that as a young girl who was raised by my grandparents, who were more so — “mom and dad” — not being able to attend my grandfather’s funeral while watching another girl leave to attend her aunt’s was heart wrenching. When I found out about my grandfather dying, I had been sent back to my “family” and many of the girls gave me the look of compassion with a crease of their lips.

That was what I got and it wasn’t even allowed.

The grieving process in a program was of the most difficult adversities I had faced. Another being, to hear, “what are you crying for? It was just a grandparent!”

Needless to say, I used my grandmother as motivation to just keep my head down and do my best to get out of there. So by the time my second off grounds came around on December 5th, 2005 I was pulled from Ivy Ridge and went home.

After the second day of being home, I hadn’t the slightest clue on how to function. I went to a public high school for one day and told my dad I couldn’t do it. One night I was making myself something to eat and left a kitchen knife in the sink and my dad told me he was sending me back. He said “that’s it! I’m sending you back! I never should have taken you out of that school!” It was over something minor and quite ridiculous at the time. Other times, with any kind of issue (no matter how big or small) – that was always his response.

In my mind back then, the way I thought was..”I’ll die before I go back” or “then I’ll make it worth the trip.” After the first time of hearing my father say those words – which only took two days – I couldn’t sleep in my own bed at night, terrified that people would come for me. I even had nightmares multiple times in those brief months. Woken up in cold sweats, screaming. I could only sleep with my bedroom door locked and my light on. I didn’t trust anyone in my family. I felt all alone without any hope in what my next move would be – or what would happen to me. So I left and it was my only way to gain back the control that I felt I did not have over my own life – but it was short lived.

Once found, I was brought by my mom to the Fort Lauderdale airport where my father worked as a police officer. My father put me in the back of a police car and tried to shackle me. In his effort to do so, I snapped. I was escorted to the bathroom by my mother in handcuffs and shackles (that were placed on my hands and feet by my own parents) and baker acted later that day.

On April 24th, 2006 I was taken out of Fort Lauderdale hospital (psych unit) by two strangers against my will after being baker acted for approximately two weeks. “They’re coming to get her.” I heard the nurse whisper.

“They?” I thought. “But this doesn’t make any sense my dad promised, he promised he’d be picking me up.” I said to myself. And then it hit me.

And my heart dropped.

You see, I remember when they asked me to pack up my things at that hospital. How they walked me to the downstairs lobby, I recall sitting there and staring off at those doors. The instant flight or fight mode kicked in and yet, I couldn’t move.

And so I knew, I was going back. But not to the ridge — to another country. Where there are zero child laws & the tactics are far more extreme.

Tranquility Bay, Jamaica.

I felt abandoned, hurt and completely helpless. As much as I wanted to run – I had nowhere to go. So I waited.

They gave me the option to do things the easy or hard way. I was done fighting so I chose: easy. From the first day behind those walls – everything changed.

One night while in observational placement (OP) that I had been to on multiple occasions for lengthy periods of time (months). There was one experience in particular that I’ll never forget.

Late one night, while in OP I was “restrained” by 5 staff members. One male staff kneeled down on my neck and ground my head into the tile floor with his hands, a female staff on my left arm twisted and pulled my arm nearly out of its socket and another staff member kneeling down on my right. A heavyset woman sat on my back holding down the back of my thighs and another woman at my feet grinding my ankles into the tile floor. I know for sure it lasted for longer than an hour. I remember pleading with them to get off. I cried, I screamed — they all pushed and pulled harder the louder I got. The more I pleaded the more it hurt. That hour or however long it was – felt like it was the longest moment of my life there. And I never wanted to experience it again. So when girls would get restrained (done dirty, as we called it) my body would lay there frozen. I’ve witnessed girls getting “restrained” in horrible ways for the most minor thing such as sitting up. You go lay on a 1/2 inch mat with your head to your side, your arms flat at your side as well –  for 100+ days on end without moving. It’s extremely painful! Not to mention the lack to adequate sunlight. By the time you got out of there – you looked like you were on the brink of death. I remember we’d peel the corner off the box and that was to be considered our spoon. I remember making friends with ants and talking to them even though I couldn’t talk. I had lost my mind in that room and I had lost myself in that place.

During one of the many periods of me being in OP, (observational placement) a doctor came into see me, he prescribed me a lethal (I say lethal because when you are given lithium in the states they have to constantly test your blood. This was never done for me) dose of lithium of 500 mg at breakfast, 500mg at lunch. Which mind you wasn’t such a long ways away (the time from breakfast to lunch). Then, I was given 150mg of seroquel at night. With these medicines combined and with the high does of lithium, whatever side effects I had – or if I didn’t like the effects I began to feel – if I didn’t take them I’d be given a refusal. I would have to continue to take the medication (psychotropic drugs) until the doctor came back next month. Which, he’d have to come to you. There wasn’t a guarantee that he even would – even if it was an emergency – at least that was my experience. Two months before turning eighteen I was taken with a select few students and sent to another place called GCA a program in Mississippi where I left on August 29th 2007. No clue on where I was going, what I’d do or any kind of life goals. My life goals consisted of what a 14 or 16 year old girl would have – because that’s where my development stopped mentally. I didn’t dream to go to college or work. I wanted to go watch movies and shave my legs. Go shopping. I can’t even express this to you enough. I was psychically 18 but mentally – I was not. Even now, I still feel like a kid. Even though I know I am not.

The next seventeen years of my life have been a constant uphill battle mentally (psychologically).

Prior to these experiences I had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 12.

Today, I live with C-PTSD, Bipolar and borderline personality disorder. I don’t take medication anymore.

Today I am in recovery with 3 years clean but it isn’t because of some success story from these places.

I’ll never forget having to chug down nips of alcohol to just go grocery shopping. Not able to socialize with people, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Being the “toxic” person in all of my relationships because being vulnerable was too scary. Having an extreme fear of abandonment and rejection so I would seek approval and acceptance from anyone I could get it from – to feel any kind of security and for someone, anyone who showed me any kind of “affection or attention” to take care of me – because I desired that feeling of being taken care of.

The list goes on.

I was hesitant in writing this. However, what led me to do it was the ‘HOPE’ that whoever reads it, does something to stop these places from institutionalizing anymore children and putting a stop to the abuse and cycle of trauma that many of us live with today.

I would also like to say, that it has taken me a very long time to forgive my family. Especially my father. Today I am no longer angry at him but at those who fed off of his desperation to find help for me that he could not give.

Thank you for letting me share my story in the pieces that I can remember it. Please feel free to share this to spread awareness to save the youth. I love you all. For me, for you, for us – I am #BreakingCodeSilence #FuckWWASP

Edit update: this picture was taken only months after the program, I was visiting with my mom.

Sarah Sustainable Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

I’ve been holding back for my book to come out, and feel much of this is extremely personal, but in light of a recent movement to expose the troubled teen industry, im inspired to share a bit sooner.

I am one of many kids that spent time incarcerated at a boarding school called the Academy at Ivy Ridge, which was disguised as a place that could save my life, and perhaps at the time, it did, but at the cost of compounded generational trauma, severe anxiety and deep depression that comes in waves which held me back for many years following my ten months stay in boarding school. My family dynamic will never be the same.

At 16, my parents believed there was no other way for me, and signed my rights over to this hell where I would be trapped, forced into submission and a life of silence. Students were not allowed to talk, look out of line or even move our faces without permission at the threat of losing points which were needed to advance and hopefully earn us the right to go home again, eventually. It was common for kids to be kept there for years which involved being restrained almost daily, physically and mentally abused without any real help. I wasn’t allowed to see or speak to my parents for months and our letters to each other were screened and many times blacked out. Any accusation or attempt to communicate that this wasn’t right resulted in further, extreme forms of punishment.

The academy thrived on the promise of curing troubled teens through a series of brainwashing seminars that included exercises of admissions of guilt, choosing other teens to symbolically die to teach the importance of self, and accepting accountability for destroying our families, while our parents were told this was part of the process. Our parents were told we were evil and selfish with the purpose of keeping us there as long as possible for thousands of dollars each month, sums that cost some parents their homes and marriages for the promise of saving their troubled teen.

I needed love, guidance, help and understanding and was broken down until I didn’t know who I was anymore. In the seminars, we established a new identity and purpose after watching our “images” die. At 16, I was lucky. Many of the other kids were younger, with less maturity to understand and protect themselves somewhat, as I was able to do, but I will always carry this and my family will never be the same.

Now, I am lucky to have found some healing, but many girls and boys I know have died or still struggle with heavy addictions and are lost to this place that is now an abandoned building. The walls that contained our misery still stand, although empty, and our voices are finally being heard. This is a glimpse of what I can say now, which isn’t much. The rest will be in my book, but please feel free to reach out with any questions or insight I can help provide for other people to heal, learn, and hopefully stop just 1 parent from thinking this is the answer for your child.

It isn’t.

Some of these schools are still open and funded by the government. Some of us are working to uncover this and close every last one of the WWASP network facilities, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they are already working on shifting towards opening in other ways. And with pedophile scandals on the rise I am sure they are not far off from becoming even worse. #BreakingCodeSilence, #BCS, #ISurvivedAIR

Molly Rose Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

What I remember of myself before I went to AIR at 14 years old is that I was happy, driven, outgoing, and creative. There weren’t many opportunities to be that person during my time at the Academy at Ivy Ridge, and somewhere along the way I became convinced she was gone, or actually never was.

Because I did graduate the program, my parents could send me back for 2 months free if I messed up in any way. I was not strong enough to handle being sent back – I had nightmares every night. I thought I would be able to finally breathe a sigh of relief once I got home, but it was as if the nightmare had gotten worse.

Finally at home I was unable to function- I literally had trouble speaking or concentrating, my anxiety was so intense- but now it was my real life. There was no hope for eventually escaping it.

At AIR, I existed in a persistent state of paranoia and misery. I was never ever alone, and I was at risk of receiving a correction at any time day or night. The rules were designed so that just being in a position to look like I may be breaking a rule could result in a correction – even if my only crime was existing. We could never be sure when, or if we would earn our right to be free in the world again.

I wasn’t kidnapped like many program survivors were. My parents picked me up from my lacrosse game and said we were going out to dinner. I was really happy – I was already having a great day. I had so many things to look forward to with the end of the school year and summer on its way. When I realized what was happening I jumped from the moving car and ran into the woods. A police officer stopped and I stupidly asked him to rescue me lol. But after that I don’t think I tried to change their mind much during the long car ride to Ogdensburg, NY. I knew their minds were made up and I was in shock. I didn’t believe that could ever happen to me.

As soon as they dropped me off, 2 upper level girls linked arms with me to take me to the girls’ building, about a 30 second walk outside. It probably looked sweet and supportive, but they held me tight- if I attempted to run, the entire facility would suffer a 2 week lockdown(more than it already was). I was terrified and polite, but Ms. C made it clear she didn’t like me or trust me as she had me strip naked, hop, and stretch.

I had 3 days of immunity to learn the rules. I learned we couldn’t speak, move our eyes away from line structure or the task at hand, move at all without being told, touch our face or hair, etc. Everything was a rule. The morning after my 3 days an upper level student saw me look at a boy who was on kitchen duty and I lost 50 points, more than I was able to earn the previous 3 days.

Thus began my 5 weeks in “sheets.” Sitting feet and knees together, shoulders back, copying pages from a textbook with breaks every 2 hours for intense fitness. Every time I’d work off my time and get back with my family, I’d inadvertently make some mistake I didn’t have enough points to cover. I wanted to do whatever I was told so I could earn enough points to at least start getting a candy bar Wednesdays and Sundays – but my intentions didn’t matter. Dorm parents had quotas, girls needed to call out other girls to “show up” and “work their program” and go home, and upper levels ran risk of losing their status and proximity to going home if they didn’t “hold girls accountable.”

Eventually I was able to slip under the radar enough to earn 200 points and start getting that candy bar. I still take the entire hour we used to be allotted to enjoy a Snickers

Ivy Ridge wasn’t a school. There were no teachers and no accreditation. We completed courses via a software program. Students would continue to stay *and pay* after turning 18 in order to earn their diploma, only to find out when applying to colleges it was fake and they needed to get their GED. Family reps – the salespeople who communicated with our parents and monitored our letters – were given scripts on how to imply that they were accredited without directly lying. Even as lawsuits were filed and parents started asking explicitly – these slimy salespeople assured them it was temporary, despite knowing they had been denied accreditation for years.

It wasn’t a therapeutic behavioral modification program either. Therapists were not included. No one on the payroll had been hired or trained with the intent to help us grow or reform.

There were disciplinarians who were paid minimum wage ($6.50 an hour) but got high off of power, and salespeople who dealt with the parents and made commission – an extra $100 a month per student -by convincing parents to take out second mortgages, borrow from family, take out loans with one particular sketchy company, or straight up sell their homes. They promised we would be back to our old ways and probably dead or on the streets within a week <–their actual words.

And the culture within those walls was so toxic all around that even the highly under qualified staff considered themselves “victims” – why else wouldn’t they speak out or alert authorities?

The day to day mental torture of the place was one thing, but we witnessed or experienced actual tangible incidents of abuse almost daily.

This was a cruel and unusual disciplinary institution and business. We were the commodity, and we were used and manipulated in whatever way staff determined we needed to be in order to convince our parents to keep paying.

Graduating the program seemed like an impossible dream. It often took kids years, and it required participating fully in the sick, abusive culture intentionally designed to break us down and have us break down others. I was lucky to make it home in just over 16 months. Many students with committed parents would be dropped for arbitrary reasons – adding about a month to their sentence each time.. $. Most corrections and drops were unavoidable or unfair, but it was on us to justify it and take accountability. “How is this a reflection of my life?”

The day to day at Ivy Ridge was discipline and punishment. To become a leader and move up in the levels, you had to demonstrate total belief in the rules. You had to tell on your peers if you saw them make a mistake. You had to thank them for their gift of feedback when they offered their harsh experience of who you were. You had to return the favor.

The glue that kept the program together was the seminars. They check every box for cult-like brainwashing tactics. We were desperate to make it through them and terrified of “choosing out” – aka being kicked out and adding at least 6 more weeks onto your sentence before you can try again and advance. We swore never to speak of the seminars outside of them. We needed to share our deepest darkest secrets. They needed to be juicy and we needed to emotionally break down in front of all our peers. Some of us would be singled out for humiliation, especially if the facilitator thought we were close to cracking.

If we cried hard enough and truthfully enough, then the next morning we got to play the “Lifeboat exercise.” We are lying down on the boat deck, feeling the cool ocean breeze, life is good and we are content.. CRASH. We scream at the sudden explosion. Our boat was sinking and only 2 people could fit on the lifeboat. Someone asked if we can choose ourselves- “No.” We walk around the circle, looking each person in the eye, saying their name, and striking our hand down as we vote: “Die.” Our name tags are off and if we forget someone’s name, we say “You don’t mean enough to me to remember your name. Die.” At the end we say our own name. We are out of votes. Die. The facilitator asks how that is a reflection of our own life, as if she hadn’t just told us before we weren’t allowed to choose ourselves. We write our goodbye letters. After lunch, we participate in hours long physical exertion exercises while repeatedly screaming how much we hate our parents for abandoning us until we were fully spent and destroyed. Then we got to lay down and go on a magical mind journey to meet our magical child. Our younger self forgives us and then we become children and we get to play. The same people you had to tear down with feedback earlier were now your best friends at the playground. All was right in the world. We were in a complete state of vulnerability and childlike helplessness.

We stayed up late and woke up early. Meals were small and simple. The third day we were rebuilt and inspired to be ideal, pure, honest magical children – which in that environment meant complete compliance to the program. Our parents went through similar seminars, minus the forced humiliation, and with extra Tony Robbins like goodness. Most parents became hooked on the cult and believed our program was like a long term soul enriching seminar.

The day before I left for my graduation, which was a parent & child seminar, my “family rep”, Ms. Missie, filled out a form for the seminar’s facilitator meant to share my reasons for having been sent and my journey to graduation. Those forms were usually filled out before seminars so the facilitator knew which kids to single out, which kids needed to get through because their parents were losing faith, etc. Missie wrote that I was sent there for disrespect and she believed I “faked” my program. She predicted I was going to go right back to my old disrespectful ways.

How could she have known that for 16 months of total compliance through endless punishment I was actually joyfully escaping into a fantasy about disrespecting my parents? Wild. Being called fake or untrustworthy was the ultimate insult at AIR.

Luckily I didn’t see that until this past year, because at 16 that would have broke me. I felt like a shell of a person- my journal lists reminders of who I needed to be at home to avoid being sent back – make the bed, clear the table, don’t speak unless spoken to first. I no longer knew who I was or what I wanted in life. I felt abandoned and rejected by everyone who mattered to me.

It wouldn’t have been the first time a student came right back without graduating due to some infraction or issue. To know the only person employed to supposedly care about me and my family disliked me enough to try and sabotage my chance at freedom – I wouldn’t have easily recovered from a blow that dark.

Some girls were singled out for bullying by staff. I knew a few staff members didn’t like me, but I was never singled out to be picked on and humiliated, pushed to suffer a nervous breakdown in the hallway while my family stands in line structure, eyes ahead. The dorm parents and supervisor had to get their kicks from time to time I guess. A few girls were able to find mentors or friendship amongst the staff. I felt jealous, but I was also intimidated and distrusting, so that was never me either.

I felt a bond with most of the girls, but every “best friend” I made ended in heartbreak. Ms. Sissy *screamed* at me after I had come to talk to and support my friend who had been put on lower level probation. She said she would drop us both to level 1 if she saw us together again. I had no clue why we were threatened, but my best friend was pulled shortly after that and I still feel guilt and sadness for avoiding her.

Whenever someone is pulled, it is done in secret. If they somehow find out they are going home, they are put in an isolation room for however many days until their parents get there. We weren’t allowed to say goodbye.

I got really close with 2 other girls as an upperlevel, and the 3 of us would spend time together whenever we could on our off shift days. One of them was pulled. The other seemed to switch personalities and just became straight mean to me and avoided me. I never knew why. We even hung out years after, but I was still too hurt by it to ask her. When I recently mentioned to her that Ms. Amy, the girls side director, seemed to have it out for me, she told me about the time she was warned that I was a lesbian and that if she was caught near me she would be dropped.

When I would feel a panic attack coming on, something I had never experienced before but dealt with often during and since the program, my technique was to look at my hands and remind myself that “I” have always been there for myself, and I am still here, in this moment I’m okay. I still have myself and I am OK.

We couldn’t speak, move, scratch our nose, or fart without permission. We were forbidden to look out windows. We had no access to the outside world- no outlet to report abuse. We wore our hair in braids and our uniform 7 days a week. We weren’t allowed to use face wash because a sweet, young girl in my family drank a bottle in order to go to the hospital and get out(she came back). This was the same reason we lost the privilege of tampons. It’s the same reason they added a second, higher gate onto the only jumpable staircase. It’s the same reason we didn’t use bleach on cleaning day.

It was drilled in us that we deserved the punishment we were getting. We weren’t sent there because we were good. We weren’t trusted because we were bad. It didn’t matter what false promise had convinced our parents to send us there, we were all stripped of our freedom, dignity, autonomy, and lives as we had known them. For years to come I would feel a deep sense of shame reflecting on my time at AIR. I would avoid the topic or make a joke if it came up, because I couldn’t control my emotions when I actually reflected on it. I had saved my journal and letters, but didn’t find the courage to look at them until this past year. It was nauseating and painful, and I think necessary.

I got home a few days before starting my senior year at high school. I had loved my freshman year, and I was excited to be a normal kid again. It was overwhelming. I had been told to avoid my old friends, and when I saw them – they soon saw the weird change in me and seemed to avoid me instead.

I learned something about myself that first day- I could no longer count on my brain to put sentences together. I would feel totally clear in the head, then someone would ask me a question and my mind would race. Instead of words, I’d feel tears forming and my panic would intensify.

This state of panic and brain scramble would come and go for many years – and I attributed it to my own weakness and shame.

A couple years ago, I read “The Body Keeps the Score” about how trauma lives on in the body long after the threat is gone. I wanted to be able to eventually teach trauma informed yoga. I found myself crying tears of relief when I realized the book was describing me.

I wish I had known sooner that C-PTSD was a thing, and that it was a totally reasonable response to existing for more than a year in a helpless and constant “fight or flight” mode.

I learned that anything can trigger my body’s learned trauma response, a smell, a memory, authority, loud noises, rules… Before I could know what’s happening or why, my body would tense up, my breathing would shallow, and my mind would panic – shutting down logic and communication abilities so I could focus solely on survival.

It was only in the last few years that I discovered *healthy* mechanisms to deal.

Over the past year I’ve gotten close again with my AIR sisters. Not everyone who should be here seeing us fight back made it. So it’s bittersweet to see things finally happening. The programs that inspired WWASP have continued to exist for decades. They often exist with ZERO regulation. Following the trail of corruption that has allowed these places to pretend to change names and ownership, re-opening every time they are shut down is MADDENING.

The first major step in healing has been the validation that what we went through was abuse. Realizing I wasn’t alone meant everything to me. It was hard for me, and I think a lot of us to admit, even to ourselves, that we were still hurting.

I am sharing my story in case it can help someone else struggling to heal years later. Trust that we are fighting back, and even if you aren’t ready to face it, we are fighting for you and fighting so families won’t need to learn how these institutions destroy lives and relationships.

#BreakingCodeSilence, #FuckWWASP

Corinne Christine Barraco Breaking Code Silence about Growing Together (Straight, Inc. spinoff)

“I have been wanting to share my story for some time now, and it has taken me so long because it has been literally almost crippling trying to put the words on paper.

I think my story really began before being locked away at Growing Together (a spin-off program of Straight Inc.) in Lake Worth, FL. As a child, I found it hard to fit in with each side of my family. Like I just did not belong somehow. By 16, now having been assaulted by a grown man in a position of authority and then later raped by someone I considered my best friend and someone safe, I was now struggling with existing altogether.

My parents did not know what I endured until some time later. They were desperate to get me help and really could not understand why I was behaving this way. I was acting out, isolating myself, skipping school, my grades dropped severely. I had experimented with drugs in a desperate attempt to mask the darkness and shame I was feeling but was far from being labeled a “drug addict;” as Growing Together so quickly did, in the interest of sucking 40 grand out of my terrified parents.

In March of 2004, in an attempt to intervene, my Dad drove me to the old building in Lake Worth. I was not told where I was going or what would happen next, just that I was going for counseling. I was immediately separated from my Dad. I still remember the smell of the intake room. It was musty. I cannot even explain the chill in the air. The chairs were rock hard. I was interrogated by girls in uniforms, holding clipboards. It felt like hours went by. The questions started immediately and were super invasive from the get-go. Once they felt they had enough information to convince my parents they were right, I was told I could say goodbye to my Dad. Once he left, I was strip-searched for the first time. Squat and cough, whole nine yards. Imagine the disgust and shame I was already drowning in from being sexually assaulted, twice within six months, being magnified as much as humanly possible. I was handed a uniform, (blue and khaki) the only outfit I had to lay my eyes on for the next six months. This could not be real. It felt like a horrible dream. A dream I never stopped having. An attempt to “save my life” that would almost destroy my life. It still feels too weird or too big or too intense to talk about at times. I am pretty sure I cried myself to sleep for at least the first month.

During my program, I was constantly belittled, criticized, shamed, screamed at, cursed at, and forced to shut my own thoughts down entirely. I was strip-searched nightly by my peers or other parents. Locked into a room with alarms at night. It was almost impossible to use the bathroom at some of the houses, so I just learned to hold it. Rules were meant to strip us of all things that could make us feel human. No unnecessary reading. I do not even remember being allowed to read the Bible. No unnecessary writing, no looking out the window, no eye contact, no acknowledgment of other people there unless designated to be on higher phases; no singing, humming or moving our body to “non-program” songs (essentially Barney songs). We had to tell on ourselves and everyone else as soon as a rule was broken. “Misbehavers” (anyone not abiding by the hundreds of ridiculous rules) were commonly and unnecessarily restrained by force and/or locked into the “White Room”. I was restrained by the woman who was supposed to be my “therapist” and case coordinator so hard that I bit her in an attempt to break free. I spent so long in that white room at one point, I kicked the wall down with another girl. My parents had to pay for it. Mind you, I was not suicidal, not attempting to harm myself or others. I was refusing to wash my hair. The one thing I could get away with in there without being a shitty person. We were not allowed to make any decisions for ourselves, probably why I still have trouble making decisions today.

School was a joke, designed to boost our grades to show the parents how well our program was “working”. There was not a blade of grass I was able to touch for six months. Our outside time was forced exercise. We were not allowed to just sit in the sun. We could not talk to our families except for Friday night meetings where we would humiliate ourselves and then be subjected to more public humiliation by our families. As time went on, I was forced to make things up or I would have my days frozen, given essays [to write] on why I am so full of shit, snacks were taken away, etc. No matter how carefully or concisely I followed the rules and bared my soul, I never made it off First Phase. Never got to hug my parents. Never got to go home. I acted out on purpose to be able to call them, eat a mediocre chocolate pudding cup, and shave. My experience in the psych ward literally felt like a vacation and it was not uncommon to be sent there on purpose for a break. It was not uncommon to run away. I never did, mostly because of the horror stories the girls would come back with. I spent every day in there afraid, feeling hopeless, empty, cast aside. Too damaged to exist in the world after. Not even convinced I would ever get out of there.

My Mom finally ended up pulling me from the program on September 12, 2004. My grandfather was dying, and they refused to let me say goodbye or attend the funeral. My mom said enough is enough. I was so institutionalized I had a hard time in the car leaving there. I could not listen to music or look out the window even though it was allowed. My mom asked me if I needed to go back. I was in shock. Thank God we kept driving. A few months later, I was kicked out of her house for smoking pot. GT had brainwashed my parents to that point. Where tough love was the only love.

I am full body shaking now, and the tears are pouring out. Sixteen years later, I still barely sleep because my dreams are so vivid. I still have trouble making eye contact with people. I still apologize when I am not wrong. I still “mood check” the room constantly. I still search for acceptance in every sense of the word. I still feel like the bad apple or black sheep in my family.

For years after the program, I punished myself. Lived through many near-death experiences and abusive situations. Internalized everything (still do) because I was taught to do so. I did not even acknowledge I had been raped until two years ago. I was told I put myself in that situation and, “What did I expect?!”

I love the life I have built now but I fought like hell to get here and I fight every day not to let the demons from my past put it at risk. I know now that I do not struggle with addiction, I struggle from trauma. I have lived every second of every day in sheer terror since. I always minimized my trauma from GT, I did not see it for what it was until very recently. It was just a thing on my list of traumatic stuff. It has consumed me for so long and I could not really “fix it” or begin to heal because I did not understand what was making me feel like this. Well, it is Complex PTSD. Makes a whole lot of sense to me now.

I could go on forever. I want to end this incredibly short version of the hell on earth that I experienced with some hope, some light. I see a therapist and a psychiatrist and have for years. I belong to a meditation community and practice daily meditations and affirmations. I am incredibly spiritual and feel overwhelmingly connected to nature and energies and am 1000% an empath. I have learned to turn some of the curses into blessings and use them for good in my own way. I am grateful for everyone who has shared their stories; I am ashamed it has taken me so long to share mine. With each story I read, I have felt safer and more empowered to share mine. I hope my story will do the same. I hope that our stories, collectively, will help initiate awareness and change in the world. We deserved more. So much more. As do all the kids and parents struggling. I needed love, compassion, therapy. It did not have to be the way it was. It did not have to hurt so much for so long.

We stand together.”

Brooke Beard Breaking Code Silence about Hidden Lake Academy (CEDU spinoff)

I’m not sure if I was one of the lucky ones, it was my own parents who woke me at 4am and demanded I get in the car. I was 13 years old. Many of my peers were removed from their homes by large men in black suits. I would meet these men later, when I was transported from one program to the next. They let you know that if you try to run, they will physically restrain you. They put you in the backseat of an unmarked vehicle, equipped with child locks, and they take you away, no questions asked, no questions answered.

I cried and pleaded with my mother, she wore a camouflage skirt. “I will do whatever you want me to do! Please don’t leave me here. How long will I be here?” I don’t remember that they responded at all. They were coached by the school to ignore me. I would fight, the experts said. I would plea for my freedom, for their love. Remain steadfast they were advised. The child is a problem, remember.  A manipulator, and we’ll take good care of her.

It was perhaps my third day. What little focus was put on academic studies was pitiful, but here I found myself in a math class, 15 or fewer students, and there were some rowdy teenagers. Maybe they whispered to each other, maybe they laughed a little too loud, but within minutes after the teacher left the room unexpectedly, there came in a small, red-faced man. He screamed at us to form a line. He laughed about how much he enjoyed group punishment. He marched us out into the wet, the mountain rain, and he barked at us to drop, face to the cement. I began to cry. He mocked me, ‘wahhh wahhh! poor little baby’. Some of the students laughed, and were encouraged to do so, because cruelty and shame was the name of this game. I would spend over two years living in such an environment, one of suspicion, absurdity, peers pitted against peers, staff enjoying their license to play with us in whatever way they deemed fit.

Sometimes that meant crawling through puddles of red muddy clay to reach the soggy bread and cheese sandwich that was all we were permitted to eat often, depending on the whims of those who watched over us like birds of prey. We reached the sandwich and then we were timed, 30 seconds to chew and swallow. If this task was not completed, the food was to be spit onto the ground. I didn’t want to know what would happen if I did not comply. I was afraid, every day. The staff ate hot meals in front of us. Sometimes throwing pieces of meat in the dirt, grinded with their boots, and then thrown to us, like dogs.

Sometimes it meant that we spent hours in group therapy, provoked, shamed, denied autonomy, stripped to the core of our personalities, for they would build us into a new, more palatable form.

I was regularly strip searched, drug tested, belittled, humiliated by staff who, it would be later discovered were grossly unqualified to work with children with behavior troubles, or even children without. Or even, anyone. Those who stayed to work in this place must have gleaned some pleasure from our predicament. You could not ignore what was happening here. It was palpable. We, the children, had problems that were created often through no fault of our own, through dysfunctional families, and a short lifetime of adversity. I went from one environment of abuse to another. They profited greatly from those who had money and could not control themselves, much less their children. They profited greatly from our collective suffering.

Phone calls were monitored. If we hinted towards anything but content with our beautiful mountain views, kind counselors, and our personal transformation from bad to good, we would be harshly punished. I learned how to speak the language. I wanted to suffer as little as possible.

The male staff regularly made me uncomfortable, eyeing my adolescent body, mouthing things to me, touching me, hugging me, breathing on me, aware that no one would ever believe a thing that I said. Punishments included loss of privilege to speak, loss of privilege to sleep in bed – we lay on the floor of that dorm hallway, under those fluorescent lights, blinding, oppressive. There were countless punitive abuses. We often dug ditches, free labor in the name of reform.

The hallway was covered in blood when one of my peers got her hands on a razorblade and took to her arms. A sweet release, for some, from a painful reality. A roommate cut my leg in the night while I slept. She watched me, waited until my breath slowed, shallow. I woke with a clean cut, the blood crusted in tiny drops on my thigh. I was punished for cutting myself. There I went again, lying, manipulating. Some of those children who needed inpatient mental healthcare were placed into this community, with no safety concerns. I had no voice, it was removed and shut away in the cabin we were often isolated in. Alone. Always an inner loneliness, that I would carry with me for the rest of my life. I will never be permitted to leave this place.

I recall crying myself to sleep, and in the morning, within seconds after opening my eyes, my body grew tense, I shook, and shook,  I put my feet on the ground, my legs shivering, my whole self, denied a home. I couldn’t protect myself, and help me I begged to no one every single day. Help me.

The stories go on and on, the memories often sharp and immediate. The emotion, the fear, it lives inside of me even now.  I have nightmares twenty years later. I am there, that feeling that only this institution could produce in me, and sometimes my children are with me, they are sunny, full of joy, innocent, trusting, and I have to protect them from these wolves. I have to get them out, I have to get them out. Help me.

The math teacher pulled me aside a few days later, whispered gently that she was really very sorry for the other day. She patted me on the shoulder and smiled, her teeth, shards of granite. You can go sit back down now.

Eden Riley Breaking Code Silence about Solstice East Residential Treatment Center

A lot of you know that I went away for a couple years when I was younger, but never heard my story. I went to several programs but Solstice East was by far the most dehumanizing and torturous RTC by far. As a form of punishment they would stick us in a basement for hours or even days and make us do assignments until we were allowed out. During those times of punishment we weren’t allowed to talk to any of our peers or even the staff unless it was to use the bathroom or get food. That’s not even half of the torture we went through. #breakcodesilence

Alexis Frezza Breaking Code Silence about Cross Creek Manor (WWASPS)

“My name is Alexis. I am sharing my story with hopes of helping expose the truth behind the troubled teen industry (TTI).

My residency in TTI spans over two years, August 1997 to June 1999, with two separate trips. My family was promised help for my outlandish behavior. I was, by any standard, a troubled teen. I lived through many years of bad choices.

By the time I was 14, I was on probation through the juvenile court, and was still acting out. My family was desperate! Looking at all different kinds of facilities, my mom found an ad in the back of a magazine and off we went, shortly after my 16th birthday.

My first trip, my mom took me to Utah and admitted me to a hospital where I spent 7 days before being transferred to the WWASP facility. One of the many issues with these programs is that parents sign away all rights and know almost nothing of the truth of what goes on.

We survivors have come forward to tell the truth about the inhumane and harmful treatment and practices at these facilities, with hopes that no more children will suffer. These programs use extreme abuse as their core tools – victim shaming, psychological torture, sexual abuse, physical torture – and non-evidence-based treatments to break children down.

I spent the first nine months at CCM (a WWASP run facility) in isolation off and on. Sometimes it was 3 days for not eating fast enough, or 5 days for talking to the wrong person, or often much longer stays. I would go days or weeks without a single moment outside, weeks without any real human interaction. Often, even when not in the isolation room, I was on “staff buddy,” as they called it. You were expected to silently shadow a staff member. You couldn’t talk or look at anyone.

They used all sorts of different tactics to break down your psyche. I remember always being watched when using the bathroom and never being allowed to shower alone when in isolation. Having the lights off at night was considered a privilege. The isolation room was an approximately 10×10 foot space with old blue carpet in the floors and cinderblock walls. There was a popcorn ceiling, and I remember spending so many days and nights counting the specs.

One of my worst experiences in isolation was when I was accused of being the carrier of lice. A recurring issue in these facilities, but it was only treated with shampoo, never proper combing or follow up. After months of ongoing problems, I was targeted as the “root of the issue.” I remember staff coming in the first day telling me they were going to cut my hair off. Then the next day, again more staff. Then again, and again, I just fought with everything I had. Finally, day nine, 10 staff members came in. They held me limb from limb, my stomach, my head, and one person held my hair back and cut the ponytail as short as they could. I think this was the point which I started to break.

8 squares of toilet paper. 7 minutes to eat 80% of your tray. Two fingers between hangers and towel neatly tucked over the dirty clothes basket. Ask to cross any door frame. These are just some of the regular tasks that must be completed, or consequences would ensue. They all just became a daily routine. All ultimately another method of torture used to break us down and continuing the pressure for full submission.

I believe it was shortly after the lice incident that I was sent on a wilderness hike. It was my first time leaving the facility in months. I later learned from my mom they apparently called it a trust walk. We were told it was 27 miles total. Consisted of rappelling down a cliff side, miles of unpredictable terrain, trust walked across a large tree over a canyon where you had to hold the therapist’s hand or you could die — all a part of the program. There was even a section when you swam in ice cold water through a cave about 8 feet long. The last mile was straight up, a 90° angle free climb, exhausted. I was sick the whole day, vomiting. I had been in isolation for a long time, so I was not healthy at all. In the facility, the regular diet is 4,500 calories a day. In my first six months, I gained 80 pounds. Between the diet and zero exercise, the wilderness walk was definitely another low.

That was the issue with the program, with all of these programs still today – there’s no evidence-based treatment! They use unnecessary restraints and psychological torture to accomplish their goal.

Another recurring nightmare comes from the “seminars.” There are multiple seminars required to advance in the program. The seminar facilitators use unimaginable techniques, including forced trauma reenactments, to continue to ensure a breakdown of the psyche all while using the attendees against each other.

I am here with hopes to help shine light on the troubled teen industry and the legislation that lacks in these facilities.

My second trip to Utah I was escorted. Which ultimately means my family paid thousands of dollars to have me ripped out of my bed by strangers in the middle of the night, shackled and cuffed, and dragged through the airport. After going back the second time, I spent four more months before I turned 18. They threatened to send me to Jamaica or Samoa where they said they could keep me until I was 21 because they confiscated our passports. Instead, I was released the day before my 18th birthday. All I had was my uniform, a $20 bill, and a bus ticket to get home.

At this point, my family believed the program facilitators and thought I was dangerous. They were told to stay away from me. I was disowned, homeless, and alone. I hopped on the bus home, and 36 hours later (the day after my birthday) I arrived back in my hometown.

It took me 20 years to really start to understand any of the things that happened to me when I lived in Utah. Now I am able to have healthy relationships. I have wonderful friends, an amazing husband, beautiful children, and I’m able to live up the street from my mom and my sister. I spend most of my time in the community helping to advocate for all children. In retrospect, no one would’ve imagined my progress, especially despite all they tried to break in Utah.

I’m here, #BreakingCodeSilence, hoping no more families will suffer! Please join me to help reform this industry.”

-Alexis

Natalie Silver Breaking Code Silence about Provo Canyon School and Country Cottage

I was groomed extremely well by an older gang leader by 13/14. I was dropped off at a shelter/detention center in Blanding, Utah by my father in 1998. He said I don’t want you, and to ring the bell… after I had taken off  I don’t know how many times. Before that I had lived with my mother in Nebraska. He didn’t have custody of me. I was put in detention because of abuse and uncontrollable and then charged by the State of Utah.

After that I was put in Provo Canyon School (PCS) in 1999. where I was drugged by Dr. Crist with over ten medications. I attempted suicide once, had multiple flashbacks of abuse suffered each time was thrown in Seclusion/OBS/Confinement… my therapist Itzel Montero said everything I said was a lie and refused to let me speak. What are your real issues, what are your real problems? She’d say… and throw her shoe at me at times.. I had to flip a coin to only yes or no questions only.. even for roll call… heads was the truth tails was a lie, and I’d get a class two and more time or punishment added every time it landed on tails… I remember having to keep something in my right shoe also that I had to step on that was agonizing… And some mantra I had to keep repeating to myself each time I felt it…

At one point I received a box from my mom. When I opened it, it smelled like her. I was only 16 and hadn’t seen my mom in over two years. I totally lost my shit. I cried and cried and bawled… I got DIAL 9’d that day for showing emotion I suppose, thrown into OBS screaming for my mom whose smell lingered in my nostrils. that box just outside my reach…

I became so desperate before my 17th birthday I decided my only way out was to die. I remember asking to take a chair and slipping my shoelace out and finally going for it. I faintly remember Clara saying get the scissors.

I saw my friends get drugged, cry, tortured, a few had some really fucked up medical issues now because of these assholes. The only highlight was seeing who got the best grades the lovely women and men who have come out such fucking warriors.

After PCS I went to Country Cottage in Hurricane/St George where I became pregnant within a month, shipped off again, only to find no one in Utah wanted a pregnant teen. The state found me a liability, insisted abortion but I refused to sign, even with a “parents” meaning the state consent they still needed mine? Also the threat of media was a nice touch.

They did find me a foster family. she was full of tough love. She saved me, my child. She taught me to think of me… I was grown now and in college. I did not need to be in state custody. I was over the age of 18, had already had a child, valedictorian of my high school class, I busted my ass to do better. I left ………….or ran pick one.

Natalie Silver PROVO CANYON SCHOOL #324 1999-2000

I am #BreakingCodeSilence, #ThisIsParis

Michaela Gaudlap Breaking Code Silence about Provo Canyon School

“I was a ‘troubled teen.’ I acted out, I ran away, I didn’t do my best in school, and I got into fights. I was molested and raped, I was belittled, and my feelings were ignored. I was called a liar, a faker, and was given the label of bipolar before I knew how to process through any of my feelings. Rape cases were opened and closed because why listen to a child? I was in a family where I felt like I didn’t belong. So I acted out. I couldn’t control my emotions because I didn’t understand them. Instead of being heard, I was sent to Provo Canyon School, where I stayed for two years. My name is Michaela, but I was known as 360, and this is my story.

I remember that weekend like it was yesterday: I thought things were getting better at home since I had been pulled out of school and was participating in independent study. I thought maybe the bad times were changing, but I was wrong. My mom was dropping me off at the skate park and before she drove away she asked me, “Will, you come home tonight? Maybe we can have lunch or watch a movie.” I can’t tell you how happy this made me, truly. I thought, “Wow, my mom wants to hang out with me, after everything I have done!” We did. I came home, and we hung out. That night, I was woken up at 2:00am by my mother sobbing “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I have no choice…” I thought something horribly wrong had happened, but when I started to become more aware of what was going on around me, I noticed there were two other people in the room.

My room was so dark, and these two complete strangers were standing there side by side, dressed in all black. My stomach immediately twisted up and I turned to my mom and asked her what was going on. One of the strangers, a woman, pulled out a zip tie from behind her back and they both took a step towards my bed. My mom backed up and didn’t say another word. I was told to get dressed while they stood there in my room and my mother cried. They escorted me, zip tied, downstairs where my two sisters sat fully dressed and completely silent.

I was taken to the airport where I was told I was going with one of them on a plane, without a hint as to where I was going. I sat there on the plane, with a stranger, for what felt like a lifetime, my hands still bound together by a zip tie. I was terrified. When we got there no one spoke to me. I was told to strip down, squat and cough in a small closet-like room with cameras and then told to sit down and be quiet. By the time I went to bed that night I had been kidnapped, completely violated, and the bag my mother packed me was confiscated.

I was then given a number, a unit and a therapist’s name. That was it. I didn’t meet any other students, eat or shower. I sat at a desk reading the rules until they gave me a bunk.

Orientation, or “Intake” as they called it, was a very small unit behind the “Investment” unit. Investment is when girls lose their beds because they “didn’t follow the rules” and are sent to a specific unit for punishment. They sit “chair structure” at a desk all day long. They eat when food is brought to them, if it is brought to them at all, and school work is brought to them as well. This is the unit where they kept “observation”. Cement rooms, a drain, and a yoga matt if you’re lucky. They were used for isolation punishments and students who had been sedated. I can still hear the screams, the running footsteps of a “dial 9”, and the echoes from girls banging on the wall. I told myself I was going to be good, participate, and get home so I never had to live in those poor girls’ shoes, but I didn’t know that was going to be nearly impossible.

There were so many rules, ridiculous rules, like how to sit, eat, talk, walk; things like asking before scratching an itch on your body. I was getting into trouble before the week ended. There were so many punishments: IR, Class Two, Standing Orders, No Talking orders, Observation and sedation or “booty juice”.  Shower Watch was when we had to wash in front of a staff member. Sleep Watch, where we slept in the hallways on a mat. Trey watch, where they watched you and forced you to eat. The list went on: write before you speak, rubber band snapping for those who self harmed. The staff put us down, ignored us when we had to use the bathroom until we wet ourselves. School was our escape but only for three hours a day. School was also a privilege and you could lose out on that for weeks at a time.

Therapy was the hardest. We were forced to talk about things, traumas, events in our past and if we didn’t or couldn’t we were forced to walk around with a box. On the “Box Program” we carried our baggage, so to speak, everywhere we went. We ate with it, exercised with it, went to school with it. Some girls had to wear a pregnancy weight pillow instead of a box. Exercises like trauma groups, attack therapy and so much more made girls turn inward and withdraw from others. I personally was put on a cocktail or drugs, like Lithium, Ritalin, and Ambien that made me hallucinate, have horrible dreams and gave me suicidal thoughts. They switched them up with no warning and didn’t seem to care about any symptoms or reactions to these mixtures of drugs they kept us on. They created a series of mental illnesses I couldn’t cope with and punished me for it if I didn’t “deal” with them in therapy.

I felt lost, broken and, more than anything, confused. I didn’t use drugs before Provo Canyon School and I didn’t know much about them either, not the ones I learned about in NA or other drug therapies.

My mind has blocked out so many of the traumatic events that happened to me during my two year stay at that school, but I remember so vividly what my peers went through there. I will never forget the sweet girls I met there, and who they became after just a few months of “treatment”. I will never forget how it feels to be tackled and given a shot that made you feel paralyzed and helpless for 24 hours. I will never forget watching my friends get restrained and isolated for days or even weeks.

Now, as an adult, reading other survivors stories has reopened wounds that should have stayed closed. I would have panic attacks there; I remember my heart racing and my hands going numb because I was always living in fear of falling out of line and I would pass out. I remember one time specifically a “dial 9” was called for me. I had gotten dizzy, fell and passed out. I don’t remember much, but I remember hitting a few things as I was “loosely carried” down to observation, where I was told I was faking it and I was losing my bed and remaining on Investment. No nurse saw me, no one addressed the issue. Now I’m 27 years old with four kids and have been diagnosed with Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome, heart palpitations that cause tingling and passing out. I couldn’t tell my mother because I was restricted from phone calls and letters. No one was listening. No one would believe us.

I do have some good memories of the bonds I made there with the girls who lived with the same fear every day. I don’t care if this [school] helped some girls or not, we weren’t given purpose, we were stripped of our identity, told how to live, how to act, what to decide. We were taught how to survive within those walls and not how to be strong after we left. We were shown strict structure, not love. I struggle with mental health every day, not because I was a troubled teen but because I was manipulated and treated as if I wasn’t good enough by so many, that I started to truly believe it. It still affects me in my life today. I am angry, I am sad, and I want to be heard. So, I am #BreakingCodeSilence.”

-Michaela

Lissy Rebecky Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge and Tranquility Bay (WWASPS) 

#BreakingCodeSilence, #MyPOV

Trigger Warning

WWASP schools, Escort, restraining

Parts of My story, I debated putting this out there but there really isn’t a reason not to. There is no reason for me to be ashamed or embarrassed, it was a chapter in my life that cannot be erased. So here it goes, my apologies if it’s long winded and scattered. I’m not very good at writing lol.

I blocked out a lot when I came home and was ready to move past all of this and start my life again… Somethings are clear like most of my time at AIR and somethings are fuzzy like most of my time at TB, I was at TB for so much longer and TB was worse. It’s been almost 15 years to the day since I left my hell called Tranquility Bay. I have come to realize only in the last about 8 years that those memories wether they are good or bad should be remembered. They were a big part of my life and helped make me who I am today and I am proud of that!

A little back story first, I was homeschooled from pretty much 5th grade through beginning of 10th because of chronic kidney stones and kidney infections. The homeschooling education that the public school provided me was terrible. Due to my medical issues I was medically addicted to opioids at 11. I was put on and addicted to so many medications at a very young age. First withdrawal I went through I think I was 12 and thought I was going to die. This was my life for years, hospitals surgeries medications doctors. Things started to get a little better health wise at 15 so I went back to real school for the first time years and most of the medication I had been on for year was reduced!!! I was so lost mentally and emotionally. I didn’t know how to take notes and listen to teachers lecture. I didn’t know how to study on my own or write a paper. I didn’t really have friends to lean on either. Yea I had like two best friends and I knew the kids from school but I didn’t know know them, they weren’t my friends for the last 6 years. So I ended up going balls to the wall. I fell in with a “bad crew” if that’s what you want to call it. I decided to skip classes and party. I felt like I was making up for so much lost time, having fun with friends, self medicating because they took away a lot of what I had been on for years. Drugging and drinking missing curfew all the time. Thinking this is what teens are supposed to do. This is when the issues with my parents started. I ended up getting left back my junior year from skipping classes and I refused to go to summer school. After a lot of turmoil in Sept 2004 I agreed with my parents to go to a boarding school after I was drug tested and they found stuff in my system. So Oct 2004, about two weeks after I turned 17, I thought it was a “normal” boarding school. I figured I would come home on some weekends and holiday/ summer breaks. I thought I would have phone calls weekly with friends and family and I thought I would get visits monthly but I was so so wrong. My parents knew it was a program for troubled kids, they unfortunately just didn’t know EVERYTHING about Academy at Ivy Ridge (NY) or any of the WWASP schools. 

After hearing stories from others girl I consider myself fortunate that I was brought in the way I was and not kidnapped in the middle of night while I was sleeping. Needless to say once my parents left I learned what this place was going to be like in the next few hours. I was stunned, lost, confused and scared. I just wanted to call my parents and tell them to come back, it was a mistake. That is when I was informed I will not be able to speak on the phone with my parents for some time. Could be months it depends on how hard I want to work the program. My head was spinning, I can’t call home? For how long? Work the program? What program? How? In the coming days I started learn what that meant. There were endless rules. I soon learned those rules were there to just break you down.

They didn’t take my kidney issues too seriously so when I would have to pee and they would say no I would just go and then be I trouble. If I would question them about my meds I was in trouble. If I didn’t eat all my food I was in trouble. I was not “working the program” as they would say. I remember being in worksheets not sure what it was for, copying from a text book and having to pee so bad. They didn’t want to let me have a pass to use the bathroom, so I tried to just get up and go and they locked the classroom door. Meanwhile I’m supposed to have a restroom pass for anytime due to my kidney issues, so here I am having to pee so bad my kidneys are starting to hurt, so I peed in a garbage can. I sure as hell wasn’t going to pee my pants, but that got me restrained for the first time and they put me right in OP. I was shocked at what had just happened to me and worried about how it would be going forward. I was just man handled and sat on by grown adults. OP is where I ended up staying until I left AIR. We were allowed to write home once a week But you can forget telling your parents what goes on, your letters are read and if they don’t like what your telling your parents they don’t get that letter and are told you refused to write them this week (same in Jamaica).

You see in the beginning they tell all the parents not to believe us, and that we will “try to tell them anything, like the school staff abuses us just to get you to take them home.” So from the beginning my vulnerable parents were lied to and manipulated like all the other parents. The story was always spun to make us, the teen look bad/ defiant and we could never defend ourselves to our parents. We didn’t have the opportunity. From then on it was one nightmare after another.

After a few weeks in total of being there I was expelled from AIR for being “Uncompliant” and inciting an “OP movement” as they told my parents. Last thing I remember at AIR is a head staff member coming in with two “officers” that had handcuffs and said we can do this the Easy way or the hard way. You are no longer welcome here at AIR and will be transported by these two individuals to Tranquility Bay in Jamaica. Now Is where I learn what others meant when they say they were kidnapped. I was feeling the same in that moment, saying to myself; my parents didn’t tell me this over the phone, this would surely be a phone call right? cause I haven’t been able to speak to them since they left me here, they didn’t write me to say this would be happening. I’m 17 how can they just take me out of the country without me talking to my parents, is this even legal, I don’t even have a passport I had heard all about this place they were taking me to it was said to be one of the worst of these types of schools at the time (staff always threatened you with going there) would my parents really send me there? Was I that bad of a kid?! They looked and me and said well …I said well what …they said easy way or the hard way. I didn’t even say anything what was I going to say? That was it they grabbed my arms and walked me out. My stuff was already packed, I wasn’t able to speak to my parents before leaving I had no idea if this was real  …. just a Tupperware of my shit, my terrified self and the two “officers”.

Once I saw the silver minivan I panicked, next thing I knew I was hand cuffed and inside the minivan. I think I tried to run but I’m not sure how I got the hand cuffs on, if I passed out or what. The large woman sat in back and the man drove. She said we were on our way to a hotel near The airport and our flight is in the morning. This lady then I cuffs me and hands me a letter and says this may explain better it’s from your parents. As angry as I was I didn’t want to read it but I also needed to know if my parents were really doing this. Sure enough I open it and see my parents handwriting, I read half of it and couldn’t believe it I started shaking with anger and fear and tore it up into pieces. The anxiety of not knowing what I was about to walk into was crippling especially after hearing the horror stories the staff at AIR would tell us. We get to the hotel in the middle of the night and and they said get some rest …. I don’t know WTF they were on but there was no way I was going to go to sleep with two strangers in a hotel room. I said hell no and I sat there scared in the corner chair until we left for my flight. I didn’t know these people I didn’t even know if they were real officers.

So here we are next day and I haven’t slept. I’m shaking from the inside out. I remember walking through the airport exhausted but freaking out inside. The only thing that helped me through that flight was a handful of Benedryl. I get motion sickness and the lady going on the plane with me said your mom said you need to take these before we fly. Her mistake was she gave me the bottle, so I poured a bunch into my hand not even counting and swallowed them. Don’t remember anything after take off. By the time we landed I was so out of it, I was barely able to get to the car. Most of the multiple hour drive to Tranquility Bay is a blur as I was in and out of my Benedryl stoopper.

We arrived and I remember the “supervisor” had carried me in cause I was so out of it. I wish I remembered his name, It wasn’t Mr Blair because he was a smaller guy. Anyway it was the bigger guy. I don’t remember much until waking up the next day to meet my “buddy” sitting at the edge of my bed and a Jamaican women yelling at me in what sounded like another language. I was told I was in the Integrity family and Mrs Smith was our family mom whom I would meet later. After about a week or so and some nights hearing girls scream I knew this was not going to be an easy place to survive, but I was going to have to try. This is where my insomnia/paranoia and anxiety started to get worse. I remember being sent to worksheets for the first time in TB and i think it was from falling asleep in class. Because I was too scared to sleep fully at night. Your time in worksheets depended on the consequences received. There were pages of rules ranging from CAT1-CAT5 which described the severity of the rule you broke. I just couldn’t seem to follow all of the rules, I was breaking rules and didn’t even realize it and for stupid things and I think I just gave up on trying early on.

From what I remember our day consisted of ; Wake up everyday hygiene and clean , everyone had a chore. After cleaning I think we went to breakfast, then classes, then PE, then 7 min to undress shower dress and be lined up to wash your underwear which we hand washed in buckets, then lunch, then more classes, then group which was a total joke and bash session, then dinner then an educational show before getting ready for quiet time and then hygiene and bed. I remember the shower was a nasty pipe sticking out of the wall and we were lucky when the water worked it was cold as shit though. Other wise we would have to fill up buckets in the courtyard and carry them and use that to shower. We washed our clothes/ bedding by hand and hung it to dry. There were stretches i would “behave” but it just felt demeaning, hurtful, humiliating, unfair and just plain stupid honestly, in those times my depression and anxiety was worse. It just felt wrong, everything about their methods/therapies/seminars just seemed wrong. The more I heard in group and from others the more I knew this place was hell just with a tropical disguise. We weren’t getting real therapy or help we were getting judged and belittled and mentally emotionally and physically abused. We were being broken down as far as they could get us so they can basically re program us to what they believe is the ideal teenager. I was in worksheets, OP and later isolation on and off ALL the time. That’s how a majority of my time was spent in TB. My family mom did feel bad for me at one point and gave 200 points while I was in OP so I can go to seminar and see my parents hoping it would get me to work. I was all bandaged up when I got to see them and they were told all injuries were self done, not completely true. I tried working for a very short time after I saw my parents but it didn’t last long. I was screamed at, teased, bullied and humiliated all by staff all for a look you would give or an answer they wouldn’t like or just because sometimes. Most of the time they would taunt us to get us wound up so we could flip out and then they could restrain us. They knew what made us tick and used it against us especially if they see you to try and start working. They had their favorites to pick on unfortunately. We were spit on, pushed, sat on and mocked by staff. At times We would yell back or spit back or fight back and at times we didn’t have it in us. We were restrained by multiple women, women four times most of our sizes for various reasons. They would twist your arms back and push them as far as the could, they always seemed to dig their knees into the backs of your knees or toes. Some of us would be scraped up and bruised. But in the end it was always our fault.

I was completely depressed and lost, I self harmed and starved myself while there. I didn’t want to hear girls screaming in the middle of the night anymore cause you just knew something bad was happening and there was nothing you could do. So many had it so much worse than me.

I do remember at one point a “riot” was planned and acted out to fight back from all the abuse in hopes it would get out and shed light on what was happening there. Maybe hoping someone could get away but Running away was only a dream. we were surrounded by concrete walls with barbed wire on top. We were about 3 hours from “civilization”. That was one hell of a night, a lot of girls were hurt bad that night, by male and female staff. I remember being dragged down the stairs that night and being restrained on the concrete outside at the bottoms of the stairs right by the gate, but what happened to me was nothing compared to what happened to some that night and the following nights.

I just needed to get out of there I could feel myself fading day by day, my mental state was 1000 times worse then when I went in. At this point I just had to hold on a couple more months I was almost 18. I was still getting in trouble in and out of OP but for smaller scaled reasons.

I was fortunate enough to be able to sign out at 18 as I was not court ordered there like some of the girls. The youngest girl there was 12, yes 12! I mean yes your parents can pull you if not court ordered but that didn’t happen often at all.

Finally after what felt like years it was September and I told my parents my choice was to leave at 18. They were not happy, they wanted me to at least graduate high school but there was no way I was staying any longer than I had to. On the 29th of September in 2005 a few days after I turned 18  the staff came and got me brought me to the office where my stuff was already packed. I got the papers and signed my ass out of there! I did have mixed feeling as I had grown close to some of the girls there, we had a bond after going through what we did and as happy as I was to go home at the same time I was to leave kids behind. But them putting that ticket in my hand was the absolute best feeling ever. To this very day that was the happiest moment of my life, knowing I wouldn’t have to live on edge and in fear anymore. I was going home! Thankfully I was able to go home unlike a lot of the kids.

My parents fortunately gave me an exit plan where I could come home with lots of rules but I at least could go home. Also unlike a lot of the teens my parents came to know and believe the harsh truths about these places. I know and love my parents and I know if they knew what went on there they wouldn’t of sent me. We have since over come it and put it behind us.

Since then Ive had an amazing relationship with my parents. After all they too were victims of deceit, lies and manipulation. They just wanted to help me from going down the dark path I was on. They too are #ParentalSurvivorsFromWWASP and supporters of #BreakingCodeSilence

If you have read this far thank you for putting up with my run on sentences, horrible grammar, and scattered memories. I am happy I can now say I KNOW I am STRONGER in many ways from that experience and I KNOW I am BETTER then what they made me believe about myself.

thank you Paris Hilton

#ThisIsParis

#SmallPiecesOfMyStory #BreakingCodeSilence

#IAmASurvivor

#AcademyatIvyRidge2004

#TranquilityBay2004to2005

For years It caused me:

#Insomnia #Anxiety #Anger #SelfHarm #LowSelfEsteem #Nightmares #Paranoia #Shame #Guilt #MemorySupression

Sara Sue Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry

I spent most of my youth in programs (14-17) – two wilderness programs and one residential treatment center in Utah. And while I won’t even try to convince anyone I was a super easy teen to deal with, I WILL tell you without hesitation and without a doubt in my mind that these programs did nothing for me but the exact opposite. Most people don’t even know I was sent away three different times because it’s not talked about and I never credit those places for where I am today. For me; my core value is justice and always has been – hence why I do public speaking across the US on Human Trafficking Awareness and Prevention. My intentions now is to do the same thing here. To bring awareness to WWASP programs and the affects they really have on teens. To expose the harsh punishments, unrealistic practices, inappropriate staff relations with students, and so much more. I work with two families now and their teen daughters who like me, were “wild teens”. Exploring. Figuring out who they are. It’s so much. After meeting with one of the families the dad told me that my mentorship in his daughters life is making all the difference and they appreciate me doing this work. That tells me mentoring works. A middle ground; a mediator, works! Simple things like local mentoring programs or other resources ARE available. Big brother, Big sister non profits. It’s there. Please, parents, for the love of the future of this world, let’s raise these kids right and with a village of people they trust and like. I vividly remember all three times being woken up in the middle of the night by two big, bald men. Hauling me into the back of a suburban. Two times they tried to blind fold me and when I didn’t they cuffed me THEN blindfolded me. I get teens can get so bad you just don’t want to deal with it but just the escorting practice alone to get teens to these programs is extremely traumatic. The programs themselves are a whole new traumatic experience. Then we expect them to open up and spill their guts after being what felt like a kidnapping. It can’t be this. We can do better. We can be better. Since the very first day 1, all of my peers who went through the program with me became my A1’s, lifelong friends and family. My loyalty and my commitment to changing how the troubled teen industry is; is solid. I will use all my platforms. I will pull every connection and resource available to me. I believe in this next generation and I believe in the ones who have already been through it. The absolute best is yet to come Together we will keep speaking our truths and breaking code silence. #BreakingCodeSilence, #ISeeYouSurvivor

Kaitlynne McCue Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

“ALWAYS PROTECT YOUR LOVED ONES.

I have never spoken about this topic, but now being in ‘isolation’ I cannot help but think about it. Especially seeing all the kids who are upset about not going to prom or high school graduation, etc. Being told that I cannot go anywhere or feeling “stuck” gives me massive anxiety. You can tell me whatever you want, but that is how I feel, and here is my story…

June 2005,15 years ago: I was ripped from my bed as a teenager in the middle of the night, handcuffed, carried out of my house, and put into a car. No explanation and no idea what the hell was going on. I had one stop at McDonald’s to use the bathroom, they (still don’t know who those people are or their names) thought I would run, so the woman (There was 1 female, 1 male, both very large.) came into the bathroom with me and would not allow me to shut the stall. She stood there like it was normal. Little did I know, this would be my new normal…

Six hours later, with still no explanation, no phone to call my parents, no form of communication, we finally arrived in Hell: Academy at Ivy Ridge. I did not know it then, but this would be life for the next few years. They took my bags (packed not by me obviously) from the back of the car and walked me to the front door, where they used a special key to get in. They waited for staff, signed some papers, dropped me and my bags inside the building, and left. I was “greeted” by a staff member, a few Upper Levels, and my HOPE buddy.

Real quick I will explain that: An Upper Level is someone who gains points and reaches past level 3. You gain points and raise levels by receiving merits at the end of the day for behavior, attitude, etc. You must follow every order barked at you by the dorm parents to receive these points and hope to God at the end of the day they approve them.

A HOPE buddy is assigned to someone, for 3 days, who is being brought into the facility to explain all the rules and has permission to talk. Yes, permission to talk; that is one of the thousands of rules we had to remember within those 3 days. NO TALKING!

Some of the other rules:

– No TVs

– No music

– Ask for permission to get up and to sit down

– No eye contact, gestures, NO CONTACT

– No looking out windows

– Walking in straight lines and pivoting around corners

– No communication with the outside world

– No phones

– You write letters on Sundays to immediate family only and they are all monitored before being sent

– You receive mail once a week from immediate family only, no exceptions

– If you had to fart you had to ask for permission to get up and go in the corner while holding up three fingers.

I could go on and on.

After that, I was taken through hallways and locked doors to the back of the building, into a dark and dingy room with a cot and a bathroom. I was told to undress, squat, cough, take off any jewelry, and any dignity I had left at this point. I was given grey sweatpants and sandals to change into, which I would wear until my school uniform came in.

I was told if I do not comply, that room is where I would stay, which I did for a few days. If I correctly remember cheese sandwiches were the only meal choice. I worked on Sheets while sitting in an empty room being watched 24/7. (Sheets is just writing the rule book from beginning to end and an essay as to why I should be accountable for my actions so I can be let out of this hole.) I finally compiled because that was the only way I thought I could go back to normal, but I was so wrong.

I will never forget the terror and feelings I had from being in that place. Hearing students screaming in the other room. You could not help your friends when you wanted or hug them when they were crying. There was so much abuse emotionally, no one even knew who they were anymore. We were all so young, just trying to survive. Normal was no longer part of life, being a kid was no longer an option. This was my new life. I was trapped.

My HOPE buddy explained to me the rules for the next three days as we walked in lines, stayed silent, and followed every rule that was barked at us; because if we didn’t, we would be most likely restrained, sitting feet flat with back straight and eyes forward, writing Sheets. The second choice was to lay flat with your nose on the floor.

We finally got to the dorms (where we slept), we walked in a line looking straight ahead because looking out of line or out the window was no longer allowed. I walked down a dark hallway with the most unsettling feeling and followed my buddy into my new room: A bunk bed, three drawers, and a window with a cage over it. I was given 1 toothbrush, 1 toothpaste, 1 hairbrush, and 2 hair ties. Those were the only essentials I had. I remember not sleeping that night. I tried tying a sock around my neck hoping by morning I would stop breathing because I did not want to wake back up there. Staff walked up and down the hallway 24/7 making sure everyone was laying on their bed.

“Wake up, 54321! Count off!”

“What in the fuck?!” I thought.

All I remember is 100+ girls scrambling for their correct spot in line with uniforms and toothbrushes in hand, looking terrified as hell. It was 5 seconds, and everyone was in line trying to stay standing. About 30 or 40 of us would go into the large bathroom with 4 stalls maybe and 3 sinks. 6 minutes to dress, brush your hair, teeth, and go to the bathroom. If you did not get a stall in time, sucks for you, you waited until the next bathroom break. The whole time the staff was in the bathroom yelling “hurry up” and counting off the time. Heading to breakfast, all in a line, looking forward, pivoting around corners, and NO TALKING! You were to eat everything on your plate.

I stayed there until I was 17. I was home for less than 2 months before I was sent back the same way, 2 days before Christmas. I stayed until I was 18. I had no prom, no senior pictures, no Christmas, Easter, vacations, etc. I had no childhood experiences in my teens with my friends and my family.

I did school in silence on the computer for over 8 hours a day. The only thing that made us feel normal was on Sundays when we watched an old movie and were given a candy bar. This was now my new life for the next few years.

There is so much more to talk about from the abuse, lack of nutrition, lack of hygiene, emotional distress, and so on. The facility is now closed, along with many others, because they finally started to realize what those places were doing.

I do not have senior pictures, I did not attend prom, I was not pictured in a yearbook from my accomplishments. I did not exist then, but I have made it now! Those were my teenage years.

Isolation is not so bad when you have your loved ones there, or through video/phone. When you are healthy, loved, safe, and have peace. Be grateful for the things you do have.”

-Kaitlyn

#BreakingCodeSilence, #AcademyIvyRidge, #AIR

Courtney Konopasek Breaking Code Silence about Provo Canyon School

“I attended Provo Canyon ‘School’ in 2007-2008 from ages 15 to 16. I was assigned #428 and called only by my last name by staff the entire time I was there. I was tormented and humiliated on a regular basis, and often neglected.

The staff members were mostly young Mormons that were not properly trained or screened. The requirements to work there were simply to be over 21 years of age, and to have a high school diploma or GED. At one point, a staff member had genuinely convinced me that my family did not love me and that I was never going home.

I was over-medicated and even improperly medicated, but I was not allowed to have a say in the matter. Not only was I manipulated, but my family was as well. My parents were under the impression that I was safe and being well taken care of. I did not breathe fresh air for 3 months. No reason behind it, staff just did not take me outside for 3 months; leaving me extremely pale and unhealthy looking.

Any time I tried to mention any of the abuse I had experienced or witnessed, over the phone to my parents during family therapy, my therapist would immediately hang up the phone. When she would call my parents back, she would convince them that I was just trying to manipulate them to take me home. This is not a part of my life I have ever wanted to look back on and remember, but things need to change. This type of treatment has been happening for over 30 years at Provo Canyon School, and it needs to stop now. #BreakingCodeSilence “

Ben Runyan Breaking Code Silence about Ascent & Northwest Academy (CEDU)

I have weighed breaking my silence on this for so long. I was worried how it would affect my career, my relationships and more. But curiously enough after watching Paris Hiltons documentary on her similar experience (and “The Vow” on HBO) I am not afraid any more. I have been speaking with many of my peers and fellow survivors. I am a survivor. They couldn’t break me.

My name is Ben Runyan and I am #BreakingCodeSilence . I was an unwilling participant in Northwest Academy’s “troubled teen” program from May of 2004 to March of 2005 (in Peer Group 28) when the program shut down. From my entry into Ascent Wilderness Program (which preceded NWA) to the time I left, there was one constant. The removal of self identity, independent thinking, psychological freedom and the concept of the individual. The scars of that place left me with dysfunctional relationships, low self esteem, PTSD,  fear of abandonment and distrust of authority for more than a decade afterwards. 

Now being in a position of caring for young adults, I can safely say, I would NEVER treat kids/young adults the way I was treated. Trust was broken in almost every way you can imagine.

NWA was based on a cult from the 1960s started by Mel Wasserman and Charles Dietrech called “Synannon”. It was a counter-culture hippie pseudo-psychology masquerading as science. And we were all victims of its Cult.

Weekly my peers and I were subjected to “rap sessions” which where nothing more than attack therapy to dig up meaningless transgressions that were deemed “out of agreement” with the program. They were designed to humiliate you in front of your peers, and also serve as a warning to those that didn’t submit to the brainwashing. Anyone that came in and thought (like me) that they could resist the programming was soon struck down until they became “in agreement”. The rap sessions would go on for 3 or more hours as people would sit across from you and “indict” you on any random piece of dirt they could find on you. Your peers were instructed to find the best and worst things about you (a truth and a lie word) and then pin that on you. These truth and lie words would follow you around the entire time there.

The staff were largely not trained in either child psychology or social work of any kind and were often left unsupervised by those that were. Many of these staff members were former students as well, or ex-convicts, drug users or worse, often predators. Many never went through background checks. Phone calls with our parents were 5 minutes once ever two weeks. They were supervised by a counselor sitting next to us listening on the phone so that we would not say anything incriminating to the school. Our letters were also combed for any information that could be seen as dissent.

Many women who spoke out about sexual assault were told it was their fault, and that they deserved it. We were all told that we were fundamentally broken and only THEY could fix us. We believed it.

Once every few months we were subjected to hours long “emotional growth” sessions (called “heart of a child”, “brothers”, “I want to live” etc…) that were called “Propheets”, the name loosely based of Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet”. During these sessions were subjected to constant interrogation sessions and forced “disclosure circles” where we would be coerced to admit dark our shameful parts of our lives in front of peers and counselors we barely knew. We were instructed often to lay in “smush” piles that created inappropriate boundaries with our peers and counselors. After being interrogated and pushed to our emotional limits we were then subjected to music from John Lennon, Neil Diamond, Bette Middler, John Denver and more. It was all designed to break down our will, and be re-programmed with whatever pseudo-science they wanted us to believe. All of this was done in the obscurity of total isolation in the woods removed from society. There was no oversight, there was no escaping, and there was no resisting the programming.

It took me many years of therapy, and talking to my peers that were with me there, but I am starting to finally learn why I had so much trouble growing up. I wouldn’t wish what happened to me on anybody, and I hope that my words and testimony can prevent others from going through it. The mind of a 17 year old is innocent, naïve, and delicate. What happened to us there set us back so many years.

I have seen 1 in 30 of my peers commit suicide over the 16 years since my internment. Many more have died from risky behavior.

My hope in speaking out is that the “Troubled Teen” industry that is a FOR profit prison system can be muscled into submission, or at the very least some sort of regulation. Just think if it could happen to me, just think what happens to little boys of Color. Think about how they can be disappeared, and forgotten… erased.  I never want someone to go through what I did.  Ultimately the school shut down while I was there, due to pending litigation (cases were all about abuse). It was re-opened under the banner of a new company, and I believe exists to this day.

Thank you to all my peers that were there with me, in the woods so long ago, that gave met the courage to speak up.

Molly Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry 

“My name is Molly and when I was 13, in the 8th grade, I was legally kidnapped and taken to a program in Arizona. I was there from the end of 2010 to the end of 2011. The reason I was sent there was due to a troubled relationship with my parents at the time, I am not sure of many 13-year-olds who have a perfect relationship with their parents at that age though.

My first day there I was still a bit in shock. At first, it seemed a little exciting to live in a house with a bunch of people; but then reality set in, and my worst nightmare began.

After a few hours, I realized I was not going home anytime soon, and this would not be a fun time living in a house with a bunch of people. I could not stop crying. I was so confused, and I just wanted to talk to my parents. I was yelled at so close to my face that I felt a staff’s warm breath and could feel her spit, while she was screaming at me to “SHUT UP!!!” Or I would get a work hour- which ultimately were odd manual labor punishments such as hauling rocks in the scorching hot desert weather, to scrubbing walls on our hands and knees. We would get these ‘work hours’ for pretty much anything, including, not walking in a straight line, coughing; the staff would say we were making up our coughs, taking 2 scoops of salad dressings, not running around the track fast enough, or taking a break from running.

We would be forced to run around the track multiple times in the heat and if we would stop, we would get yelled at.

The school ensured my parents this was the best place for me and that they could support my needs. They promised my parents they could support my middle school education even though they were only licensed as a high school.

Unfortunately due to their lie, I lacked important academic importation at my grade level and I was put on “academic support” which meant we had to sit in a room for hours and study, while people who weren’t, we’re able to watch a movie or participate in free time.

All of the girls at the school saw the same psychiatrist. He would see us for 3-5 minutes each and over prescribe medication and falsely diagnose. When I came home, my doctors were completely shocked at the different kinds of medications they had me on and the doses.

While there, I remember a time when I was in unbearable stomach pain for 3 weeks and they wouldn’t take me to the doctor until I kept begging them and my parents had to beg them to take me. The doctor said if I had come in a few days later it would’ve required surgery.

Our “nurse” wasn’t even a registered nurse, and she would tell us to “just drink water” no matter what our illness or ailment was.

A male staff member had intercourse with a student and when the school was made aware, the situation was hidden and they said the male staff member had quit. Later, this staff member was caught with child pornography.

When I went there I was 90 lbs and when I left I was 150, this was due to the prescriptions I was put on for false diagnosis and the fatty foods.”

-Molly

Alina Robello Breaking Code Silence about Sandhill

Hey y’all, this post is one of my heavier posts but I feel the need to put it in writing for people to see it. There will be much more where this came from as I continue my MA thesis process. I want to use this as an overdue opportunity to do my part in ending the code of silence that permeates throughout centers that are meant to help traumatized youth. In way too many cases it ends up being that we leave with a need to recover from what was supposed to be recovery. It’s not okay.

I was trying to think of specific Sandhill stories to use for my thesis intro and I randomly remembered something I had COMPLETELY forgotten about for eleven years. The staff had just learned a new type of personal restraint, and two of the school shift staff woke me up one morning and brought me down to the living room, and said they were going to practice this new restraint on me. I imagine I probably said that was fine but I was like 12 and I was fresh out of bed. How the hell could I give informed consent to be used as practice for a whole entire restraint? And now that I’m 23 and I’m really working on thinking more deeply about a lot of things from Sandhill and their probable latent meanings, I can’t help but think what the entire crap?? It’s not okay to use a traumatized child who has reactive attachment disorder as your practice doll for a personal restraint. These restraints were always so so so horrible and traumatic. They without a doubt contributed heavily to my deep fear and hatred of people touching me. I can’t for the life of me think of a legitimate or harmless reason to subject a perfectly calm and regulated child to something that’s meant to be aggressive and violent. I don’t know. I just can’t stop thinking about this one. There are so many different layers of not okay with it. If anyone has any questions, comments, or concerns, feel free to let me know! Thanks for letting me share! It’s empowering for me to share these things #BreakingCodeSilence #ISeeYouSurvivor

(Photo is for evidence that your girl is out here surviving and sometimes feeling like a goddess, despite the ungodly amount of healing that lies ahead)

Rachel Breaking Code Silence about Darrington Academy (WWASPS)

“I was 16 years old and the year was 2004. I had a boyfriend 8 years older than me who was my on/off again abuser (even after this experience). I had run away from home and had recently returned. School was out, so I got a job. A few weeks later, three months before my 17th birthday, I was taken. I woke up to two strangers in my bedroom, telling me to get up, get dressed, and go with them. I initially thought I was being kidnapped. I wasn’t allowed to see or talk to my parents or even get dressed unsupervised. I was driven from Virginia Beach to Newport News, VA and handcuffed as we walked through the airport. They refused to tell me where I was going. We landed in Atlanta, GA and drove for nearly 2 hours before stopping at what looked like an old motel. Darrington Academy, in Blue Ridge, Georgia.

I’ve witnessed both girls and boys being physically abused. I witnessed a fully grown 230lb+ man tackle a girl no more than 110lbs. I was smacked at least once that I can remember. I both witnessed and experienced medical abuse, and denial of medical treatment. I both witnessed and experienced verbal abuse more times than I can count.

All the rules were over the top. I couldn’t speak to my parents or anyone on the phone until I reached a certain level (this could take months). We wrote letters only to our parents, once a week, and those were monitored. Don’t dare ask to go home, there would be consequences. We could lose points, or also be sent to a room to copy page after page of the rule book. I’ve spent days at a time in this room, not being able to speak to anyone or spend any time outside except to walk back to my room. We had curtains instead of bathroom doors. We had to count loudly when we had to use the toilet. Until a certain level, you couldn’t wear your hair down, wear anything but fake birkenstock clogs, no shaving, no looking at the opposite sex, walking in line structure, pivoting at corners, forced to eat at least 75% of you meal, not able to talk to anyone without permission. We could say “bless you”, “thank you”, “you’re welcome”, and “excuse me” – and we used those phrases like a different language. I think we would have all gone mad if we hadn’t.

Schooling was on a computer; a christian based homeschool program. It was awful and there was rarely anyone there to help you, unless your parents paid extra for a “tutor”. I was 18 years old when I returned home, and nothing I did at that “school” transferred over, so I was forced to get my GED.

The whole “school” is centered around a behaviour modification program. It was like the shittiest version of therapy. We would sit in a circle and talk about issues, and then our peers would give us “feedback”, except most of the time it was hurtful and that seemed to be encouraged. There was a lot of emotional abuse in the program. I was pinned against my biological father; I had to reject him altogether to be granted permission to move on in my program (today he’s one of my best friends, and we talk almost every day). Everything negative that happened in my life was my fault. I remember being taught about accountability, and now that I’m in my 30s, I know it wasn’t taught correctly. I was taught that even if something wasn’t my fault in any way, it was still my fault. That really messed with me for years, and fed into allowing abuse to continue in my life.

We had seminars we had to attend, where we would be forced to speak about anything and everything we didn’t want to discuss. At one point I had nothing left to say, and I was forced to lie. I told the person who spoke to my parents it was a lie, and was then forced to regurgitate this lie (as truth) to my parents when I next saw them- I have yet to be able to bring myself to tell my parents this life altering information was not true. We were forced to bang towels wrapped in duct tape on the floor for what felt like forever, while being screamed at, some of it was quite degrading. There were certain songs played during these seminars, and some of these songs still trigger me today.

I left three months after I turned 18. I had been there for 1.5 years. When I returned home, I was afraid to turn on the TV without permission, use the phone, enter the kitchen, or walk outside. I got a job at a pizza shop a few days after getting home, it was hard at first. I felt like I had been out of the world for years. My ex found me and I immediately fell back into my old habits of sneaking to speak to him. I was so afraid of everything, and he offered me to live with him and not feel that way anymore. I was afraid to even tell my parents, so I moved out while they were gone at work. The abuse started back up again almost instantly, he knew I was too afraid to go back to them. This wasn’t my last abusive relationship. I made poor choice after poor choice, getting myself in very bad situations, just as I did before Darrington. I was confused for years. I didn’t understand how the trauma affected me. I have a hard time trusting and a hard time believing I’m worthy of the positive relationships I have. To this day, I still have nightmares. The location haunts me. I was in and out of therapy for years, and was diagnosed with PTSD. I’ve tried not thinking about it, but every once in a while I hear a song, see a food that I was forced to eat and hated, or hear a certain word, and I’m there again or I hear the banging of the towels on the gym floor.

Thankfully the “school” I went to was closed some years ago, and last year I found out it was bought and reopened as a motel. I decided to take my husband there and try and get some sort of closure. The most powerful moment for me was walking around areas I was never allowed or areas where I was never able to walk freely. We stayed the night and had dinner with two former staff members that actually treated us well. It was both heartbreaking and nice. But I’m still not “healed” or “over it”, I don’t think I ever will be.

If you’re a parent of a troubled teen, DO NOT SEND YOUR KIDS TO ONE OF THESE PROGRAMS. Don’t send your kids away, not to a “school” that controls so much. If you feel forced into it, go there and speak to students away from any staff members. Give those kids an opportunity to be honest with you. We were trained to lie to parents, because otherwise there would be consequences and we all just wanted to leave.”

-Rachel

Josh Breaking Code Silence about Primary Children’s Hospital

“I have only very recently discovered the name of the torturous ‘Attachment Therapy’ I had to endure as a child. The sheer amount of horror stories I have read and seen have helped me understand what was done to me; so I feel it is necessary to join the fight to put an end to this form of therapy and to stop children from being tortured. Too many either suffering lifelong trauma or are being murdered from this form of ‘love.’

My personal horror story took place around 1989 in Salt Lake City, Utah at the Primary Children’s Hospital – Residential Treatment Center – Wasatch Canyons Inpatient Psychiatry unit (RTC). When I was around ages seven or eight years old. I lived at this facility and another of their branch facilities (RTC South Satellite Building off and on from four to about ten years of age.

I cannot recall a lot of my childhood memories because as anyone who grew up within the system knows, you are an unwilling and unwitting test subject for new compliance/therapeutic medications. A handful, two-three times a day plus vitamins. But that is another story for a different day.

Similar to other stories I have read about Attachment Therapy there was a lot of emotional and physical abuse disguised as love and for our best. This is by far the most emotionally and physically painful experience of my entire life. Worse than being molested, all the broken bones or stitches I have ever had.

My experience involved the Facility Head (Jim/James, who also happened to be my therapist) along with at least one other therapist and staff, forcibly holding me down and pinning my arms to my side, then rolling me into two thick blankets preventing me from moving my arms, legs or head. The blankets would go above my head and I would have to angle my face upwards to breathe. This, I assume, was done to force me to look at my (then) potential parents (Cory and Janet, who now work for Wasatch school district) and my therapist. They would then proceed to have two staff lay on top of me to prevent me from wriggling out of the blankets and hold me still. After I was properly secured a third staff would remove my shoes and socks and start tickling my feet relentlessly for the entire session.

In case you’ve never experienced prolonged tickling its only funny for a few minutes before you can’t breathe, and it turns into searing pain that just does not relent but gets stronger and stronger. So strong you feel and pray that you are going to pass out, but you never do. It is torture in every sense of the word.

At this point my therapist would instruct my potential parents to take turns saying every hateful thing they could think of toward me, to yell and scream insults, to tell me how much I made them hate me. He would have them do this inches from my face, all while mercilessly tickling my feet. They would force me to regress into tears in less than five minutes. They told me it was my fault my biological family did not want me. That I always messed good things up and was a waste of time and effort. They would belittle me in every imaginable way and laugh at me when I was crying and pleading to be released from the blankets. They would tell me I had to release my feelings, that I had to scream and yell back and let out all my anger and pent up emotions, and then they would release me.

However, when I would scream and yell as they wanted, (like I was already doing because of the terror and pain I was in) they would simply laugh and continue yelling at me and saying cruel things until the entire session was over, again while mercilessly tickling my feet.

Often times I felt like I was going to die and would just wish it to end already.

It didn’t take long for me to be drenched in fear-induced sweat from the combined heat, lack of air, pain from being laid on, and my feet being tickled, coupled with the emotional torture I had just endured. Once the session was over they would release me and I was told how proud everyone was of me, the entire room would act as if I was some awesome, amazing person and how much they loved me, and promise to buy me a Butterfinger (my favorite candy, I even went as one for Halloween at the RTC) as my reward for being so good during the session. My therapist would then instruct my (then) potential parents to continue the therapy at home. They did but without the tickling or blankets…

Instead, they would lock me in a mostly cement room except for a wall infested with mice and a single red overhead light. They would keep me locked in this room every night and portions of the day depending on how they wanted to deal with me that day.

One Christmas I was locked in the room and was given a bag of green apples as my only Christmas gift that year, while the rest of the family left to be with relatives.

Another time I had made a paper mâché reindeer at school about a foot tall and it was eaten overnight by mice. I remember laying there scared all-night being ignored by my (then) parents. Listening to the mice scratch, claw, and devour it. By morning all that was left was the base of one leg.

They would scream at me the same things they said to me during the sessions and hold me tightly and refuse to let me go while doing this or act in some other aggressive manner that included physical abuse and emotional abuse. There are two particular occasions of this I can recall.

The first was when my (then) dad was screaming at me and my (then) mom threw herself to the living room floor and demanded I urinate on her, as that is all I do anyway, and all I was ever going to be capable of doing. She proceeded to repeatedly say this, mixed with other hurtfully designed words. What else happened that night I cannot recall as my mind blanked it out.

The second happened one evening when (then) mom and dad were going to go out, and they left their older biological son (cannot remember his name) in the kitchen working on a model and told me to stay in the living room and watch TV. When they came home, they asked who ate the candy bar from the cupboard (they always put them on the top shelf). Their son told them I ate the candy bar. I must have snuck into the kitchen somehow without him seeing me (the table was right in front of the cabinets). They all screamed at me, told me they were giving me up, and said they were going to lock me in my room until they could get the hospital to come to get me. They refused to believe me when I told them it was not me. I ended up running away for the first time in my life that night. Scared for my freedom and of being hit.

I ended up getting myself locked into a Rally’s and got myself into trouble for opening Marvel comics card boxes, eating food, and playing with rubber cement getting it on merchandise. I ended up finding a working phone and it set off an alarm and I went home after the police let me out. (I ended up doing Restitution once they gave me back to the RTC. Three months of sitting in a corner all day long, facing the wall, only being allowed to do chores.)

That morning as I slept locked in my mice-infested room, I was violently yanked out of bed and thrown into the cement wall, picked up and held off the floor, then hit repeatedly while being asked where a missing gold ring from the store was. A ring I never took, and from the reports, was never taken in the first place. They then took me back to the hospital (RTC) for a stay with them. I never spoke of the abuse while I was there because I was scared and did not want to lose my only family and I did not know who to tell. Although I do recall being pulled into a room at school and asked about bruises and abuse. In the end, this family found a way to get rid of me by adopting a new baby (Sarah) and accusing me of being jealous of her and poking her in the eye while they were outside because she was crying when they came in, which I never did.

There are a few other small tidbits I can remember but for the most part, I spent a significant amount of time just being locked in the room and doing chores, or being told how worthless I was and how this hard life would help me be a better person and make me love them more.

I cannot tell you how crippling the fear I have of my feet being touched is. I felt only increasing terror, pain, and panic the entire time. I will never be able to fully put to words how I felt during those sessions. They had me convinced I deserved it all. I had the feeling you get when you think you are going to die but then you do not, and it keeps going and going and going and you know you deserve it. So much that you start to think not dying is part of the punishment. (Which I still feel every time my PTSD takes over multiple times a month.) I mean, after all, I have to love and obey them or I am worthless and unlovable.

Because of this, I have a very hard time accepting, believing, understanding, and knowing how love is supposed to feel. I am scared to try and allow myself to be loved because I don’t know how it is supposed to feel outside of movies, (Free Willy and The Santa Clause) that created a false reality of what love was supposed to be. Unfortunately, I have never felt what those movies conveyed in real life. In short, I created a fantasy-based reality as a coping mechanism and it only leaves me feeling alone. I almost always misunderstand what affection feels like, and back away scared or push them away without intending. This has created a lifelong desperate need for approval from people I cannot win it from, and fear of speaking out or being assertive to anyone I see as better than myself. It has become a core belief that I am unlovable and deserve every bad thing I experience. I know what I should feel, but I never feel it and this makes me feel very alone.”

-Josh

Rachel Elizabeth Breaking Code Silence about Three Springs 

A friend invited me to a group called #BreakingCodeSilence (or in my case, breaking “non-com”). I don’t remember much but I’m thankful for the opportunity to review my past, to continue to grow and hopeful that my testimony will prevent other children from being put into such damaging scenarios.

When I was 13 my parents turned me over to “therapeutic programs”. The program I was at the longest was called “Three Springs (Paint Rock Valley)”. A couple days in, I saw my dad through a window. I thought he’d changed his mind. He came for me. I got up and ran to him. I had stood up without permission and I walked at the pace above a walk so they tackled me. I called for him. He didn’t turn around. No one was allowed to look at me, talk to me, acknowledge what had just happened.

This was a regular kind of occurrence there- the whole “pretend it’s not happening” thing.

They sedated me daily. They told me it was up to me when I got to leave. I didn’t know at the time that the program helped my parents get my public school to pay for the entirety of my stay, and then some. I was destined to be the longest staying resident in their 30 years of operation, and I was, (that didn’t kill themselves).

I tried my hardest to do what they wanted, I was always surprised when we got our week’s judgment, after hours of sitting on the ground waiting for it, praying to have been seen. Something must be so very very wrong with me.

Every single night I would have to produce some transgression to confess to the group. Were it from my toddler years through that day at lunch or often… something seen on tv and made into my own because honesty was never enough. I was forced to evaluate my peers to their cores via daily interrogation circles.

After being isolated from the rest of the world for a year, I was allowed to write friends & family. All of our communications were monitored closely for signs of dissent. I told people I was mentally ill and an addict. I am neither.

The program was run primarily by two women in their 30’s, who graduated with psych bachelors and had been working there ever since, carefully honing the CULTure. The rest were in their early 20’s, closest thing relevant to training was a sociology bachelors, most brought in from Canada and isolated themselves.

Somehow the high school program was accredited though it consisted of 8th grade software, only 15 hours per week. 

We only got indoor toilets once a day and electricity 25 hours per week, if we earned it. Often on “non-com”, we weren’t allowed to “notice” our peers, look at boys, touch each-other, jog, listen to music. We didn’t have access to books, news, radio, television, internet, phones. We were timed going to the bathroom, showering, eating. We were to remain in a line at all times and ask permission to do anything, even passing through a doorway.

When I turned 18, they told me to sign my rights over to them. By that point, I would have stayed willingly. I begged for them to grant me what I viewed as the “honor” of doing this on my own free will. They said I could ask for a lawyer, but that would not produce the results that I wanted. I knew what that meant so I signed. I was actually given negative judgement that week because I took time to think about it.

All a charade… the reason I hadn’t graduated yet was because they had defrauded my own state – it was never about my progress- it was about keeping me there as long as legally possible-that’s the biggest mind trick- the 1,376,000 minutes I spent racking my brain about what they wanted from me to “accomplish” in order to leave while everyone else got out in 8-16 months (based on their parents plans for them).

After years of fighting my family as the “identified patient” in a narcissistic-mother dynamic, this “therapeutic boarding school” drugged and counseled me into complete submission. After finally “earning” graduation, on the last possible date legally allowed to them, at whatever point was convenient to my mother, I continued to go back to visit for years until they closed in 2009. I did this despite the nightmares because it was the only place I felt my existing was justified. (College.was.ROUGH. Everything was rough. A lot of those early years was like… a combination of the characters Kimmy Schmidt & Lorelai Gilmore if they had the occasional debilitating: self doubt, panic attacks, suicidal ideation, traumatic relationships. All while simultaneously being a more than decent parent. Because oh that’s right, I was pregnant within a year. I had to get off medications, some of which I had been forced to take since I was 9 years old. It was the beginning of my waking up).

My son is nearly 16 now. My hope for this industry in the future is that children aren’t used for profit. That when caregivers seek help, those in the position to help will treat the child like the client, not the caregivers. That “refusing a child advocates is tantamount to neglect,” stays on peoples minds.

My advocates exploited me the way you exploit a bull in a bullfight.

Thank you to all my peers with me in this group, back then in the woods and online with me today.

Alexandra Vega Breaking Code Silence about Inner Harbour

“Ok, here goes. I am sharing what I have carried around all my life as a shameful secret in hopes that others will feel less alone and be compelled to share their stories, as well. This is not our shameful secret any longer, it is theirs, and it is time they answer to the damage they have done. Stay strong.

I was told that I was being sent to a boarding school, a nice place in nature with horses and a lake, a reprieve from the abuse I had endured at home from the ages 6-13 by a violent, malignant narcissist stepfather. I was actually excited to go when I got into the car, but as soon as I saw the gate and the sign, I knew something was off. Everything after that happened so fast that I barely remember, not to mention that I have blocked most of it out. Here are the bits and pieces that I do remember.

I was taken to a room where the staff explained where I was and what was to be expected of me. I was in complete shock and heard none of it. All I remember is sitting on the couch shaking and bawling thinking this is not really happening. I do not think I even said anything. I was then escorted to the infirmary where the staff’s friendly smiles faded, and I was yelled at to take off all my clothes. I stood there naked, crying, and shivering while the orderly laughed and tossed me a hand towel, “in case you want to cover up.”

She put on a glove and performed the cavity search, and I cried and shook some more.

I was escorted through the infirmary, where there were padded solitary confinement rooms to my right, and hospital beds with restraints to my left. There was a little girl, no more than 10 years old, strapped to one of the beds and hooked up to IVs, with tubes down her throat. As we passed the straitjackets hanging on the wall, the orderly whispered in my ear, “We can keep you here ’til you’re 18, you know.”

I was 13.

My next memory is of me laying on a thin, vinyl-covered mattress that night feeling completely worthless, abandoned, hopeless, and wanting to die. These feelings haunted me well into adulthood. Lucky for me, I already suffered from C-PTSD, anxiety, and major depressive disorder before going into Inner Harbour as a result of the abuse I had experienced at home. My stay there simply refined it.

From day one, before even receiving a medical consultation, I was force-fed an enormous dose of Lithium. These places are rarely adequately staffed so keeping kids drugged-up and motionless is an easy way to get them to comply. I was unable to form sentences, think clearly, or, much less, move. I spent most of my time sitting motionless on a couch, while chaos swirled around me daily—like a scene from a horror movie set in a mental hospital. One of the orderlies asked me what food I missed the most from the outside. The next day she brought it in, sat directly across from me, and ate it while silently, unblinkingly staring at me. She reminded me that I was there until I was 18.

We were humiliated and punished on a daily basis for almost everything we did, and I woke up every day disappointed that I was not dead. We were told that no one would believe troublemakers like us, and if we dared say something, they would do everything they could to keep us until we were 18. We were punished for talking and making friends. If they suspected you were getting too close with one of the other inmates, (because let’s be honest, that’s what we were), they would buddy you up and play psychological games with you to make you hate each other, like making us use the bathroom together.

Although I never witnessed or experienced it, there were rumors that the younger kids who stayed in cabins in the woods were being sexually abused. We were forbidden to talk to them, so I was not surprised to find out, much later, that the founders had reached a $432 million settlement for sexually and physically abusing the young boys they were supposed to be treating and healing. This happened only four years before my stay there.

One girl had a complete mental breakdown after being told she had not met her behavioral requirements and could not go home as planned. She stopped talking and eating for days before they finally carted her off to the infirmary where they restrained her to a bed and force-fed her for a week. She was crying, screaming, and begging them to let her die as she was being carried away. She was 11.

The boys’ unit, adjacent to ours, did not have direct access to the infirmary as we did. Any time a boy had to be transported to the infirmary or solitary confinement, we were forced into lockdown in our rooms. During my first lockdown, I broke the rules, risking solitary confinement, and peeked out my door to see four orderlies carrying a boy, bleeding from the face and physically restrained, and bound with hogties. I later found out that he was being punished and sent to solitary confinement for a week for passing a note. He was 12.

At 39 years old, the day I walked out of Inner Harbour still ranks up there as one of the happiest days of my life. I, like so many other troubled youths, started acting out and rebelling as a result of the abuse I had experienced at home. There were some happy girls there, but they were the ones that came from the most severe forms of abuse or were wards of the state.

The children that are sent to these places are acting out because they are in pain and desperately in need of love. They are sent there to correct their “troubling behavior” with promises of therapeutic care and nurturing environments, only to be met with more trauma and abuse.

I wish I could remember the names and faces of all the strong, beautiful souls I met there because the bond we formed is the only thing that saved me. To that girl that sat down next to me on the couch on my first day and secretly held my hand while I cried, thank you. You were the kindness I so desperately needed and lacked for so many years.”

-Alex

Lilly Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry

“My name is Lilly & I am a survivor of the troubled teen industry. On July 11, 2010, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a team of transporters and my parents. It was just nine days before my sixteenth birthday, and I was told that I was being transported to an all-girls boarding school.

I was told this school would be an all-girls facility. We would have clothing more suitable for labor than popularity. There would not be the distraction of boys. The focus would be on getting me off medications (a longtime desire of mine by this point), working on controlling my Trichotillomania impulses in a safe and supportive environment; and focusing on rebuilding a relationship with myself, my family, and God.

As a kid who was bullied relentlessly at school and struggled with feeling like I belonged with my family, this appealed to me. I had been feeling extremely suicidal for a long time. The medications I was on for depression made me feel foggy, resentful, angry, frustrated, and chronically exhausted. My academics were suffering. I was lashing out. I had been begging to go to a boarding school. For me, this was an “answer to my prayers.”

I went willingly with the transporters, but for good measure, they put a boot on my foot so I would not be able to run. They also had me use the restroom with the door partially cracked. I remember feeling this was a bit of a violation, but I understood they were being cautious, so I complied. It took several planes to get there, and by the time we landed an additional car ride was required. When I arrived at the ranch, I was taken to the cabins by staff members. I was strip-searched, and rules were rattled off to me faster than I could recall them. I was always to be five feet from a staff member. I could not speak directly to other girls. I could not talk about anything from before I set foot on this ranch. I had to remain at least 12 inches from other girls. No talking, no touching, no friendships. I had to ask before going in or out of a doorway. If I had to use the restroom, I would do so with the bathroom door all the way opened while someone monitored. Showers would be twice a week for five minutes. Phone calls would occur biweekly when earned, and no sooner. Letters would be on Sunday, when earned, no sooner. Letters would be between residents and parents only. Hygiene checks. Vitamins daily. You must show your tongue before and after med administration. If you are assigned a physical consequence, like pushups, you must ask, “May I do those?”

Daily, we will manually irrigate fields. School would be paper lessons, self-taught, 6 days a week. Every other Monday we would have an assessment by both girls and staff members. We needed to focus on ourselves ONLY. Also, we needed to have a positive and negative critique of every other girl by the time of this forum. We could not repeat someone else’s critique. (I would later find out that these bi-weekly assessments were an all-day affair that would result in serious distress and turmoil.) My second day there was the annual backpacking trip. Despite weighing less than 100 pounds and dealing with chronic fogginess and extreme fatigue due to my medication—Despite a lack of conditioning, appropriate equipment or attire, and coming from below sea-level to high elevation—I was about to go meet the girls and prepare to go on a multi-week backpacking trip. The backpack weighed about as much as I did. I was brought down to the steel barn to meet the girls. Immediately, things did not seem right.

Girls would say things like, “My name is Cristina and I’m on Level 4. I’ve been here for three years,” or “My name is Bridget, and I’ve been here for three years and I’m on level three.”

The girls were robotic, and the staff were mechanical. At that point, I knew this was not what I had anticipated. At that moment, I resolved that I did not belong here. I did not need to be anywhere for several years. Sure, I needed some help; but three years of intensive inpatient care? They had it all wrong.

The next day we began our big annual hike in the Big Horns. I was determined to get sent home, or at least sent back to the cabins; but little did I know, that this would be the first of three summers that I’d spend making this trek. Admittedly, I was exceedingly difficult on this hike—so difficult that I endangered the other girls, and absolutely should have been removed both for the safety of myself and others. I was intentionally slowing the group down and making the process more miserable for everyone than it needed to be.

Regardless of the issues with that trip that were within my control, I was in no way equipped for it. I started having serious signs of inflammation and blisters on day one. By the end of the trip, I had sprained both ankles, torn tendons in my feet, and was beginning to lose my toenails. I did not get medical treatment until weeks after the onset of my injuries. By this point my ankles were bruised and very painful, and I had begun losing toenails and developing an infection so bad that I had a fever when I was taken to urgent care.

I ended up losing all 10 of my toenails as a result of that trip. The doctor who saw my wounds filed a CPS report, but these facilities are privately owned and are not held to the same standards as a privately owned facility. To this day, CPS will not even release my CPS records to me.

Around this time, I received my first assignments. Writing the “story of my life,” was my first undertaking. If you have ever watched a “false confessions,” documentary where people confess to crimes they did not commit, you are on track to having a good understanding of how these facilities operate. I disclosed the story of my life in detail, and repeatedly it was rejected as inadequate.

“We know you’re leaving stuff out,” “we can’t help you advance through the program if you won’t even be honest with us,” “girls don’t just end up here.”

I had detailed all of my poor decisions, including the humiliating details of sneaking a boy into my parents’ home, my failing grades, my lashing out at home, beating on my younger brother. I genuinely did not like who I was and knew I needed to change. I wanted to change. Repeatedly, my confessions were rejected as inadequate. I was placed on a type of solitary confinement known as “the chair,” where I was made to be silent and stare at a wall for months at a time. For every meal, I was fed meat and cheese on wheat bread with a side of celery. This lasted for months.

Around this time, a higher-level girl had completed their “ceremony.” After completing a ceremony, you would have check-ins with girls before leaving. When I checked in with this upper level, I learned of extreme circumstances. This individual had had multiple abortions after being involved in prostitution (she was a minor, so now I know she was not even capable of being a true prostitute- she was a rape victim), and having a strong history of drug and alcohol abuse. At that point, the first time hearing anyone provide a reason as to why they were sent there, I decided that the staff members would never believe the true “story of my life.” I tweaked my story to fit the narrative they were requiring of me, so I could advance through the program. I was eventually taken off the chair and at that point, I was able to receive other challenges.

These challenges included silence, which meant I still was not allowed to communicate verbally or non-verbally. I was on “fire challenge,” which required me to wake up several times a night and build or maintain fires in all the cabins. This abuse occurred in Wyoming, where winters are harsh, and we were not even afforded central heat. Despite being on medications that made me fall asleep involuntarily during the day, and disrupted my daily life, I was forced to wake up multiple times during the night and build fires. I’d fall asleep with my hands in the fire, or fall asleep in a kindling bin outdoors, and staff would punish me with physical punishments in the middle of the night for getting burns or demonstrating fatigue.

I eventually was taken off this challenge and managed to prove myself over time. I eventually came forward and confessed that “the story of my life,” assignment was not true, and I rewrote it. Again, they would not relent that it was incorrect, so I was forced to modify details to portray my own family in a better light, and paint some other individuals as being “villains,” simply to advance in the program. Unfortunately, despite being bludgeoned repeatedly by the phrase “The truth will set you free,” they would not accept an accurate depiction of the truth from me. Ultimately, they accepted some version I presented them that was a more reasonable fake narrative than the first I had been forced to present.

I was able to advance to level 3 but was level-dropped. I don’t recall why I was level-dropped, but I do know that the facility essentially admitted to parents that sometimes they just drop girl’s levels for no reason to “see how they handle it.” For girls who have been away from their families with limited monitored contact, being level-dropped without explanation feels incredibly hopeless and isolating.

I had many other challenges throughout my time there, which were designed for me to prove myself. I cooked all the meals for everyone, did all the dishes, did everything first, did most of the chores for extended periods. I was tied to a goat by a leash, I was tied to a girl by a leash, I was tied to a separate girl by a leash, and I was tied to a girl by a leash while each of us was respectively tied to a goat. I had a “Plain Jane” challenge which was designed to humiliate me and deter me from doing anything at all that could be perceived as unique. I was an avid reader, so I was instructed not to use any “smart words.” I was on medication and was told if staff forgot to administer it and I reminded them, that I would be punished. I was to wear certain shirts on certain days, forfeit all photos of my family and personal comfort items (already extremely limited).  I could only wear a ponytail and it had to be exactly on the center of my head. It would be measured with measuring tape if staff felt it was necessary.

I would complete handwriting sheets intended for kindergarteners, to normalize my handwriting issues caused by this long-term medication use. I must observe what the group was doing, and I could only do what the majority did. If I was cold and wanted to wear a sweater, I must count the number of girls wearing sweaters. If it was not the majority, I could not wear a sweater. I had an accountability log which required I write down everything staff members said verbatim. I would have to get it signed by them before I could act. If it was not verbatim, they would not sign. If they did not sign, I accumulated Consequences, including hill runs. Hill runs required you to run up a small, steep mountain covered in loose rocks and rattle snakes, without stopping. It was extremely dangerous and was a form of torture.

Staff members would often refuse to sign my accountability log, not because I wrote what they said incorrectly, but because they did not want to take personal accountability for their words. Some would also refuse to sign because they enjoyed watching your suffering and wanted you to accrue Consequences. One staff member who was this vile was Samantha. She routinely psychologically tortured girls and she was the cause of a lot of unnecessary physical suffering via Consequences for many. For example, there was a time when I was on the “watering” challenge. This required that I water and clean the water bottles and troughs for all girls and animals. It was the dead of winter, so the horse troughs were both full and clean. I was forced to carry a large trough with me everywhere. I was also on a “victim challenge,” that required me to hold a cardboard heart all the time. I was also on a challenge that required me to wear gloves all the time, to reduce instances of trichotillomania behavior. Additionally, I was on a running challenge, which meant I had to run everywhere, no matter the distance. The trough would slam against my legs, causing horrific bruises and discomfort. Sam demanded that I empty the whole horse trough by dumping the trough bucket-by-bucket. My gloves soaked through with ice water. The ice water sloshed everywhere as I was forced to run on ice with a trough, a bucket, and a cardboard heart. The cardboard heart was ruined, so Sam replaced it with a boulder that was shaped like a heart. She forced the girls to stand and watch me as I completed this impossible and humiliating task. Eventually, the girls were allowed to go back to the cabins.

I finished my task at the ranch with Sam. Sam then told me I could run up to the cabins through the field, so I did. When I arrived at the cabins, she had radioed the staff at the cabins stating that I was never permitted to go up to the cabins. I was given a hill run equivalent of 600 step-ups for “lying,” when in reality, Sam was just enjoying the power-trip provided to her by carrying out the orders of the Ranch owners to break us down.

Not long after this, my parents came for a ranch visit. My parents saw the bruises, and I mentioned a recent runaway attempt by some girls to them. When I came back to the ranch, I was denied all contact with my family for months. No letters, no calls, not even monitored. Unlike many other girls, when my parents cut contact for so long, they informed me of my go-home date. They said that the facility had advised that it was in my best interest for them not to talk to me for the time being. I would go home on 7/27/2012 whether I was ready or not, so I needed to figure it out. I fought to prove myself, and eventually, communication with my parents was put back on the table. I eagerly wrote them a letter, detailing daily life on the ranch and expressing my excitement to join them at home soon and start the next chapter. My letter was deemed inadequate, and again, my parents were advised to cut contact.

At this point, I had determined there was absolutely no logic to be had at this place. I was and had been, compliant for well over a year of my time there. I wanted to better myself. I was working in therapy to the best of my ability, and putting my best effort into my challenges; but they continually tortured me, mostly because I could not fully control my trichotillomania due to the absurd amount of stress I was under. I had even been forced to sleep on a sleeping bag, with my hands in plain sight, woken multiple times a night, while wearing gloves, because of these absurd efforts to correct the stress and anxiety-driven behavior.

I was able to go home shortly after my 18th birthday for no reason other than that my parents could no longer afford the “service,” which I am extremely grateful for. I mentally could not have handled any longer in the facility. I managed to make it to level 3 of 6, after more than two years in the facility.

Places like these need to be abolished. The government needs to step in and recognize that this is a human rights issue, and children need protection. Currently, my facility is under criminal investigation and I fully expect that criminal charges will be brought forward soon. Even that will not be enough. The girls are still in the facility now, even while under criminal investigation. The girls should be removed. The facility should be shut down. The ranch owners should be charged to the fullest extent of the law. Finally, the government should do everything they can to ensure that kids cannot be harmed in privately-owned residential facilities; and that starts with reform.

After leaving the facility, the owners asked my parents to have me write a positive review of their facility. I did so because I did not want to be viewed by family as ungrateful or combative. Years later, I updated my review to accurately reflect my experiences, and the facility sued me and two other girls, who were the most financially vulnerable and had the least family support. After about two years of litigation, we entered into a settlement agreement; not because I agreed with the terms, but because I was a single parent and both myself and my children had health issues that required something to fold at the time.

Fortunately, my family is doing so much better these days. I have begun advocating again and even took the step of filing a police report detailing my experiences when I found out that there is no criminal statute of limitations in Wyoming.

This past Thursday, the facility owners reached out trying to claim that I’m in breach of the settlement agreement for a variety of ludicrous reasons; including trying to say that the filing of a police report detailing my abuse is “false and defamatory,” and therefore a breach of the agreement. They are trying to claim I recruited girls to maliciously file police reports as well, to tarnish their reputation. Additionally, they have threatened to sue every girl who has participated in awareness efforts “once they are identified,” (many have chosen to remain anonymous), and have threatened to sue everyone who has filed a police report detailing their experiences at the facility. Currently, about two dozen police reports sit on the desk of District Attorney Hatfield of Wyoming, and we eagerly await the filing of felony charges while the facility continues to try to intimidate witnesses to their criminal activities.”

-Lilly

Mackenzie Breaking Code Silence about Spring Creek Lodge & Tranquility Bay (WWASPS)

“My name is Mackenzie. I am 34 years old, and I have survived two WWASP facilities. I was taken from my mom’s house in Prior Lake, Minnesota, when I was 15 years old. It was May 5th, 2001, early morning, when two men came to get me. My mother came into my room and told me, “hey wake up. Remember that place in Mexico your dad wanted to send you? Well, you’re not going there; you’re going to a place in Montana.”

Then I was confronted by two men who told me to get dressed because I was going with them. I stood up and started yelling, half-dressed, as my mother stood in front of me to block their view of my nakedness. I was then left to dress and was guided out by the men. My parents stood on the steps in front of the front door, watching as I was taken. I told them I would never forgive them for this. I guess I have tried but it is still true, I cannot forgive them. I was compliant, I did not struggle, what was the point? These guys were huge! I felt helpless and alone. I thought about running the whole time but could not muster the courage.

I went along, head down. They told me there would be horses and cool stuff to do. Having been raised with horses, I fell for the lies. I was kind of excited then.

Turns out that was not the case at all. I was brought to Spring Creek Lodge, in Thompson Falls, Montana. I was put in a dorm after they shaved my, already short, green hair.

An Upper-Level girl went through my stuff and told me I could not have any of it. I was given the bare minimum and sent to strip down and bounce up and down in front of a staff member after getting a lice treatment.

Then I was sent to my bunk, where I was very angry at this point. Apparently, I scared all the other girls because I sat up and stewed in my anger. I kept to myself, I was quiet and scared. I tried to understand but I was in shock. Then the torments started to happen. They would wake us up and make us come outside even in the winter for “drills,” where they lined us up out in the cold, half-naked, and humiliated often. I could not rest because I did not know when the next drill would be. We were not allowed to sleep in our bras but when we were taken out for drills, we would be in trouble for not wearing them.

I started to have headaches and I was sad all the time. I felt abandoned and alone and constantly picked on because they said I was a “dyke,” though I never claimed to be. They just told me that is what I was, and I had to be “accountable for that.”

After about 18 months, a staff member started making me wear ugly dresses because I was not feminine enough for her, so that was more humiliation. Soon enough I was sent to Tranquility Bay, Jamaica. I was not moving up fast enough and I assume my parents were tired of paying their prices, so a cheaper program would have easily been the answer.

Once I got to TB, I was again stripped down and humiliated by the nurse and scared into compliance by a female staff member, (she was actually very kind to me). Throughout my stay, the Jamaican staff were very open about what was happening. They were so warm and fun to be around. They were real. They did not play the games the staff did in Montana. As hard as it was, having to sleep on a plank supported by chains coming off the wall, in bunk style housing and listening to the OP boys and girls scream all night long as they were tortured, I was left alone for the most part.

I came to the facility a couple of months after a girl fatally jumped from the top of the girl’s dorm after something terrible happened to her during transport. It was not verified but it was felt. Everyone knew she was traumatized, and that is why she decided to jump.

I thought about it too, a lot of us did, but I think because we got a decent diet, fruit, and a lot of exercise, we were able to look past the trauma and focus on something else. We got a “fun day,” which was when we got to play sports and eat awesome Jamaican food the staff brought. I really enjoyed that. I still feel comfort from Jamaican food.

I tried my best to stay out of trouble. I got over being a liar and going out for attention. I was moved up to level 4, my mom came to visit me, and I was pulled shortly after. All my belongings had been ransacked by the Upper Levels, so that was a terrible feeling. Then what I had left was poorly packed, and when I arrived at the Miami Airport all my stuff burst from my tote onto the conveyer belt, in front of everyone. That sucked. I had to pick-up what belongings I could save and, as embarrassing as it was, I made it to my next flight. Back in Minnesota, I packed my things from our house in Prior Lake and moved to Washington state where I knew no one.

There was one more “program kid” I got into a relationship with, Brandon. We ruined each other’s lives quickly; that became the pattern. Now I am 34 and just went through another assault. I may or may not be ok from being strangled. My counselor said it could go either way. I thought I was just being a good partner.

Most survivors seem to be as chemically dependent as the next, myself included. I do not see the light anymore; I try to stay positive, but it is getting tougher each year. I do not want to die; I just want to help and bring light into the world. That is all I have ever done. I try to talk to my parents but whenever I do it is met with hostility, or they say it is my fault… maybe it is. Maybe because they did not want me, that is just my path.

It is hard to be alone, so I got two awesome dogs and have finally gotten reconnected with a family member who will allow me to be myself and have the space I need to heal. I am back to training horses who are surviving from trauma too. I have always been connected to animals more than people. I dance, I do flow arts and I do the best I can every day. I still struggle, and have mental breakdowns almost daily, but I know I am strong deep down and I will be ok.

Helping others through the darkness has been rewarding. I know karma has my back. Thanks for listening.”

Anonymous Survivor Breaking Code Silence about Island View Residential Treatment Center

“This is incredibly difficult for me to write. I spent 24 years believing in my heart that Island View saved my life. This was a lie I perpetuated within myself to avoid the trauma of the truth. The truth is that I was abused into submission by adults who were supposed to be helping me, and my peers were forced to help abuse me to keep their favor, hoping to stave off being abused themselves.

It probably sounds crazy to think a person could be abused and not know it for 24 years. The problem is that I was severely emotionally abused by my parents starting at a young age, and then also by other adults when I was a pre-teen and teenager. When you are abused as a child you do not have the opportunity to learn appropriate boundaries. An adult screaming in my face that I am “worthless?” Yep, my dad had been doing that to me since I was 6, plus worse. The 30-year-old night staff creeper who, every shift, would come into my room to “pop” my 15-year-old toes and give me sensual foot rubs? Men had sexually abused me since I was 12, so I did what I had to do to survive; I let him and thanked my stars it was only foot and ankle rubs. The “houseparent” who would throw candy down the hall at us at night like we were animals and watch us scramble and fight for it? He was just another person giving me something good wrapped in awful. I was yelled at, dehumanized, ostracized, silenced, put in isolation, stripped of any semblance of privacy, and denied contact with my sisters by Island View. All of this was normal for me.

I was really messed up from being abused my entire childhood and I needed help. I turned to drugs and alcohol at 12 and by 15 I was a runaway, going on and off the streets, suicidal, and drug-addicted. I had been on the streets for about 6 weeks when my dad tracked me down and brought me to Island View in 1996, very shortly after they first opened, and when it was all still in one building. We moved into the new building a few months after I arrived.

When I arrived at Island View, I had scabies, severe lice, and just about every drug for which they could test for in my system. I spent the first 3 nights on the hallway floor under the bright lights.

I did get better while I was there because I got clean and sober. I went to a college preparatory non-RTC boarding school after Island View and I did very well there and stayed clean.

When I finally came home, I was a straight-A student, clean and sober for over a year, and ready to take on life. Unfortunately, I went home to the same abusive parents and I ended up out on my own again before I was 18 as a result. I took a GED and worked three jobs at 17 to survive, jumping from couch to couch.

I did not turn to my old vices, though. I worked hard, and then I got pregnant and had a son at 20. He changed everything. I put myself through college, then law school. I have amazing, powerful, brilliant children and I run a legal service non-profit. I represent survivors of abuse of all ages. 

If I had been able to see into the future when I was 15, I would have never believed I would be where I am now. Because my life turned out this way, when 25 years ago I was likely to die from an OD, murder, or suicide within a few years, I believed Island View saved me. I was their poster child. I would go to promotional events for them near my home for about 3 years after I “graduated” and tell parents about how much Island View changed my life, even when I was couch surfing after escaping the abusive home to which they returned me. Island View flew me to Utah in 1999 and had me talk to the kids there about my experiences after graduating and staying clean to give them hope.

The truth is, I could have gone just about anywhere abusive parents weren’t and gotten better. The truth is, Island View staff abused me just a little less than my parents did, and I thanked them for it. I held my lie close to my heart to protect me from these painful truths for over two decades.

It was not until I started reading about other survivors that I was able to recognize I had minimized, blocked, and normalized what happened to me. When I first read their stories, I thought “all that happened to me and I got better, that’s not abuse.”

Then I had a friend whose son was murdered by his teacher improperly restraining him and I was triggered by his death to remember when I had seen my peers in “takedowns” and the terror I could see in them as 3-4 adults descended upon them and threw them to the floor. I remembered the terror I felt myself that staff would do that to me, and how that was always a threat to keep control, and that trauma boiled up inside me. Then I was contacted by a fellow Island View survivor last year and after we spoke a flood of memories of what had happened to both of us washed over me. As I have reconnected with more and more of my former teammates, the more I remember. I am also now able to see how the abuse I survived as a child made it possible for me to block out and normalize what Island View did to me, and even promote them to others.

One incident I always remembered was the first time I was sent to the pink room as punishment. They told our parents it was for kids who were out of control, were a danger to themselves or others, and could not be physically controlled. I am not now and have never been a violent person. I am less than 5’ tall and I was tiny when I was 15. I responded to abuse by dissociating and complying. I was no physical threat to anyone, ever.

I wouldn’t say my mom abused me during a therapy session at a staff member’s insistence that I accuse her (my mom was neglectful but not abusive like my dad and stepmom and I was fiercely defensive of her). I was walked to the pink room in complete compliance, my head bowed to hide my tears. I sat in there on a thin mat, silent, while they locked me in there and then left me alone, staring at that pink wall for 24 hours. The light was on all night.

I was used to being told to say untrue and cruel things about myself or others; with my dad yelling in my face for hours, so close I could smell his breath and feel its humidity, and I would still refuse him. I could not be broken in that way by staff. Sleep deprivation combined with complete social isolation is a whole different animal. I had the skills to survive that environment and appear compliant until I was able to get free by graduating.

When more memories came back, the stories of my fellow survivors changed. The narrative I had created to survive the trauma was torn down to reveal the truth. I was abused for 7 months, not saved. Getting locked in isolation in the pink room was not ok. Being forced to sleep in the hallway on a thin mattress is not ok. Leaving bright lights on kids in either of those situations all night is not ok. Being given Trazodone when you do not need it is not ok. Being yelled at and put down is not ok. Being forced to turn and face a wall whenever the boys walked by was not ok. Being told you cannot talk to anyone and must sit at a desk in the hallway where you had just laid all night, and could not sleep, is not ok. Being forced to shame your peers or spy on them is not ok. None of this is normal or acceptable when it happened to me or anyone else. I just hope that more people come forward and Utah will do something about these places once and for all.”

Brooke Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry

“I am not sure if I was one of the lucky ones, it was my own parents who woke me at 4 am and demanded I get in the car.

(Many of my peers were removed from their homes by large men in black suits. I would meet these men later when I was transported from one program to the next. They let you know that if you try to run, they will physically restrain you. They put you in the backseat of an unmarked vehicle, equipped with child locks, and they take you away, no questions asked, no questions answered.)

I cried and pleaded with my mother; she wore a camouflage skirt. “I will do whatever you want me to do! Please don’t leave me here. How long will I be here?”

I do not remember if they responded at all. They were coached by the school to ignore me. I would fight, the experts said. I would plead for my freedom, for their love.

“Remain steadfast,” they were advised. “The child is a problem, remember. A manipulator, and we’ll take good care of her.”

It was perhaps my third day. What little focus was put on academic studies was pitiful, but here I found myself in a math class, 15 or fewer students, and there were some rowdy teenagers. Maybe they whispered to each other, maybe they laughed a little too loud, but within minutes the teacher left the room unexpectedly, and there came in a small, red-faced man. He screamed at us to form a line. He laughed about how much he enjoyed group punishment. He marched us out into the wet mountain rain, and he barked at us to drop, face to the cement. I began to cry.

He mocked me, “Wahhh wahhh! poor little baby.”

Some of the students laughed and were encouraged to do so because cruelty and shame were the names of this game. I would spend over two years living in such an environment, one of suspicion, absurdity, peers pitted against peers, staff enjoying their license to play with us in whatever way they deemed fit.

Sometimes that meant crawling through puddles of red muddy clay to reach the soggy bread and cheese sandwich that was all we were permitted to eat; often depending on the whims of those who watched over us like birds of prey. We reached the sandwich and then we were timed, 30 seconds to chew, and swallow. If this task was not completed, the food was to be spit onto the ground. I did not want to know what would happen if I did not comply.

I was afraid, every day. The staff ate hot meals in front of us. Sometimes throwing pieces of meat in the dirt, ground with their boots, and then thrown to us, like dogs. Sometimes it meant that we spent hours in group therapy, provoked, shamed, denied autonomy, stripped to the core of our personalities, for they would build us into a new, more palatable form.

I was regularly strip-searched, drug tested, belittled, humiliated by staff who, it would be later discovered, were grossly unqualified to work with children with behavior troubles, or even children without. Or even, anyone. Those who stayed to work in this place must have gleaned some pleasure from our predicament. You could not ignore what was happening there. It was palpable.

We, the children, had problems that were created often through no fault of our own. Through dysfunctional families, and a short lifetime of adversity. I went from one environment of abuse to another. They profited greatly from those who had money and could not control themselves, much less their children. They profited greatly from our suffering.

Phone calls were monitored. If we hinted towards anything but being content with our beautiful mountain views, kind counselors, and our personal transformation from bad to good, we would be harshly punished. I learned how to speak the language. I wanted to suffer as little as possible.

The male staff regularly made me uncomfortable, eyeing my adolescent body, mouthing things to me, touching me, hugging me, breathing on me, aware that no one would ever believe a thing that I said.

Punishments included loss of privilege to speak, loss of privilege to sleep in a bed – we lay on the floor of that dorm hallway, under those fluorescent lights, blinding, oppressive. There were countless punitive abuses. We often dug ditches, free labor in the name of reform.

The hallway was covered in blood when one of my peers got her hands on a razor blade and took to her arms. A sweet release, for some, from a painful reality. A roommate cut my leg in the night while I slept. She watched me, waited until my breath slowed, shallow. I woke with a clean cut, the blood crusted in tiny drops on my thigh. I was punished for cutting myself. There I went again, lying, manipulating.

Some of those children who needed inpatient mental healthcare were placed into this community, with no safety concerns. I had no voice, it was removed and shut away in the cabin we were often isolated in. Alone. Always inner loneliness, that I would carry with me for the rest of my life. I recall crying myself to sleep, and in the morning, within seconds after opening my eyes, my body grew tense, I shook, and shook, I put my feet on the ground, my legs shivering, my whole self, denied a home. I could not protect myself.

“Help me,” I begged to no one every single day, “help me.”

The stories go on and on, the memories often sharp and immediate. The emotion, the fear, it lives inside of me, even now. I have nightmares twenty years later. I am there. The feeling that only that institution could produce in me, and sometimes my children are with me. They are sunny, full of joy, innocent, trusting, and I have to protect them from these wolves. I must get them out, I have to get them out. Help me.

The math teacher pulled me aside a few days later, whispered gently that she was really very sorry for the other day. She patted me on the shoulder and smiled, her teeth, shards of granite.

‘You can go sit back down now.'”

Kat Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry 

“At the time I was admitted I was suffering from an eating disorder, depression, and suicidal thoughts. All stemming from being repeatedly raped by a classmate and neighbor. At the time I had only told one person, a guidance counselor at my school, the day I tried to kill myself at school. I was terrified to talk about what happened because the boy who assaulted me was more popular and told me that no one would believe me.

A few months after I was hospitalized, I finally confided in my psychiatrist about being raped. I told him it was a classmate/neighbor who lived across the street from me who did it. I remember being terrified. I remember being scared to tell him because of what my rapist said and because I did not want to be kept at the hospital any longer. I thought telling him would help… it did not. He never reported my rape to DCF, so that it could be investigated as required by law as a mandated reporter. He never informed my mother of the rapes. We never talked about the rapes again. He medicated me with medication that made me sick. I have handwritten medical records from my doctor from our sessions to prove all of this. I tried to tell doctors and nurses there that the medication was making me sick, but they just kept upping the dosage. I later found out there was a note on my intake form about sensitivity to those medications that was ignored. The medications made me angry and suicidal instead of helping like intended. I was tackled to the ground by multiple grown men, forcefully medicated, stripped, and taken out to public spaces on our mixed-gender unit. It was humiliating. I was also put in a quiet room for the smallest infraction.

When my mother voiced concerns about my medication and treatment, they misled her (I have records of this.) While I was excited when I finally got to leave the hospital, I found out years later that the hospital never even bothered to put my disclosure of rape in my discharge form, even though they updated my diagnosis to PTSD. For that reason, no one knew to treat me as a rape survivor at other facilities I was placed in. I would have talked about my rape, but I was terrified, and I figured my rapist was right that my doctor did not believe me, as no action was taken the first time I disclosed it. What made it worse was after I disclosed the rape they continued to allow me to go home on pass without any discussion with my mother about the assaults and without having a safety plan put in place; knowing I lived across from my rapist and he could do it again. Years later my rapist stalked me. If I had support in reporting him that never would have happened. I also found out years later he was harassing my mother while I was in the hospital. She had to call the police on him. He had always been sort of a close family friend and my mother would have taken more action to protect her own safety and mine if she had known about the assaults.

While at that hospital I also witnessed small children from other units left in quiet rooms with the window blocked off screaming until they peed themselves. I was threatened constantly that I would not be able to see my mother and would lose visitation for even communicating that I was suicidal. They also misled my mother about the education I was receiving. I have a copy of an old assignment in my medical records. They told her I was doing high school work when in reality they had me doing basic addition type assignments, so I fell behind in my studies. Thankfully that hospital was shut down due to unsafe conditions for staff and kids and possible Medicaid fraud. They were suspected of trying to keep kids in there as long as possible to collect insurance payments.

That hospital may be shut down but Arbour hospitals still operate and are abusive. There have been sexual assaults, suspicious deaths, and possibly coverups of foul play when death has been involved. These hospitals need to be shut down. I am still traumatized to this day about what happened to me during my time there.”

Valerie Cook Breaking Code Silence about Island View Residential Treatment Center (Aspen Education Group)

“In March 2005, I was sent to Island View, a residential treatment center operated by Aspen Education Group, in Syracuse, Utah. I was 14 years old. I was not a disobedient kid. My parents were in the middle of a terrible divorce. I was depressed and suicidal. I needed a safe environment and therapeutic tools, but I became trapped in an abusive and predatory system.

When I arrived at Island View, I was immediately strip-searched and my hair was treated with lice shampoo. During my 15 months there, strip-searches were one of the most consistent practices I endured. All the doors of the facility were locked. The hallway lights were always on, including throughout the night. At night, staff would shine flashlights on us every 20-30 minutes as “checks.” There had been a suicide on one of the boys’ units in July 2004, and there was dark energy over the facility.

Social contact was basically forbidden. Talking with anyone outside your unit was prohibited. Eye contact with the opposite sex was prohibited. Trying to integrate into high school for the first time after experiencing these restrictions was extremely challenging. Even now I will be struck with onset social anxiety that I developed in this environment.

I was overly medicated to the extreme. I took a cocktail of anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, uppers, downers, and anti-psychotics four times a day. I could not think. I felt like a lab experiment. The drugs made me numb, overweight, and complacent.

The therapeutic practices at Island View were questionable at best, and at times overtly abusive. Some of the staff were well-intentioned, many were not qualified, and some were predatory. My math teacher during my time there was later fired for child pornography found on his work computer. One of the therapists went on to have an ongoing serious relationship with a resident on my unit who had been his patient. It was well-known among the girls in my unit that there was sexual contact happening between one of the girls and a male night staffman. It was not appropriate to leave us under the supervision of only men in their late 20s or early 30s overnight consistently, but that was the norm. I felt completely unsafe. I was also too young and naïve to fully understand or express my fears.

On one occasion, I woke up in the middle of the night to a scream from my roommate. A male night-staff member was in our room, standing over her, even though the staff were supposed to stand in the doorway and not enter our rooms to do checks. When I saw him, I screamed too, and he immediately left. When we reported it, the staff told us we must have been dreaming.

One of our weekly groups was called Problem Solving Group, or PSG. We were required to “write slips” about our fellow residents’ problematic behaviors. During PSG, the slips would be read out loud, and we were required to “confront” each other and encouraged to shame each other and ourselves. If you did not write slips on the other residents, you were punished.

Worse than PSG was a tactic called Individual Focus, or IF. During IF you were “put on silence,” which means you were not allowed to speak, at all. There was no constraint to how long you could be on IF. On IF, your clothes were taken away and you had to wear grey sweats. You had to spend your days alone, writing about what you did wrong. If at the end of the day, the staff felt like you “hadn’t taken accountability,” you were still on IF.

When tackling residents, staff would perform what they called “Personal Intervention 4”, or “PI4.” One time a resident had run away, been hit by a car, and sent back with a broken arm in a cast. On the unit, she threw a tantrum and the staff gave her a PI4. They seriously injured her arm and kept her in the timeout room for hours until the shift change. I will always remember her whimpers and her screams of pain because she sounded like a wild animal.

I became trapped in the system. Due to my parents’ custody battle, a guardian ad litem had been appointed to me, and my parents were not in a position to pull me out. Island View was incentivized to keep me inside and reap the benefit of my insurance. When I entered the program, I truly wanted help and did well in the program. For months, I naively asked to begin discussing an exit plan. I was finally told that it was not clear when I would be able to leave and that I would need to come up with more issues to work on, or I would get in trouble. I was constantly pressured to shame and deprecate myself under threat of punitive action. Under the fear that the few resources I had gained through good behavior would be taken away, I began to exaggerate my thoughts and behaviors around depression and self-harm due to the staff’s reinforcement.

On my monitored phone calls with my mom, she would try to reassure me that I was a good kid and that she was trying everything within her power to get me out, but the more I looked at the reality of the situation, the more afraid I became that I would be locked up until I was 18. I was highly psychologically indoctrinated, but all the instructions to continue to shame myself were too much. I felt like if I did not get out, I would go insane.

In this period, I entered the dark night of my soul. After I realized I was being held indefinitely, I tried to run away twice. The first time I drank a bottle of shampoo in the hope of being taken offsite. I was clearly physically ill, but I was never taken to a doctor. I was instead put on Yellow Zone – the highest punishment at Island View. After my next attempt to get free, I was put in solitary confinement in a freezing cinderblock box.

It was only when my mom sent a team of psychologists, psychiatrists, and lawyers to Island View to investigate my situation, that they told me I was ready for an exit plan. I was released from Island View in June 2006. Due to my experience there, I was unprepared to reintegrate into society. I spent another year at a therapeutic boarding school.

Island View was shut down in 2014, but two new facilities opened on the same property under the names Elevations RTC and ViewPoint Center (a mental hospital), that same year, with many of the same program directors. The programs now operate independently of Aspen Education Group, which was bought by the private equity firm Bain Capital in 2006. There are serious concerns regarding the ethics of a multi-billion-dollar venture capital corporation with a vested interest in increasing shareholder profits owning a conglomeration of privatized troubled teen programs.

I am speaking out for all the survivors who have been ashamed and afraid to come forward. You are not alone. I am speaking up for our peers who suffered but are no longer with us; too many of you. We love you; you are not forgotten. I am speaking up because this industry profits by silence and those who need help most are taken advantage of instead. I am speaking up to push for oversight and regulations of adolescent treatment centers and therapeutic boarding schools. I am speaking up to end the cycle of trauma and abuse rampant in these facilities to the extent that there is now a generation of us who have survived.”

Sarah Breaking Code Silence about Wilderness Therapy and Island View Residential Treatment Center (Aspen Education Group)

My name is Sarah and when I was 16, I was taken in the middle of the night by two strangers.

This sounds like a news headline or something from a horror movie, but this was my life and it was completely legal.

Now I was not a perfect teenager, and I did some questionable things, but nothing out of the ordinary. I was force-fed heavy-duty psychotic bipolar medication when I was just 14. I continued to cycle through different meds until I was 18, but none of them ever worked, I wonder why…

The strangers took me to the middle of nowhere, blindfolded. I cried on and off for 72 hours begging to just talk to my parents and go home. But this was not allowed. For the next 60 days, I slept in the woods, hiked endless miles with a heavy backpack, and was allowed one letter a week to my parents.

At the end of my stay, it was recommended that I continue treatment at a lockdown treatment center in Utah. I remember being excited because I would be able to eat normal food again. Little did I know that the place I was going would house some of the worst memories of my life.

This place was called Island View and it was a living hell.

I had to invent problems and pretend I was an addict. I attended AA and NA meetings once a week, yet I was not addicted to anything. The staff said awful things to us, and constantly were trying to put us down and play mind games with us. Once a week, we would have a group meeting in which the “bad kids” were called out and yelled at in front of all their peers, multiple therapists, and group leaders. This group was what I dreaded most. I lived in constant fear, afraid that I would be the subject of the group, which often lead to self-isolation in a white lawn chair, in the hallway for up to 72 hours, or worse, being forcefully tackled to the ground and taught to submit through violence. I had one goal, to get the hell out of there.

Once you played enough of their games and admitted that you were a broken enough person, and were actively trying to fix yourself, you were allowed to go home for a visit. While I was away, my parents uprooted from my hometown and moved somewhere completely new. I wanted nothing more than to go home and visit my friends, the people who accepted me for me, and loved me. I was so desperate on my first trip home to not go back that I invented a story that the two male group leaders made me feel sexually uncomfortable. Looking back, I am not 100% sure if this was actually invented or not, because one of those group leaders is now married to one of his patients. Either way, my parents did not believe me and sent me back.

I was still adamant that I would not go back to that hell hole, so I stole my mom’s cellphone and contacted my friends to pick me up at the airport. Unfortunately, I got cold feet and did not go through with it. I knew when I got back that I would be the topic of those dreaded groups and told again that I was an awful person and I would have to pay for what I did.

The consequences of that mistake devastate me to this day. I was not allowed to come home for Christmas. Instead, I cried myself to sleep on Christmas Eve night and sat on a lunchroom table bench visiting with my parents for one hour. My grandma, one of my favorite people on this planet, was dying and I was not allowed to say goodbye to her.

Eventually, I played enough of their games and took the right amount of bi-polar medication to get out of there after ten months. I went home and started my junior year of high school. I was completely miserable in this new town and was being forced to be someone I was not. I desperately missed my friends. I decided one day to sneak back to my hometown to visit them—I did not drink alcohol, do drugs, or even smoke a cigarette—and I was sent back to another treatment program that was similar to a psychiatric hospital. I watched this hospital being built next door while I was at Island View. I never imagined that I would be sent there after I left. I knew the routine now. Pretend like I was an addict again, admit that I was a broken messed up adolescent, and get out of there. The bi-polar meds continued not to work and I cycled through them like candy.

After two months I was finally sent home. This time for good as I was almost 18.

My story ends tragically because when I was finally an adult and able to make my own decisions, I decided to go home to my hometown. I could not be the person my parents were forcing me to be anymore. My dad chose to come with me, and my mom left him. They divorced after 25 years of marriage.

Several group leaders were in charge of us, who have proven to be unqualified to work in a therapeutic setting. One was caught committing inappropriate sexual acts with a patient present. Another tragically committed suicide. And one married one of his patients, who is my age. Several other girls have come forward sharing that they were groomed by him and felt a weird sense of power over them.

I am speaking out because the psychological damage from these precious adolescent years has been buried within me for 15 years. I have suppressed many of the details and found out five days ago that I was taken in the middle of the night twice. I only remember once. I have not been on bipolar medication for 12 years. I am not bipolar. I was never an addict and am not an addict now. What I went through as a teen is something no one of any age should suffer through. I was just a kid trying to figure out how to navigate life, and instead was traumatized and forced into terrifying situations. Being an addict and needing help is one thing. But being sent to a place like this is not the answer. I was someone who was not meant to be there… And I continue to pay for the damage every day of my life.

My name is Sarah, and I am breaking code silence.

Jennifer Breaking Code Silence about Casa by the Sea, High Impact, and Cross Creek Manor (WWASPS)

“I was sent to CBS when I was 13 years old. My parents chose Casa by the Sea because the idea of me being bilingual was a bonus; that and living on the ocean.

I admittedly was a very stubborn individual with little to no respect for authority. Naturally, Casa assumed they could break me. I received extra punishment during my stay at Casa for refusing to “work” the program. My stubborn nature was not going to fly at Casa and the staff did everything they could to ensure I knew it. It took me over four months to complete my first Discovery seminar, keeping me in phase 1 for almost half a year.

I was punished for everything they could think of. Such as, speaking in English, refusing to write letters or send messages to my parents, cracking my knuckles, or for them suspecting that I was gay. This list goes on and on. I spent most of my time in what was called “Work Sheets,” where I was forced to listen to books on tape about AA or other self-help gurus such as Zig Ziggler. Or random stories like “Pride and Prejudiced,” all day long, while I sat on the concrete floor, cross-legged, hands down, looking at the wall. The first time I was sent to worksheets was punishment for refusing to write a false confession letter to my family, admitting to things I had never done. That happened on my second day in Casa.

When worksheets did not break me, they sent me to RNR. RNR was essentially a broom closet where I was forced to lay on my stomach with my chin on the ground and my head looking at the wall. My arms had to be crossed behind me and my legs had to be bent back and crossed (basically hogtied position, minus the ropes). The owner would come in a few times per week to ask me if I was ready to write the letter. When I refused, he would order one of the meatheads (the big guys they hired specifically to intimidate and physically handle kids) to make me “more comfortable.” Most of the time this consisted of them sitting on me and jamming my chin into the ground or kneeling on my neck.

As part of my isolation time in RNR, I was repeatedly told that my parents would leave me there forever and that they did not love me. I was screamed at several times to admit I was not really gay and to admit my sexuality was only a tool I used to rebel. Eventually, I told them what they wanted to hear. (I was hungry, I was in pain, I was exhausted and I was sick of being yelled at!)

They allowed me to go back to worksheets and back to seminars (later on would I understand why) I completed two of three seminars before I left CBS. After I graduated Discovery (my first seminar) they allowed my parents to visit me. My parents had not talked to me for over seven months and it was my 14th birthday, so they insisted on seeing me. My visit was monitored the entire time. I wanted to tell my parents what was happening, but I knew I would be punished, and they would not believe me, so I stayed quiet. I was angry with my parents for allowing this to happen to me, and from what I was being told, they did not care.

After the visit, my parents were told that I needed a stricter environment if they wanted to see results so at the recommendation of the program I was sent to High Impact a few days later. I was sitting in Work Sheets when two meatheads came to transport me to High impact. I struggled, I was scared, I had no idea what was happening, I gave them Hell. I was fighting my instincts to survive! I broke one’s ribs and then knocked out the other’s tooth. I was told I was very lucky they did not press charges, and I was punished as soon as I arrived at High Impact.

During my stay at High Impact, I experienced punishments my entire stay that consisted of verbal, emotional, mental, and physical abuse. I spent a lot of time in a dog cage being sat on by two or more staff. At night we had a bucket to use as a toilet. One night one of the girls made a BM in the bucket. The staff was furious! They woke us all up, screaming, demanding to know who did it. No one came forward so we were all taken outside, sprayed with a hose, and then we were forced to run laps all night in the cold.

While I was there a girl’s dog died and she was informed of this by the head staff Miguel. After learning of this news, she broke down crying. Miguel took this opportunity to make fun of her and encourage the other staff to join him. I was mortified for her. Unfortunately, this was a normal daily experience for us.

Another haunting experience that will remain with me forever was the time a fellow stubborn inmate of mine refused to eat her raw chicken, so I quickly grab it from her and swallowed it. Another girl saw me do this and immediately told the staff. As punishment, my friend was forced to stand on a bucket in the middle of the running cage, while the boys were told to do laps around her and call her names. I was put in the cage all night. The sounds of her cries and screams were something out of a nightmare. A few days later I became very sick and when the staff saw me pass out in the shower, they quickly realized I was not faking. They rushed me to the hospital and on the way, I was told what to say to the hospital staff. I was told to tell them I was Miguel’s niece, and I was staying with him for the summer. The results of my visit were that I was severely malnourished, I was dehydrated, and I suffered from extreme exhaustion, third-degree sunburn, and salmonella. After the hospital, I returned to camp. I was given milk and allowed to wash with warm water I had to boil myself. I was given an extra piece of carpet to sleep on.

A few days later my parents came to get me. My nose was covered in scabs, my chin was permanently scarred from the gravel embedded in it, and I was 18 pounds underweight. My parents told me I was not going home, but that the program wanted me to be in a more therapeutic environment in Utah. At that point, I did not care anymore. I had no trust in my parents or in anyone. I figured Utah would just be another program and then another. My parents bought a house in Vegas so they could stay there when they wanted to visit me, rather than stay in hotels. So, I went there to heal before I was sent to Utah.

It is ironic because while I was in Vegas I saw the Paris Hilton layout in Vanity fair. When I saw it gave me a flicker or empowerment especially the FU layout. It is just random that I saw it before I left.

Anyways, when I got to Utah I was blown away! I was allowed to talk and make eye contact, but it was a struggle for me. I thought I was in heaven! I had a bed to sleep in and actual edible food to eat. This was awesome, I thought, but unfortunately, I was wrong. Utah was a special kind of nightmare, one that looked good on the outside.

As a newcomer, the staff was suspicious of me. I guess my track record was well known. Ron, the head of staff, made it his mission to let me know I was in his crosshairs the day I arrived. Ron’s sole job was to play God and intimidate the girls. Anyways, long story short, I lied about completing my third seminar, Accountability, simply because I did not want to go through seminars again. So, I was able to move up levels fast. It was a dream come true; I was almost home-free! Then I was asked to meet with parents who were dropping their daughter off.

As an Upper Level, I was instructed to tell these parents how wonderful the program was, and in return, I gained points to move up to level 4. No brainer, right? Nope, not for me. I could not stomach it! I could not willingly subject another person to this hell, or anything remotely close to what I endured, so I refused. I was not punished but I was put on the staffs’ radar. The girl whose parents I refused to lie to and manipulate has been in my life ever since. In fact, we have raised our own children together.

Eventually, I reached the higher Upper Levels, and was able to move to North Campus! One more level to go! I told myself to fake it until I made it. What I did not know was how corrupt and ugly Utah was until I was an Upper Level. I understand that being an Upper Level is high stakes and that you do whatever you have to just to get out, but the viscousness I experience was truly sad. I made friends and started to work as a staff at seminars. I helped lower level girls in any way I could. (I would not report them to the facilitator for not “working” the seminar, and I would not publicly shame them. That was tricky with the other Upper Levels watching).

One day while staffing a seminar, I overheard the seminar facilitator saying that a specific child was graduating no matter what because their parents somehow secured they would pass. I felt sick to my stomach!! Did I only make it through because my parents paid extra to ensure I passed? Did the program intentionally hold kids back to cash in on eager parents? WTF!!!? I was surrounded by constant manipulation and mind games! Knowing what I knew changed everything for me! I was not going to be played as a pawn even if it meant a lifetime of this hell.

I was getting close to graduating so I could go on group outings more and more. The Upper Levels took a day trip to hike at Zion park. Two other Upper Levels and I decided to hike together. We went off exploring and having a good time. It was a taste of freedom again. When we returned we discovered we were in trouble. All the staff and other Upper Levels started yelling at us. I honestly had no idea what was happening. They took us back to North Campus and Ron assembled all the Upper Levels together. He then ordered for me and the two other girls to stand up. He started yelling at us because they thought we ran away. Because of that, we ruined outings for all the Upper-Level girls. He then told the other girls to tell us what disappointments and failures we were. His focus was not on me or my friend K, but the other girl who was with us. I admit I was relieved I was not the focus of this particular witch-hunt, but I did feel awful for the other girl. She was dropped levels. K and I were safe for now, but she was not. I later found out that she was getting pulled and Ron took his anger and aggression out on the girls he knew were leaving.

Katie and I were just pawns, and now we were open range to the other girls. I lived in constant fear that one of the angry Upper Levels would find out I never finished my seminars. To my surprise, things died down fast and I did not encounter much resentment from the other girls, but that all came out eventually.

As an Upper Level, I had to participate in parent-child seminars. During one of these seminars, we were given the assignment to pair with another student’s parents for an afternoon outing. (The goal was to realize we treated strangers much better than we treated our own family). I was delighted to be paired with a younger woman who was a sister to a student on the boys’ side. I thought this would be a nice break from all the program jargon. On our way to lunch, the woman asked me if it was ok if she stopped by her hotel room to change? I thought it was a little weird and I knew this was not allowed, but I said okay. After all, it was my chance to feel normal again. Unfortunately, what happened next was not normal at all.

On our way to her hotel, we chatted about how much the program sucked. When we arrived at her hotel room, she told me to relax while she changed, so I sat down. She started to undress in front of me, then she came over to me in her underwear and started to rub my shoulders. She told me I seemed stressed and deserved physical contact. I froze up. I asked her if we could leave so we would not get in trouble and she said okay and got dressed. On our way to lunch, she started rubbing my thighs and she told me she understood me. The drive felt like it took forever! We finally got to the restaurant where I was relieved to see others from the seminar, including my own parents. We went on to have a relatively normal lunch and retired to the seminar.

I never told anyone. I knew I would be blamed and punished for somehow asking for it. I knew the brother of the women would be embarrassed or punished himself. I felt violated but I could not do anything about it that would help me. I tried blocking it out but subconsciously this experience stayed with me. This experience left me bitter. I did my best to “move on” and to forget about it. I was successful; no one ever knew it was my dirty secret. Life at North Campus continued.

I was going with the flow and slowly but surely working my way to freedom. I was really close to graduating and had one more level to go. Until I committed the ultimate program sin: I fell in love with a girl I always had feelings for from my lower level group, when she moved to North Campus. We never acted on it physically but that did not matter. My close Upper-Level friends knew and some of them had their own relationship as well. One day while all the Upper Levels were making bracelets, one of my friends made me one that said fruity. Another girl saw this and demanded I write myself up for being inappropriate. I did not think it was big deal, but I knew she was watching me, so I did.

Then came the keys seminar after this I would be a Level Six, on my way home. During the seminar, one of the other Upper Levels called one of my friends out for her inappropriate relationship with my other friend. Before I knew it, other girls were standing up calling them out while they were forced to stand in front of everyone and be publicly shamed by peers and staff. It was brutal! My heart broke for them. When it was done, they were both taken away in tears. The room went quiet until one girl stood up and pointed to me. She said your friends with them, you must have known, and you must be up to something too.

Yes, I knew and no I would not have thrown them under the bus! I did not care if it cost me my freedom (enough was enough. At least I could sleep knowing I did not ruin a life to save my own. It did not matter if I admitted to it, I was guilty by gay association. I do not know who outed me and I did not and still do not care.

The seminar took a break for lunch after the shaming. On our way out the facilitator grabbed me aside. She told me she knew about my inappropriate relationship and behavior and that I was not going to pass the seminar or graduate anytime soon. I was then escorted by my therapist to SH. He told me my friends and “partner” were not in trouble or going to drop. He told me we just had to go to SH while he sorted this all out. I did not believe him. I did not care that I was at the exit door with it slammed in my face, just so someone else could get a leg up. I cared that the people and person I loved were going to be punished, punished for something that had no right to be punishable.

Later that day we all dropped. We all had to do the bright orange run-risk shirt walk of shame through the dining hall. Later the next day all the Lower Level girls from our previous Lower Level group all assembled to tell us how disappointed they were in us. At this point I had it! I was sick of girls stabbing one another in the back especially the girls I did my best to protect! I was simply disgusted and fed up. I picked up a chair and threw it. Then I ran out of the room and started screamed my lungs out. I wanted no part in this diabolical shame game. I was sent into isolation—the padded room. Ron made sure he came in to tell me how I ruined the lives of my friend and the girl I loved. He told me I brought shame to them and broke their family’s heart. He told me this was all on me. I spent days in isolation before I slit my wrists with a button from my shirt. I did not want to spend one more day in the program. I could not picture a life outside of these halls anymore and I was tired of having no control. I was glued and patched up and they decided to put me back into Worksheets with the other girls who dropped with me.

While in Worksheets I would trace the words “I’m sorry” in the back of my former “partners” chair with my finger constantly. She never knew I did this, to my knowledge. I stayed in Worksheets for weeks, even after the other girls I dropped with returned to the group. While in Worksheets I had to line up every night with my Lower Level group to go to our rooms. I always stood behind the girl I was in love with because the line was by height. This time she raised her hand and told the staff I could not stand next to her. Hearing her say that broke my heart and it broke me. Three years in the program and nothing came close.

After I was the only girl left in worksheets, my birthday and holidays rolled up and Ron made it clear I was not going anywhere. I sat in Worksheets alone until my caseworker came to get me. She was furious! She told me she did not care what Ron said, that I was going to spend my birthday with the group. During group she instructed all the girls to tell me why they were grateful for me—it was thanksgiving and my birthday. They all told me they cared about me, even T, the girl I loved. I did not believe it. I was officially broken and had no trust in anyone. I was allowed to stay in the group, but I was not allowed to talk to anyone I dropped with.

I was in the courtyard a few days later, talking with one of my other close friends, when a meathead started walking towards me. My friend told me not to struggle, but I was not going to anyways. I had no fight left. I got up as instructed and he and my therapist escorted me to the gates. Tranquility Bay here I come. At least I get to relax on the plane I thought. As we walked through the parking lot my therapist asked me if I recognized the car parked in the lot. It was my parent’s car. My parents came to take me home. My therapist asked me if I wanted him to tell the girls anything, I told him to tell them I love them, I would miss them, thank you and I was sorry. I later found out he told them I had nothing to say to them.

I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. I was leaving all my friends to face their punishment alone. I should have been dragged through the mud with them rather than leaving. I blamed myself and felt like I abandoned them. I still do.

Out of everything I experienced within my stay in the programs, my CCM experience was the worst. I was abused physically, verbally, sexually, mentally, and emotionally. My chin healed, my nose healed, my knees and back healed as well, but my soul and heart were scarred forever.

I had my basic human rights stripped away from me. Prisoners received more rights than we were given. I was thrown into that world resentful and I came out enraged and broken. My faith in humanity hung on by the thread of the friendships I made in the walls and halls of the WWASP.

The girls that were with me then are still with me now, even the girls who did what they needed to do to get out. I harbor no resentment or ill will toward any of the girls. We all had to do whatever we could to make it. My parents still do not understand what I went through, and when I try to explain they dismiss it, saying I probably deserved it because I was stubborn. My parents believe the program saved my life. To this, I want to tell them that I honestly feared for my life in the program at times. I want my parents to know that nothing I ever did justified the cruelty I experienced. As a mother myself I believe full-heartedly that my parents’ concerns and fear for my life were legitimate. They were manipulated by the same people who were manipulating me. The program had the right idea, to help those in need, but they epically failed with whom they entrusted our care treatment. When you are taking on some of the world’s most valuable kids, you have a responsibility to ensure their well-being.

In my experience, they failed tremendously. To those who had a good experience within the program, I am relieved for you but I ask you to respect the fact that not all of us were lucky.

To everyone before me, with me, and after me, I want you to know you are not alone! I carry all of you with me. You matter and your stories matter, good or bad your voice is important!

As a result of being institutionalized in the WWASP, I struggle daily both subconsciously and consciously. I have issues with physical contact, intimacy issues, I have been diagnosed with severe stress and PTSD, equal to what POW’s have, by a top neurologist. I have anxiety, reoccurring nightmares, I battle with ego-dystonic disorder, self-mutilation, arthritis, back pain, nerve damage, vision impairment, permanent skin damage, and scars. I also suffer from full-body numbness. Those are a few of the side effects I have as a result of my stay in programs. 

I slept with my shoes on for two years after I left the program, just in case I had to run from transporters. I did that until I turned 18. I have contact with most of my friends from the programs, including the girl I loved and still love. Not a day goes by that I do not think about them. Those girls will have pieces of my heart forever. I was angry for years after the program. It took me a long time, but I finally decided to take my power back from the WWASP. As long as the program had a hold on me they still had control, so I flipped the script. I decided since I saw the worst of humanity, I also had the opportunity to see some of the best of humanity as well.

I realized you cannot have the sweet without the sour. Those girls were the light I choose to take with me from the dark. Those girls, now women, are the strongest, kindest people I have ever had the privilege to know. The program will take and break whatever it can., but just like Jurassic Park, life finds a way, and so will we.

I used to be ashamed and embarrassed about talking about my experience of life in the program, then I realized that the shame and embarrassment belong to those who inflicted it, not me. Regardless of who we were or what we did before WWASP, we did not deserve to be abused in any way, shape, or form.

If you are struggling, I see you. If you are not struggling, I still see you. We are and forever will be warriors. We survived! It is true, the past is the past, and we cannot change what was; but if sharing our experiences; the good, bad and ugly, can help encourage others to heal or can help to ensure that future generations are helped, not damaged, then what do we have to lose?”

Laura Rouse Breaking Code Silence about Northwest Academy (Universal Health Services) 

“I want to preface this story by saying that I recognize that I am not blameless in this and I take responsibility. I have stolen, I have lied, I have hurt my family, and I will carry the guilt of those actions with me for the rest of my life.

When I was 16 years old, I lived alone with a mentally ill parent, and our dynamic was very dysfunctional. On top of that, I was struggling with an eating disorder, and my mom and I made the mutual decision that I would enter residential treatment for my eating disorder. I spent time in an RTC, but unfortunately, my insurance stopped covering it. A friend of my mom’s recommended Northwest Academy; she had sent her nephew there. Within two days, I was at Northwest Academy, despite my mom not having toured the campus or done any real research. When my mom first told me about this, she said it was a way to get more independence, which sounded incredible. I quickly changed my tune when she sent me materials that included a (heavily redacted) list of rules, but she said it was too late.

The first thing that happened when I arrived was my intake. I was taken to the bathroom and into a stall (with the door ajar) and told to take off each article of clothing one by one and hand them to the staffer. Once I was nude, I was given a hospital gown and told to keep the front open while the staffer examined my front side, then told me to switch it to the back while she examined my backside. Coming from a relatively privileged background, this was extremely jarring for me, and it clicked: the place I was in was not what I thought it was.

I struggled immensely over the next few months, fighting against the program ideals, and attempting to maintain my individuality. I was “out of agreement” a lot, which meant I spent time on restriction. Restriction, for me, looked like extended forced silence, manual labor (including forcing me to do things I had told them I was physically unable to do), and pages of handwritten accountability writing assignments. In severe cases, a tent would be set up a hundred yards or so off the main campus where students on restriction would be required to sleep until our therapists decided we were allowed to rejoin our classmates.

When I was finally allowed to go on my first off-campus trip, I saw a woman texting, and I asked if I could borrow her phone. We were not allowed any outside contact with the world at first, except for therapy calls and letters to parents, and even those letters were heavily censored. I used the phone to call my best friend from home–just before I was sent away, she was hospitalized, and I wanted to make sure she was okay. My therapist saw me, and she ripped the phone out of my hands and started yelling; I honestly do not remember what happened next. I spent a while after that on restriction, and everyone was telling me how I would never be trusted again. This was what broke me–from then on out, I decided to keep my head down and just try to survive, but to do so I had to assimilate, even internally.

Things started to get better after that. I was not challenging their rules anymore, and they slowly began allowing me privileges again. Two months before I graduated, I went on another off-campus trip. While there, I was sexually assaulted by a patron in front of several of my classmates. I did not want to say anything, but one of them told the staff. When we got back, the guy in charge that day called me into the office; I told him I did not want to say anything, and he said: “I have to write it in your file, but that’s probably a wise decision. I mean, come on, who would believe you anyway?”

Though I did grow a lot because of my time at Northwest Academy, I have spent my adult life since then dealing with PTSD because of my experiences. I cannot come close to detailing every bad thing that happened, but I either experienced or witnessed egregious thing: emotional and physical abuse, as well as multiple allegations of sexual abuse by other students as well as staff; the male staffer I discussed in the last paragraph was accused of rape by a student, yet was still allowed to keep his job.

Though Northwest Academy has closed, I still support #BreakingCodeSilence. This campaign is incredible; I sincerely hope that they can invoke real, systemic change to total institutions like mine.”

Grace Breaking Code Silence about Moonridge Academy

“I was sent to Moonridge Academy in 2016 at age 12, which focused a lot on school and therapy. There was group therapy, family therapy, and individual therapy. Group therapy included either talking about how you felt or getting a Consequence and having no Free Time. Family therapy usually meant I got blamed for everything that went wrong and my therapist nodded a bunch. Individual therapy was usually fine, but I could not actually talk about things because my therapist would ask if I needed to be put on safety. Safety is when you always have to stand next to a staff member and you are watched in the bathroom.

I remember opening up to my therapist about how awful I felt, maybe five months into my time at Moonridge. She only said she was worried I still felt that way.

Multiple staff members would swear and threaten me if I did anything wrong, even walking too slowly. I was yelled at for the smallest things, like forgetting to line up my shoes or not asking to enter a room. Male staff members participated in female student’s strip searches.

I remember crying a little while telling someone about how I felt once, and the next day, I learned I did not have free time because my daily grade had been too low from crying.

Two of the staff members in particular had it out for me. One of them did not think I showered for long enough in my 12-minute time frame. She gave me a Consequence that said I had to have a female staff member watch me in the shower for the next three days to prove I was washing my hair.

One girl tried to kill herself and they would not allow anyone to talk to her for a week. She did schoolwork in a different room, but she still ate meals with us. They did not have a solitary confinement room at Moonridge.

A very autistic girl was regularly restrained for spinning around. No, she was not at risk of hitting someone, and no, she was not hurting herself. She was also restrained for saying she did not want to do a chore.

The amount of food we ate was larger than what I was used to, and I was very small. I threw up from eating too much. If I had not eaten that much, I would have been put on safety and a female staff member would have watched me in the bathroom for the next three days. I feel like I should have been required to eat a smaller amount of food, but that was never considered.

One of the girls was anemic and by the time the staff took her to the hospital two weeks later, she was close to dying. This is not an exaggeration. The doctor told her she would have died if she had come in even half a day later.

I was told I was fine when I said I was depressed.

My time in treatment ranges from bad to traumatic. I still have nightmares almost every night of Moonridge Academy. The only good that came from it is making one friend who I still talk to regularly. The program was traumatic for her as well.”

Jack Breaking Code Silence about Island View Residential Treatment Center (Aspen Education Group)  

“Jack (formerly Megan)

Island View Residential Treatment Center

April 2008 – February 2009

For you to get a full picture of my experience it is important to mention that I am a transgender man and when I was sent away, I was a 16-year-old girl named Megan.

I will admit I was not an easy child to raise and I put my parents in a very tough position due to my behavior. I do not believe they truly knew the extent of what they were signing me up for.

At first, I was sent to a therapeutic boarding school for girls. After 11 days the school decided I needed a higher level of care and they recommended Island View. My parents flew with me to Island View, located in Syracuse, Utah. I was terrified. I had never spent any length of time away from my parents. My parents walked me into the administration building and we immediately said our goodbyes. It did not feel real to me. It felt like I was in a dream or a nightmare. I was strip-searched almost immediately, made to squat and cough. Then they went over my entire body, marking in my chart every single scar I had, which took roughly 10 minutes as they wanted an explanation for every scar they found. I felt like a deer in headlights and completely violated.

I was not very compliant in the first five months of my stay. I was often PI-4’d (Personal Intervention – 4), which involved about five to seven men tackling me to the ground, putting elbows on my neck and head and in my ribs. Once you were down, you had to stay completely still for 15 minutes or time would start over. I never went down easily, I always fought back. Afterward, they would carry me to the “time-out room” and isolate me for hours.

I was often PI-4’d for having “extreme” emotions. I began to fight back in every way I could. This only made things worse for me. They put me on so many medications to sedate my behavior and emotions. These medications included Effexor XR, Lamictal, Abilify, Depakote, Concerta, and Vesicare because the combination of those medications made it hard to control my bladder. There was a period of four to five months where I was PI-4’d multiple times a day. I was put on Yellow Zone (sitting in a plastic chair, no talking, no groups, just you and the wall for 72 hours), numerous times.

When they realized that was not working they refused to let me speak to my family in any way—no letters, phone calls, nothing for months. They put me on a modified Individual Focus for months, where I sat in the hallway on a plastic lawn chair all day—no talking, no school, no groups, just me and the wall again. I was forced to sleep in the hallway under fluorescent lights, made to count while using the bathroom/showering. I eventually convinced my therapist that if they let me start over in the program, I would comply with everything.

My therapist would not address my sexuality or gender dysphoria. She believed that it was caused by childhood sexual abuse (which never occurred) and that once I remembered what had happened to me, I would not feel the same. The groups at Island View were often antagonizing and led by unqualified employees. They would humiliate us in a group setting. We were encouraged to do the same to each other in groups to break others down. I became particularly good at all the techniques they taught to us.

I excelled because I wanted to get out. There was no love there. We were not allowed to say I love you or to hug or touch in any way. We said “I care” instead. I eventually graduated from the Program and I was sent back to the boarding school I was referred by. After three months I convinced my parents to let me come home.

I had always felt apart from, and unable to connect with, my peers, but after this, I truly was apart. I did not know how to talk to anyone. I psychologically analyzed everyone I met. I trusted no one and let no one within arm’s reach of me for years. My relationships with most of my family have never been the same. However, over the years I have grown closer with my parents through open and honest conversations. I still do not have a particularly good relationship with my siblings or extended family.

I have struggled with severe alcoholism and drug addiction since the Program. I still have nightmares most nights and there is not a day that goes by that I do not think of that place. I am currently six months sober. That is the longest amount of sobriety I have ever been able to put together.

I have also transitioned from female to male and learned to embrace who I am. I have learned to use this experience to help others. I have learned to connect with others in a deep, intimate, and vulnerable way. This place may have changed me forever but after healing, I have finally become a man I am proud of and someone that I love dearly.

While I have l learned to grow through this experience I am speaking out because I wish someone would have protected me instead of robbing me of my identity and childhood. I am #BreakingCodeSilence“

Rana Patterson Breaking Code Silence about Casa by the Sea and Cross Creek Manor (WWASPS)

“I was ripped from my bed at 2 am when I was 14. I did not know what was going on but, as a child, I cried out for my mother.

“Mom!! Mom!! These people are taking me!!”

I finally got a glimpse of her standing there. Letting them throw me outside and down the stairs. I could not believe it, but that was only the beginning.

I was sent twice actually. The second time was more horrific than the first because I got there pregnant. I did not know until they told me. I was 16 then and I was told because I was a minor in the United States, my parents had complete control over me, and they forced me to abort it. Forced. Then they shamed me for it. I will never forget what the director said to me.

“You know what you deserve? You deserve to find the man of your dreams, marry him, have a baby, and watch it die in your arms!”

Twenty years later, after finding the man of my dreams and getting pregnant, I cannot let go of what “I deserve.” I have two beautiful, healthy kids, thank God, but I still get sick every time the memory is brought up. I tried to numb my feelings for twenty years. I had a horrible heroin addiction, but I made it out. I do not speak to my parents anymore, and it still hurts that I have a mother who does not love me. My kids will never know that pain. If I could help somebody else, it would not make it worth it, but it would at least lessen the blow. There are so many things that happened there that I will never forget, but this was the worst for me.”

Emily Breaking Code Silence about SageWalk Wilderness Program & Falcon Ridge Ranch

“In 2005, I attempted suicide at the age of 16. I was bleeding out as I called for my father to take me to the hospital. He told me to go f__ myself, and to drive myself there. So, I did. Later, I was admitted with a 52/50 to recover as my parents decided what to do with me. It was my dad’s decision and his push to send me to a Wilderness Therapy Program called Sagewalk, followed by a Residential Treatment Facility called Falcon Ridge Ranch.

I was spared the middle of the night kidnapping, as I was still in the hospital when the two people showed up to take me. They offered me a cigarette and told me not to run. They drove me to the airport where I was met by my parents who flew me to Oregon. I refused to speak with them the entire way. I had a broken ankle at the time and knew I was not going to be able to survive this. I refused hugs goodbye as they blindfolded me and put me in the back of a truck. I thought I was going to die. We drove for 3 hours. I was blindfolded the entire time. They gave me a backpack and told me to walk to a camp. There were 7 other girls all covered in dirt at the camp. I was told to sit and eat, follow all directions, and write in a diary every night that they would then read.

I cried the entire night and could not sleep. They would take our clothes at night so we would not run. This was in the dead of winter in Oregon, where it snowed and got below five degrees at night. One night I cried so hard I vomited all over the tent. It froze, and the morning after I had to icepick it off the ground and dispose of it. Anything we cooked we had to finish in its entirety, and if we did not finish something in time, the entire camp was made to repeat the process, start to finish, if someone did not follow our time orders.

We hiked every day. Some days it was 2 miles, some days 15 or more. We were not allowed to speak. All conversations were monitored. When they felt you reached a certain point in your program, you were forced to do what they called a “solo,” where you were to spend an undisclosed amount of time away from the group and all human contact. Mine was nine days. Nine days that I did not see or talk to another human being. I hallucinated, I cried for my mom. I lost all hope.

Later, after graduation, I was picked up by my family. I showered perma-dirt off of my body and was brought through the Las Vegas airport on our way to Virgin, UT. I thought about running. Could I do it? Would anyone help me? Where would I make money? I thought about this every time I was sent through that airport on home visits.

I entered Falcon Ridge on my 17th birthday. 23 other girls sang me happy birthday and we had cake. After that, I was told to deep clean the entire house. Cleaning was a way to punish and control. Nothing was ever clean enough. Each morning a girl was assigned a cleaning task and it was checked by another girl. If that girl did not like you, you got a mark and possibly missed out on any semblance of fun for that day. Soccer, maybe a Mormon feature film.

They forced me to believe that I had been raped, was an alcoholic, and a Mormon. Yes, you read that right. I drank alcohol once before being admitted to this program, as most teenagers do. They forced me to believe that when I lost my virginity, I was actually raped. They made me file a police report which ruined this teenage boy’s life. They then attempted to indoctrinate me into Mormonism. They made us watch films, sing hymns, and attend Mormon church.

I learned that the only way to beat this and leave was to succumb and pretend. I learned to adapt, and to make them believe they changed me.

They did change me, but not in the way they intended. I will always save myself, protect myself, and always have eyes in the back of my head now.”

Izaura Nicolette Breaking Code Silence about Turnabout-Stillwater Academy

“My name is Nicolette Sharp. I went to Turnabout Stillwater Academy in South Jordan, Utah. I was there in the years 2008 and 2009. It was not healing, it was not healthy, and it was not humane.

I left there having more problems than when I was sent. My brain was confused on so many levels. I did not know who I was anymore.

I was taken in the middle of the night. I was forced, and drugged, to get onto an airplane that landed in Salt Lake City, Utah.

For 17 months I endured harsh brainwashing techniques, physical and mental abuse, neglect, imprisonment, and no contact with my true identity. I had no contact with my parents until I had reached the “stage” of brainwash to be able to communicate with them, once a month.

I have way too many memories of what happened there, which could take too long to write out completely, but I have. I wrote my first book and had it self-published in 2019 in hopes it would raise awareness.

“Within the Mountains: A Mormon Reform School Experience.” By Izaura Nicolette.

The reader can take a walk through my socks and sit on the ground with me. I have been diagnosed with PTSD, and OCD from being in Turnabout Stillwater Academy. I wrote my story for my own justice. So that my family, friends, and parents understood me.

I wrote this testimony so others who were there with me know that they are not alone and that the story is out! No more silence!”

Kathryn P. Breaking Code Silence about Growing Together (Straight, Inc. spinoff) 

“Prior to Growing Together, I could see my parents’ concerns. I was at the party stage of my life. I was drinking, smoking weed, and abusing prescription pills. However, I was not any worse off than my two other siblings. I was in my senior year of high school and I was working full time. For some reason, I had my mom come up to my job and she went into my trunk and found a few hundred dollars’ worth of stolen clothes. We got into an argument in the parking lot, and I asked her to let me be emancipated. Later, I got called into the office at school and my parents walked in and said we were going to meet with a lawyer and signed me out of class early. We rode together and got to the building. When I walked in, the doors locked behind me. I knew something was not right and I started trying to open the door. I remember the lady at the front desk just being so nasty to me. Finally, they tell me I am in drug rehab.

I refused to stay, and after begging and pleading with my parents, they were made to leave. I was thrown into a white room with a couple of girls. One of the girls being from the same school as me, so I felt a little more comfortable. However, I was still very weirded out by their uniforms and by their appearance. They would make noises like they had Tourette’s if they made eye contact. I dragged it out for hours until I finally got so tired. I just wanted to go to bed to plan how I would get out of that place in the morning.

The four of us got into a parent’s vehicle late that night and we went to the house. They were reading out of notebooks and giving feedback for hours. I was pretty sure I would never participate in that stuff. We got a snack and went to our room, where there were just mattresses on the floor, baby monitors, and door alarms. I tried talking to the girl I knew, and she would not say anything back—like a zombie. It was like a bad dream that I was sure going to wake up from, so I went to sleep.

The morning routine was just as weird and then we went to the building where we spent the days. They did this weird motivation thing and had us sing children’s songs. I just laid on the floor in the back of the building observing everything. I had two choices: wait until my 18th birthday to get out or get through the program. I was doing whatever I had to get out as quickly as possible. I planned to fake it until August 31st. My goal was to get on Third Phase so I could get my parents alone and tell them how insane this program was.

In the next few days, I started doing everything they were doing and sitting upright, participating in these weird groups, and doing what I needed to do. In my second week there, you were supposed to confess something to your parents during a Friday night meeting. I do not remember if they could respond to you or not but it was just to make them want to keep you and reassure them as to why they put you there. Shortly after, I made Talk and Responsibility. That is when you have another talk with your parents, but you are also in charge of cleaning up after everybody. I do not know how that was supposed to be exciting, but that is what was needed to move up.

I finally got to the Second Phase. I was not going to make those girls follow those stupid rules. At that point, my codependency issues started. I felt like I needed to save those girls. When they would come home with me, I would make them feel as normal as possible. We would stay up all night talking because that was against the rules. The newcomers could not talk, but we all talked about life. I planned to get my own apartment and told them if they heard a certain song playing outside the building it was me helping them escape. These girls became my little sisters. I was older than all these girls and they had been in the program for so much longer than I had.

After I did what I needed to on Phase Two. I put in for Third Phase. I was one vote away from making the phase that I knew it was rigged. I was able to get my parents alone in the hallway and ask them to pull me out, that I was doing everything I needed to be doing, and they still kept me back. At this point, my parents were fostering kids, so they saw firsthand how crazy it was. So, they pulled me. The next morning, they took me to DCF to make a report against Growing Together. Later that evening, a staff member called me and said since I called DCF, she had set everyone back on their phases and I needed to come clean about all the misbehaving everyone was doing.

I told her I did not know anything and ended the conversation. She said they would stay in First Phase until I came clean. At that point, I washed my hands of the place, because I thought all the girls I fought so hard for were going to resent me. They could not go home and see their families because I got pulled. The program destroyed me and my relationship with my parents, so I immediately got my own apartment, which happened to be a couple of miles from the building.

For a few months, when girls would run, they would send the police to my house and ask to search for the girls. This happened until I lost my cool. Everything stopped until the program shut down and a lot of the girls reached out to me. These girls are still some of my best friends to this day. I do not speak to anyone else about Growing Together. My spouse of seven years just knows I was in treatment, but they do not know the extent of it. It is such a taboo, strange place. If I try to explain it, they just look at me with a blank stare. Even in my relationships with the girls from the program, we do not speak about the program. It is just something we all blocked out.”

Beth Cooper Breaking Code Silence about Cross Creek Manor & High Impact (WWASPS)

“I grew up in North Potomac, MD. I am 12 to 14 years younger than all three of my half-siblings.

My parents had already gone through more rehabs than I can count on both hands, with my half-sister. They just did not want to deal with any more heartache and were told they were saving my life by sending me away.

They sought intervention for me when I turned 14. I was an angry teenager, hung out with people my family considered to be degenerates, skipped school a lot, drank here and there with friends, but never did any kind of drugs, at that age. I placed myself in questionable situations and was promiscuous.

My mom was sick a lot, and overbearing. She had a severe eating disorder and has her own story of childhood abuse. The dynamic turned into Munchausen by proxy, and I rebelled every chance I had. My dad was an alcoholic with a bad temper, but never physically hurt me. They believed anyone with a doctorate and had the money to send me to the moon if need be.

At 14 or 15, my parents had me escorted to a hospital for the old and insane until they could figure out what to do with me. They swore I was on drugs (hospital drug test told them differently) and had me stay there for two weeks until hiring two escorts with handcuffs who accompanied me to Cross Creek Manor in La Verkin, Utah.

Upon arrival, I was strip-searched and given a uniform. I do not even know where to start concerning this facility, because my memories are scattered. Instilling fear with mental, emotional, and physical abuse was their tactic in order to get us to conform. They literally created situations to sabotage me into many consequences, including solitary confinement. It was a structured-level system with consequences they called “Categories.”

Example: I forgot a hall pass to use the bathroom and it was considered a Category 3 consequence. I was humiliated by being singled out, screamed at, called a liar, and then sent to the “SH group”.

Someone with severe ADD, like myself, who has parents with a well-established bank account, was their most ideal client. My parents believed every word the school said and paid $100,000 in tuition per year.

Every letter was monitored and even if I tried telling my parents about the abuse I was enduring, they told them it was manipulation. I was forced to be silent for weeks at a time without any emotional support. I was not allowed a phone call with my parents until after I had been there for six months.

They had seminars we had to attend, and if someone was raped or molested at home, they were brainwashed into thinking it was all their fault or were just liars. The girls who “drank the Kool-Aid” and were in the Upper Levels were pushed to be bullies.

The sadness, fear, loneliness, and abandonment have remained a feeling I am constantly battling even now at 36 years old.

Ron Garret ran the facility. Robert Litchfield was known as an owner. Later on in life, through research, I learned Mitt Romney allegedly backed WWASP financially as well.

Ron G. and the staff threatened to send a lot of us to an outside compound in the mountains of Tecate, Mexico. The program was called High Impact. The girls who went were sometimes transferred back to CCM. We were all horribly terrified because those girls came back and were beaten up, dirtier than any poor homeless person you have ever seen, completely emaciated, with injuries, scarring under their chin, and just not the same person they were prior to attending High Impact.

Sometime in the Summer of 2000, my parents were sent a pamphlet and DVD of girls barebacking in the ocean of Mexico. They told my parents that for an extra $36K this place would turn my life around. Ron G. notified me during a facility meeting, in front of everyone, that I would be escorted to High Impact/Mexico in 24 hours. The feeling of terror I felt threw me into a mental and physical breakdown. I was restrained only because I could not stop crying and shaking, then put into isolation.

My escorts were actually cool and offered me coffee, candy, or whatever I wanted because they knew what I was in for. They suck as human beings for being escorts, but it was the first act of adult kindness I had experienced in a year and a half.

We pulled up to a dirt compound with barbwire fences covered in green tarp. Their consequence area was basically just dog cages. We slept on a strip of cement and were given a sleeping bag. We had to run or walk 1000 laps without consequences/categories. It was a small level system as well. Our chins had to be touching our chests or facing down, eyes down at all times. Look up and we were thrown in the cages with restraints. Speak English and it was considered running plans.

The ground was mostly desert, rocks, and a lot of red ants. During the daytime, the ground was hot enough to probably fry an egg. I could not complete an exercise and was forced, on my bare knees, to that ground with my wrists tied behind my back. The skin of my knees is still scarred. I kept screaming, crying, and begging them to stop. They finally threw me into the cages and three staff members restrained me until I passed out, because I was unable to breathe. “Poppa” Miguel (not sure if he was the owner, but he managed the compound) woke me up with a bucket of cold water. The woman sitting on my back was laughing and grinding my chin into the gravel while I was on my belly, tied. I remember being unable to speak or cry every time this happened because I did not have the ability to do so while in restraint.

They left a huge pot of beans, uncovered, outside for over 48 hours and gave it to us to eat. We all ended up inside the cages vomiting with diarrhea. I was made to sit in my feces in that cage for over 24 hours, multiple times.

My first time being restrained was because I vomited lunch. A woman named “Momma” Arminda scooped my vomit up with a spoon and made me eat it. I was forced to dig an eight-foot grave and sleep in it.

I think I witnessed a murder. A girl whose parents lived in Mexico sent her there for the third time. Miguel put her inside a sleeping bag, zipped it up, and wrapped it tightly with duct tape. This was after he restrained and choked her. He flung her in the sleeping bag far, and into a part of the barb-wired fence that was not covered with tarp. We never saw her again after that.

When I was finally transferred back to Cross Creek after two and a half months, I was covered in Impetigo and weighed 40 pounds less. There is so much more I could tell and dig up from my scarred memory…

Cross Creek Manor and High Impact took a huge part of me that I will never be able to get back. I do not remember most of my childhood prior to WWASP. I returned home after graduating from Cross Creek, less than a week before my 18th birthday.

I have lived the textbook life of CPTSD. The toxic relationships, drama creating more trauma, chaos, and then starting over at a different square one every time.

I am 10 months clean and sober and have a son who, just by being who he is, saved my life. I entered into recovery for my son, initially. Now my journey of recovery is for me, as a survivor and woman, with a voice that actually matters.

I was a part of this lawsuit led by the Turley Law Firm in Texas. It was the largest case they have ever taken on. Had they submitted it in Supreme Court as medical malpractice, they would not exist, and a lot of us would probably be financially set, instead of living paycheck to paycheck. Some of us without health insurance could get help instead of committing suicide.

As some know, High Impact was raided by Mexican officials, and the staff were incarcerated. Cross Creek Manor is now under a different name, in a new location. They turned themselves into a nonprofit organization in order to continue operating.

This was really hard to type. If this can bring awareness to the world and save at least one child’s life, I would write it a thousand times over. Thank you so much to Paris Hilton. You have started the healing process and are going to save lives with the #BreakingCodeSilence movement.”

Kelsey Breaking Code Silence about Cinnamon Hills Youth Crisis Center

“In 2012 I went to Cinnamon Hills Youth Crisis Center in St. George, Utah, for drug abuse, at the age of 16. I stayed there for about three months until my mom realized the extent of the abuse. I have been friends with many Utah treatment center survivors and was told that being taken to this center was the worst they had heard.

My two kidnappers were hired by the school. I heard a noise outside my window and looked to see a man coming through my bedroom window, followed by a woman through my bedroom door, tackling me, and pinning me down with force. I was placed in handcuffs, with a shackled waist restraint, for the entire drive from Los Angeles to St. George (over seven hours). I had to stop to go to the bathroom at some points, and instead of taking the cuffs off of me, the female officer had to do everything for me, such as taking off my pants, etc.

Upon arriving, and while coming off of drugs, I was placed in an empty room with a small stool in the middle and was told to sit there and not move for hours. That lasted probably six hours. Following that, I was strip-searched. While standing naked in front of three or four women, I was told to take a shower. I had to do so with them in the room, and a clear shower curtain. I was then placed back onto the stool, where I sat all night until morning.

I was coming off heavy drugs, and I never received medical supervision, or someone to even look after me while going through withdrawals. The only time I received medical care was upon entering the facility. They gave me a pap smear without consent from me, or my mom, who had no idea. I was told to strip and prepare; I had never had one prior to this. All I remember was a really old man coming into the room, and I was crying because I was being touched with no one ever explaining to me what was happening. This happened without a female chaperone in the room. I am not even sure if this was performed up to medical standards, I had blocked this out until recently. It also makes no sense why a teenager would need a pap smear to go to a boarding school. I have been to two other residential treatment centers, and this was the only time I have seen this.

Again, without my mom’s consent, the school decided I did not look up to the standard of going to the school, and dyed my hair. Along with this, my mom was not even aware of what medication they were giving to me. I am a vegetarian, and I told them this as my food preference. The staff told me that they did not believe I was a vegetarian. I was fed meat every day and told to eat it. I then got in trouble for not eating. The punishment was to go back to the small stool and sit in the same place without moving all day, but this time the stool was in a tiny room the size of a closet. Most of that time I was locked in the closet, and there were some times staff would talk to me and make me admit that I did something wrong, and talk down to me making me feel bad about it. The only food I was allowed to eat during this punishment was a piece of bologna between bread. So, I further starved. I was brought this for three meals due to the fact I was kept in a closet all day.

Just like during the intake process, for our showers, we had to be inspected while naked in front of a staff member, for every shower. Then they would sit with us in the shower, watching us the whole time. We were not even allowed to have soap or shampoo, because they thought we would cut ourselves with the cap of the bottle. So, along with all of this, they had to even squirt the shampoo into our hands during our showers.J

That was supposed to be a safe and healing environment for troubled teenagers, and those with substance abuse problems. That facility was more like a prison. We were stripped of all of our belongings and placed in attire that one would wear in jail. While walking to a different room in the building we had to have our hands behind our backs in a “diamond formation.” We did not even have basic rights, such as accessible drinking water, aside from our 3 daily meals.”

Kellie Wheeler Breaking Code Silence about Tranquility Bay (WWASPS) 

“After watching the documentary ‘This Is Paris,’ and seeing so many of my fellow program brothers and sisters tell their story, I decided to share mine as well.

I was sent to a behavioral modification program at the age of 16. Since I experienced it first hand, I thought it only right to share my experience, help spread the message, and bring to light the corrupt #WWASP and #TroubledTeen multi-billion dollar industry which profits off of physically, mentally, and emotionally abusing children. All while lying to and taking advantage of their parents during a vulnerable time in their lives, all for the sake of profit.

It was a Saturday afternoon; I had just gotten home from being at the beach all day with my friends. When I walked through my front door my dad was there to greet me and introduced me to his new “friends.” A man and woman, whom I had never met before. He then informed me that they would be taking me to my new school. I immediately tried to run out of the front door, but I was quickly restrained by those people. They handcuffed me and put me in the back of a white Oldsmobile.

As we drove away, I was screaming through the glass window, “Please stop this, I’m sorry, please.”

I begged my dad. “Please, I will behave, I will change, Dad don’t do this, don’t send me away.”

I watched out the window as my home slowly disappearing from my vision.

Three hours later I arrived at the airport in Atlanta, GA, where I was escorted, still handcuffed, down the long terminal, until I arrived at my gate. There I read the words “Air Jamaica.”

I thought to myself, “there is no way Dad would send me to Jamaica.”

Thoughts started racing through my mind. “What in the actual hell is going on? Am I really being sent to Jamaica? What is in Jamaica? Who is in Jamaica?”

I sat at the gate waiting to board the flight, completely stripped of all my dignity. I was still wearing my bikini under my beach cover-up, while uncontrollably crying. I had to board the plane last with my escort, still handcuffed, and placed in the very back row of the plane. It was Spring Break, so most of the flight was college students. I was given looks of pity, confusion, and curiosity as I passed the other passengers on the flight. This was the beginning of the nightmare that I would live for the next nine months and 12 days.

I arrived at the airport in Montego Bay, Jamaica, and was transferred to a new escort, a tiny little lady, who then drove me to Tranquility Bay, a WWASP program for troubled teens, located in rural St. Elizabeth Parish. Upon my arrival, I was taken to a room, where I was strip-searched and told to remove all my jewelry. I was then given a pair of navy shorts, a white collared shirt, and flipflops. I was then assigned to the “Knowledge” family where I was placed with a “big sister” who, over the next few days, would inform me of the rules, which I was to follow.

I was not allowed to speak unless I raised my hand and was acknowledged by a staff member; I would then have to ask permission to speak once I was acknowledged. If I was granted permission to speak it had to be “on task,” meaning if I was doing school work, it had to be about school work, or if I was in PE, it would have to be about PE. There was no casual conversation allowed, ever. All conversations were monitored by the staff. You were not allowed to look out the window for more than five seconds, or it was considered “run plans,” and you would be given a Category Five (Cat 5) punishment. Then they sent you to lay on the ground, face first, for a minimum of 24 hours, or until they felt you learned your lesson.

Some girls were restrained, beaten, and forced to lay on the concrete for weeks (and in some cases months) at a time if they chose not to “work the program.” Biting your fingernails and popping a pimple were also considered Cat 5 punishments. You could never enter a bathroom with a pen or pencil (another Cat 5). There was limited water, so showers were never guaranteed. If you did get a shower it was freezing cold water and you had a total of four minutes of bathroom use. You would be punished if you went over the time. We were not allowed to make eye contact with anyone and had mandatory headcounts whenever we went anywhere within the facility.

If you had to use the restroom in the middle of the night, you would have to scream for a guard and ask permission. The staff/guards were in charge of how much toilet paper you were given, and what you got, is what you got. There was no air conditioning, and the facility was filthy. Most girls had lice or scabies. All the letters that you would write to your parents were first read by staff, and if you mentioned anything negative in a letter, you would be punished. They would tell your parents that everything you wrote was lies because you were just trying to manipulate them like you have always done.

We were not allowed to speak with our parents until we became a Level Two or Three, (which took about three months to achieve, sometimes longer), and it was a 20-minute phone conversation once a month, with the staff listening the entire time. You were warned and threatened never to speak negatively about the program to your parents or you would be punished and lose phone privileges. We were forced to attend multiple high-intensity, brainwashing type seminars that lasted three to four days, depriving us of sleep and food. Trained facilitators would mentally abuse us through proven methods and techniques known to mentally break you down.

It was not until I achieved Level Four that my parents were finally allowed to come to visit me. Up until this time they had only seen a brochure of the program’s facility, which was completely fabricated. I knew once they saw the living conditions and the facility in person, that they would take me home with them.

Thankfully, I was right. They agreed to let me come home and my nightmare finally came to an end. I think that was one of the happiest days of my life.

Tranquility Bay is now shut down, along with most of the other programs that were located outside the US. Mainly due to child abuse, neglect, and death. It seems that as soon as one program is shut down in the US, another one opens up. This is primarily thanks to the #WWASP organization, which is responsible for financing, operating, and opening these corrupt programs. It is time that they are shut down once and for all.”

Mary Collins Breaking Code Silence about WWASPS & Aspen Education Group

“My name is Mary and I spent just short of two years of my life in the Troubled Teen Industry.

I was sexually abused as a young child. When I was 12, I started exhibiting outward displays of trauma— namely self-mutilation and other suicidal ideations. While I was in a local inpatient facility, a girl who was with me told me her story of being abused and I told her I was, too. She told me if I did not tell someone she would. She held up her end of the bargain. After a police investigation ensued, my parents sought a way to get rid of me. That is how I came to my first program (WWASP).

I was not taken during the night; I woke up in the morning to my mother urging me to lie in bed with her. We laughed and hugged, and the doorbell rang. A man and a woman entered. They were there for me. They had me change publicly and cuffed me and put into their car. They would then blindfold me for certain durations of the trip, so I could not see where I was headed—so I could not know my way out.

I arrived late. Intake cavity-searched me; as a young pubescent I felt violated by the cavity searches and having my scars and biological markers notated.

When I arrived at group, first thing in the morning, the leader asked me, “Why are you here?”

I said, “Well, I was sexually abused.”

He said, “Who thinks she is lying?”

Everyone raised their hand. I felt betrayed. Unearthed. My heart was stolen. Why was I here then? This was an example of how brainwashed we were expected to be.

I then learned my fate: Sedation, restraint, and isolation for hours or weeks on end. Who is to say how long I was in isolation? A day feels like a week. There were water and food restrictions. We could only listen to music on Sundays; a selection of 16 tracks. “Three Little Birds” was one of them. I did not know anyone’s name outside of my group. Besides sleep deprivation (forced fire alarms at 2 AM where we would sit on the cold concrete for hours), supervised showers, starvation, and isolation—among other specific atrocities—one notable thing stands out:

They forced water restrictions of 16oz of water a day, citing a “government-enforced drought restriction,” which caused me a severe urinary tract infection that infiltrated my kidneys; ultimately leading me to syncopal episodes and lack of urination for over 3 days. Upon examination from a “doctor” (who made inappropriate comments about my genitals), it was somehow determined that my hymen was the reason, which now leads me to believe that this person was not a doctor at all. They prescribed a Hymenectomy. My mother was invited to join, which is important in the context of my release.

They gave me no local anesthetic and merely 1/4 of a Valium as pain relief. I felt everything. I bled for the remainder of my time there and obviously still had the UTI. By the time my mother was able to hire a lawyer to break the contract, I had a staph infection in my entire abdomen. This is a surface story. I could go for pages on my strife there.

Inevitably, after “saving,” me, I was sent to another RTC associated with Aspen Education Group. While the physical and sexual abuse was not as upfront, the psychological aspect was severe. Isolation, restraint, and removal from human contact. Pitting the residents against each other, excessive medications, and gaslighting.

I have spent the time to heal from my early childhood abuse, assuming it would also heal my trauma from being institutionalized as a child. I thought I had healed, but I have not. Survivors speaking out have helped me to confront my many traumas from these facilities, in therapy.

Thank you #BreakingCodeSilence for giving so many of us the courage to acknowledge our truth and heal.”

Allison Breaking Code Silence about Provo Canyon School

“My name is Allison and I was in Provo Canyon School during late 1993, early 1994.

I blocked out a lot that had happened during that time in my life because I cannot remember how I got to the school. I do not remember being transported from California and cannot remember if I was taken in the middle of the night or during the day. What I do remember is arriving and seeing a lot of snow and not much else around.

I remember going to the orientation unit, and within the first week, I got sent to the punishment unit with a crazy number of hours to stand against a wall. (It was 1000 hours or something like that.) The reason for my punishment was I snuck $20 in my bra and my roommate told on me. I remember being thrown in a concrete room, I cannot remember if I was fully naked or had my bra and panties, but I do remember it being cold. I remember I panicked, and they gave me a sedation shot that made me drool and it was extremely hard for me to move. I remember the time was 72 hours in that room. I remember being forced to take pills, but I did not know what the pills were.

I became very numb psychologically at the school. For 12 hours a day, (maybe more), I had to stand facing a wall. I think every half hour or hour they gave a small sit-down break. I remember if you slouched, looked to the side, or spoke, they would threaten to throw you in the concrete room. I remember some people screaming and in straitjackets. I remember some kids had been there for years. I remember you had to eat all of your food. There was one girl in the punishment unit who was force-fed all the time, and you could hear her screaming and fighting the staff. I finally made it out of the punishment unit for maybe a week and got in trouble for passing a note to a friend during quiet-time, so they sent me right back. I remember the staff yelling and humiliating the students. I also remember always thinking everything was my fault.

I was only 13 years old and had been dealing with some serious issues that happened at my home. I was acting out, but I did not need to be told everything was my fault, and I was a horrible kid. What I needed was love and someone to listen to me. I did not realize until my 20s that my acting out was not my fault. It was a child’s reaction to a very bad situation. I was only at Provo for a short time because my parents’ insurance coverage ran out. Even in a short time, this was a life-changing experience for me. This experience was not okay for me or anyone else to go through.”

Nadia Breaking Code Silence about Genesis by the Sea

“I never thought I could share one of the most traumatic and saddest moments of my life. We all moved past it, including my family. It is as if it never happened, but it did! The truth of the matter is that I have battled with many issues for years, due to that Hell of a place I was sent to. It was in the middle of nowhere, with strangers who abused me. Why was I sent there, you may ask? For being a rebellious 13-year-old who was tired of being mentally and physically abused.

I was picked up one day and taken to Genesis by the Sea (GBS). When we got there, I was dragged inside by a bunch of other girls and staff members. I cried and screamed for my family to help me, but all they could say was, “I’m so sorry.”

I was stripped naked and thrown in the shower. I was isolated from the world and told that no one would be able to help me or believe me, so it was useless to try to speak up. There were times where I could not use the restroom for days, to avoid detention and writing thousands of lines for breaking nonsense rules. We could not talk for days, weeks, and even months at times. I was forcefully fed meat, even though was (and still am) a vegetarian. If I did not eat my food, they would blend it and force-feed it to me. I am talking about the food they saved for over a week from all the meals I did not eat. They laughed at me and said that it was fun to watch me swallow my food.

We were also given pills to take every day, and I have no idea what they were for. I know of many girls who were beaten by staff, some were allegedly raped by the founder of the school. We had to do intense labor, including cleaning busy highways in Mexico—putting us in danger of being kidnaped or murdered! They had us working there from early morning until night.

I remember being so sick after they made us run during a crazy thunderstorm, by the ocean. It was freezing cold, and we were drenched from the rain. I was told if I threw-up they would force me to eat it. We had to read the Bible three times a day. We also went to church, I believe, twice per day.

They would make us do ridiculous games for our “Fun Friday Nights,” that were humiliating. This included throwing pieces of meat at us while we stood still and making us carry a cow’s tongue across a huge field. We could not listen to anything other than Christian music, and TV/movies, unless the staff wanted to watch them; then we would be forced to stay up all night and work all day the following day.

The founder of these sister boarding schools was accused of rape several times, a girl also died while doing construction work in San Diego. He was forced to shut down the first school he had back in the 80s/90s in Ramona, CA. He then opened new schools in Florida and Ensenada, Mexico after that. A chain of torture.

These schools and people destroyed many lives! Girls turned to drugs, alcohol, and sex work. They developed depression, CPTSD, eating disorders, and some even committed suicide after leaving.

At the time I was sent there I was the youngest one. Older girls bullied and threatened me, while others were very protective and took care of me when they could. I was only thirteen to fourteen years old. You do not do that to an already traumatized child in an attempt to cover up her suffering.

This place made me hate people, including my family, for years. Of course, I have forgiven most of them, and we have a much better relationship, now that it has been years and I am older, but I have lived my life not being able to trust anyone. I learned to block out most of the things that happened at that school, everything is a blur now. I have had endless nightmares of trying to escape that place or being punished.

After I left GBS, I partied a lot and I did everything my family was opposed to. For once, I was able to forget about my past and be myself, I felt free! But the trauma was always there; hidden in a deep place that hardly anyone ever knew existed, until now.

The only people who can understand me are some of my “sisters” that went to school with me, who I keep in touch with. As well as other strangers from all over, thanks to Breaking Code Silence, and Paris Hilton for being so strong to come forward as a fellow survivor.

It has been a while since I moved on. I used to zone-out often while being in there, we were like robots. I would look out the window and stare at the ocean. I promised myself that I would come back to that place as an adult, so I did, back in 2009. After the school was already raided and shut down by officials over numerous reports of abuse. There I stood at my old school, sobbing for hours inconsolable, then, I let go!

I did not want that school to own me or define who I was becoming. I found some sort of closure and decided to prove to everyone that I was a strong person, and I fought my battles on my own. There has always been something that has kept me going. I realized that there was more to life than to be stuck in the past. Genesis By The Sea made me stronger, and nothing could break me. In a way, it prepared me to be a much tougher person out in the real world. Every bad thing that has happened in my life has made me stronger.

I am not the type of person who likes self-pity because I am extremely prideful and independent. The reason why I am sharing my story, encouraging other girls to come forward and join other survivors, is to bring down this invisible and corrupted industry of boarding schools, who profit so much money from abusing troubled teens. This needs to stop now! No kid should ever have to endure what we went through.”

Anonymous Survivor Breaking Code Silence about Brightway Adolescent Hospital and Cross Creek (WWASPS)

“I was taken in the middle of the night, handcuffed, and put in the back of a car. I was driven to St. George, Utah, to Brightway Adolescent Hospital. It is a holding center until they figure out what program you are going to.

I was there for 30 days! I had my clothes taken from me as a punishment and given hospital gowns by three staff members. After two nurses tried to take my clothes off, I fought them. When they brought Lincoln in, the 350-pound staff member, I handed over my clothes. I was taken to a doctor to have my first pelvic exam. I tried to refuse and was told if I refused, Lincoln, the 350-pound male staff member, would come to hold me down. It was getting done one way or another. Very traumatic. I was also told while at Brightway by a counselor that if I signed this form I could go home. I signed it at 16. What I did not know is that it gave my parents access to my trust fund, which was set up by my grandfather, so that my mom could not use it. How many of you can say you paid for yourself to be there?

After 30 days, I was transferred to Cross Creek. I am not a saint, never claimed to be, but what they did was so wrong. No human being should be deprived of basic needs as a form of punishment. Staff and other girls would watch the girls take showers and use the restroom. We were denied laundry time, denied showers, denied medical care—I will get into that. It was all about breaking everyone down and playing the “game of feedback.” “The game of feedback” was who could call the other person out, be the meanest, impress the staff, and move up the levels. If you did not comply, you were medicated. Your parents were told you were liars and not to believe anything you said. My birthday came and I was still in Phase One. Anyone who said happy birthday to me was punished. I was not allowed to have a cake, like the other people. I was told it was a privilege. I was not allowed to go on the hikes or any group event because I was a security risk.

I saw girls being tackled to the ground and injected with Thorazine to tranquilize them and then sent to isolation. Girls, including myself, were given medication and had no idea what it was. But I was told I needed it. I know girls who were told that they had to have abortions and they did. They were told that their parents would not love them or the child if they refused the abortion. I also saw a new girl that was told because they were a lesbian, they were wrong, and the therapist would harass them continuously. They were told that the only reason they are bisexual, or lesbian was to get back at their parents or seeking attention. Seeing that happen to other girls made me think about my actions, as far as what I was going to do just to get through it.

I was told if I left at 18, I was going to be handed a bus ticket to Salt Lake City with the clothes on my back and my family would not want me. My family lived in Arizona and Southern California. I played the game to survive. We all played the game to survive. Girls were fed 4,500 calories a day to gain weight, and parents were told it was because of their drug use and detoxing. We were punished if we did not eat all of our meals.

As I moved up, I saw girls jump the fences and run. They would always be brought back. I saw staff having relations with girls, I just kept to myself. While playing football at “PE” I was hit and injured. It took several months for my knee to heal, with no medical help other than a bandage. The same thing with softball. I tripped and heard a snap. After three days of complaining and being told I was exaggerating, I was taken to a doctor. They did nothing but put me in crutches. Six months later, in LA, I went to an orthopedic doctor and they told me I had broken my ankle and damaged my knee from the football injury.

I am divorced and remarried with teenagers and there is nothing they could ever do to have me send them to a place like this. My teenagers will never have to go through this because the greatest lesson I have learned from my parents’ huge mistake, both of which I no longer talk to, is communication and openness. My children can talk to me about anything and I will not judge them. My therapist has told me I have PTSD from it, and I go into survival mode. It has been 22 years and I still live in survival mode.”

Sara Breaking Code Silence about Redcliff Ascent

“I was searching for information about the wilderness program I was sent to in 1993. It is called Redcliff Ascent, and I was in the second group of kids to be put in the program. I was sent there on November 27th or 28th of 1993, and I came home around January 25th of 1994. My experience was traumatic and horrible, mixed with my love for nature and camping. I lived in fear of returning back and had often hoped that these programs would be called out for the child abuse that they inflict, and eventually be shut down. But they seem to be getting stronger.

I grew up in a devout large Mormon family in Southern California. My stepfather was abusive, and I became depressed, withdrawn, and highly anxious. I was afraid to go home. I asked my mom if I could go to a therapist. She agreed as long as it was a Mormon therapist. After my first session, the therapist asked to speak with my mom in private. I found out later that the therapist told her “you are going to lose that one.”

She told her I was suicidal and showed her a pamphlet of a wilderness program in Utah that was run by Mormons. It was five thousand dollars a month. I do not know if the therapist was licensed, or if she got some sort of kickbacks for sending teens to these programs, or if she really believed that this was what I needed. But my mom was terrified and felt that she had to save me.

It was about a year later that I was sent to Redcliff. My anxiety had gotten worse. I was running away from home; I did not know what to do with the stress and fear I felt on a daily basis. I did not know the impact of emotional, verbal, and psychological abuse that was being inflicted on me and my sisters by our stepdad. I did not do drugs or anything like stealing.

So, my mom told me I was going camping, and I was so excited. I got on a plane, met some random Mormon family at SLC airport (I think), and was really looking forward to camping and being away from my stepdad. I stayed with the family for a couple of days, going through some psychological testing and evaluations. I remember asking if there would be horses at the camp I was going to. One night we got in a Jeep and drove for hours. In the middle of the night, we drove in the backcountry, up and over rocks. At one point they stopped and told me to get out of the car, handed me a sleeping bag, and drove away. At sunrise a man was standing over me, kicking me, saying “get up”.

Not far from me were a group of teens, standing around a fire with a couple of adults. The teens scrutinized me and scowled. This was not the camp with horses I had imagined. Any time I asked a question, they said “no future questions.”

I thought there was a mistake, there was not. My mom had tricked me.

While I was there I tried to break my leg to be sent home. I developed asthma and I jumped into the back of a truck to try to escape, (hunters that were driving through the wilderness). My knees stopped working. I was punished with no fire, no food. I was ridiculed daily and kicked when I fell down. The leaders determined I was not “rehabilitated” after the first month and convinced my mom I needed another 30 days. Another five thousand dollars for them.

During my time out there, the counselors (there were always three) would occasionally talk about the importance of the Mormon faith. The owner of the company would come out every Friday to drop off our food, (Ziploc bags of rice, lentils, flour, dry milk, and oats). He would meet with us individually and he would ask how I felt about the church. I figured that if I spoke positively about it, then I would be treated better and might get to go home.

When I did get to go home, I was reminded many times that they had a money-back guarantee, and any wrong move I made they would come to my house and pick me up and take me back out there. So, I did what I was supposed to do, I went to church and I did not talk to anyone at school. Redcliff would have parents call me so I could tell them about what a great program it was and how their child was going to benefit from it, just like me.

There are so many stories from people that went through these programs. Really traumatic stories. Children die in these programs. The majority are left with deep emotional scars. My experience was 25 years ago, and I am managing the PTSD from my experience. Parents sign over their guardian rights to these programs (at least that is what they told me when I was there).

Most of the kids in my groups were sent by the state, they had been in the Utah “homes” or were foster children and were labeled as too troublesome for the homes. They would talk about being in restraints and being in solitary, and how that was all much preferred to the wilderness program. None of these programs have standards or accountability.”

Haley Breaking Code Silence about KW Legacy Ranch

“In June of 2016, at 4 am, two days before the end of my freshman year in high school, two large men burst into my room and asked if I wanted to do this, “the easy way or the hard way.”

My mom was crying hysterically in the hallway and told me I was going somewhere where I would be safe. She wanted me to be safe from public ridicule over an explicit video taken of me without my knowledge and sent to over 500 people. All my mom wanted to do was hide me.

I followed the men into a child-locked car, where they drove me hours away from my home to KW Legacy Ranch. As soon as I arrived, they drove me far into the desert and had me walk for five hours, in 110°F heat, with almost no sleep. They then drove me to a place called “the Canyon,” where the new kids and punished students were sent. We had to sit on a wooden stump for the entire 15-hour day, sleep in a tent on the hard ground with only one blanket, and were given a can of raw spam for food. I was vegetarian and told them I would not eat it, so they kept me there longer and screamed at me for hours a day every day until I ate it. I was there for four days.

After that, I was taken to the “girls’ house,” where I was woken up every morning at 6 am to start strenuous physical labor. Our labor consisted of cleaning dirty cow stalls, carrying large concrete slabs, throwing heavy hay bales onto a truck, milking cows, pulling weeds, and so much more. The heavy lifting and massive amounts of disgusting, unhealthy food, made me gain over 60 pounds, in only four months. We were forced to eat the butchered animals that we cared for, along with a combination of expired canned foods.

Their method of “therapy” consisted of manipulation, brainwashing, and fear tactics. There were many strict rules, such as having to ask to enter/exit the bathroom before opening the door. We were not allowed to spill even a drop of milk, our ponytails could not have a single bump, and we had to walk backward and keep our heads down if we were near the boys’ house. We were only allowed to shower every other day for 10 minutes, and we only had three minutes to brush our teeth, wash our faces, and put up our hair.

There were three different levels of punishments. The least harsh punishment was having to sing and act out the motions to “I’m a Little Teapot,” in front of everyone three times a day. After that was Contemplation, which was just like the Canyon, except it was in the backyard of the girls’ house. The harshest punishment was getting sent back to the Canyon. I got sent back there three times.

We were routinely ridiculed and subjected to verbal abuse. We were only allowed to communicate with our families by writing letters that the staff usually threw away because it was against the rules to speak negatively about the ranch. Most of the letters I received had parts blacked out with a sharpie so I could not read them. They did not let my parents visit me until after four months of being there. The second I was alone with them, I told them everything I endured on the ranch. They cried and said they thought they were sending me to a place where I could clear my mind in nature with animals. They could not have been more wrong.

I’m speaking out to help shine a light on the cruelties of the troubled teen industry and to stand with everyone else that was forced to spend their formative years in treacherous places like KW.

This is a picture from while I was on the ranch. It brings me to tears remembering how I felt in that moment and how fake that smile was. I looked like an entirely different person.”

Kimberly Weston Breaking Code Silence about City of Faith Hospital

“I was forced to sleep on the floor of my parents’ room the night before I was driven, by them, to the City of Faith Hospital. It was on the campus of, and a part of, Oral Roberts University. I had no idea what was going on. My best friend’s mom had just spilled the beans about me having sex with my boyfriend, and the next thing I knew, I was being thrown in the back of my parent’s car and driven two hours away in silence.

I was admitted and locked up with no explanation. Some say it was better that their parents took them. I cannot say of course. However, I can say I now have severe abandonment/trust issues and people make me paranoid. On one hand, I am desperate to find and enjoy healthy love and on the other, I do not believe it exists. I am always confused about it.

I think my parents driving me seriously damaged our relationship, and I now do not speak to them. Daily, I mourn the loss of not only my childhood but also the loss of the kind of parental support that most people take for granted.

I stayed at this bizarre facility for months. I do not remember how long. My childhood memories are far and few between, because of so much trauma. I do remember one of the staff being fired for checking a girl’s private area for lice, and a boy tried escaping by fitting in the food cart when they would bring it around.

I also remember being given a pelvic exam and being in incredible pain afterward. I told a nurse and they just sent me to my bed, and a male nurse sat in a chair beside my bed silently, while I anguished in pain. I still do not know why. I have tried to get my medical records and they always just send me in a circle. I wish I could find some of the survivors that were there. It was such a traumatic experience that I do not remember anyone’s name that was there with me.”

Anonymous Survivor Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry

“When I was 13, I went to a program in Hawaii for two and a half months, then to a place in North Carolina for 11 months. It was for self-harm and suicidal ideation.

When in North Carolina, it was clear that I needed more help than I was getting, so I went to a place in Utah. That place changed my life forever.

I was sexually assaulted multiple times and constantly bullied. One of the people who assaulted me had over 17 accusations against him, and the staff did not do anything. He was court-ordered to be there, so they could not kick him out. But there were many things they could have done, and they did not do anything.

I have PTSD from the program, and I am afraid I will never fully heal. I went there because I was getting increasingly suicidal, but I had never actually attempted. I attempted suicide over 10 times in my 16 months there.

It should also be noted that I am transgender, and they deliberately put me on the girls’ dorm instead of the boys. I worked very hard to move to the boys and finally did. I made a mistake when I was over there; I had a (consensual) sexual encounter with someone. As a punishment, they moved me back to the girls’ dorm and put me on something called “Individual focus,” “IF” for short. When on IF, you are not allowed to talk to anyone. You must sit alone in a room and sit in your thoughts. I was so suicidal, and I had my closest attempt then.

Three people who I personally know from that place died after they left. One committed suicide, one overdosed, and one was shot. No one who went there is sober. It was a horrible environment. I ended up moving back to the boys’ dorm for my last seven months, but I had still spent more than half my time there in the girls’ dorm. That place made me hate myself so much.

Some of the staff were horrible. One staff member named Tod tried to fight a student, and another staff whom we nicknamed “Reverend” repeatedly (intentionally) called me a girl and threatened me at one point. Luckily, he was fired, but the other horrible staff there were not. There was a staff member who gave her number to a 17-year-old and told him that she was attracted to him. There was another staff member who let a student hit a Juul from between her breasts. Those two quit because they knew they would get fired once the director found out.

All in all, it was a horrible experience, and I left with dozens of physical and mental scars, of which some will heal, and some will not. I am speaking out because I do not want anyone else to have to go through what I went through. I do not want any more kids to die because their treatment place could not help them.”

Casey Breaking Code Silence about Cross Creek Manor (WWASPS)

“Silenced, Socially Isolated and “Safe”

September 27th, 2004 I was sent to Cross Creek Manor (CCM) Utah- One of the therapeutic boarding schools that were operated by the World Wide Association of Specialty Programs (WWASP).

I was 14 years old and had just run away from home. I was struggling to understand my sexuality, had started using drugs and was caught drunk on two occasions. I had recently learned who my real father was and had been through a custody battle over familial abuse. I had no love for myself, no trust in my family, and I just wanted to escape.

A promise to “save my life” is what CCM sold to my parents, who were “desperate” for solutions they did not have. So, with the belief there were no other options, I was taken to CCM two days later. I had no idea where I was going, but I was not fighting it. I knew I was messed up and I did not want to go home.

There is not a word to describe the combination of terror and confusion I felt in my first week at CCM. I was getting in trouble for everything. Normal things, like standing up or walking through a doorway. I had to show the staff I was wearing only one bra and one pair of socks. I had to count out loud anytime I went to the bathroom.

I spent every day in “Worksheets,” where I sat still at a desk, in silence, listening to tapes and taking tests. I had to wear sandals in the shower. I overheard staff on the radio saying a girl was being taken to “Isolation.” I heard a girl be called a “dirty slut” by her therapist. I watched another girl carry around a sack of flour every day. I sat in “Ron Meetings” (the director’s “intervention”) where I learned the flour was to shame her for having an abortion. I listened to him threaten that girls would be sent to Jamaica where they would be beaten, placed in cages, and starved.

Where was I? Was I having a nightmare? Some nights I thought I would fall asleep and wake up back home. Wishful thinking.

I was there for a year and a half. Wake up>make bed>get dressed>brush teeth>clean the room. All in 15 minutes.

“Line up! No eye contact! Don’t talk!”

Breakfast: in silence listening to motivational tapes.

“Line up!”

Schoolwork in silence.

“Line up!”

P.E.

”Stay away from the fence. No eye contact!”

“Line up!”

Schoolwork in silence.

“Line up!”

Lunch, in silence, listening to motivational tapes.

“Line up!”

Group Therapy.

“Line up!”

Free time (cards, crocheting, drawing, or talking).

“No looking out the window!”

“Line up!”

Dinner, in silence, listening to motivational tapes.

“Line up!”

Watch a motivational movie, write a reflection.

“Line up!”

Assembly roll call.

“Line up!”

Back to the bunks. 15 minutes to shower, brush teeth, change.

“Don’t get off your bunk! Lights out.”

Every day, for a year and a half.

Some weekends we got to watch movies and we listened to opera or country music in the dining hall.

We could write letters to our parents on Sundays and they would be sent after staff read them to make sure we were not saying anything bad about CCM or asking to come home. If you did, there were consequences.

There were levels to the program, 1-6. I only made it to level 4. You reached levels by completing seminars offered every quarter and by accumulating points. Points were earned weekly but you could lose them if you got demerits. Demerits were served in Categories 1-5: CAT-1 if you broke a rule like neglecting your water bottle (+/-10points), CAT-3 for touching the doorknob with your bare hands when you were sick (+/-50points), CAT-5 if you cracked your knuckles or neck (+/-100points) and loss of your level with immediate “Worksheets.” The list of rules goes on and on. If you were “really bad” you were sent to “Isolation.” I never went, but I was scared of it.

Three day-long seminars had us dig up all of our past traumas and rewire our thinking. I was voted out of DISCOVERY by my peers for not being “authentic” enough while divulging my insecurities. I was told to “Shut up!” by the facilitator of FOCUS when I was crying heavily during a dramatized death process. If you “failed to work” in seminars, you had to wait about three months to try again. (Three more months of your parent’s money, for three more months of your abuse).

“Failing to work” meant things like: not sitting down next to someone new by the end of a certain song, not disclosing “the real things” like molestation, not crying, crying too much, not wanting to talk, or not completely filling out (in small print) two sides of about 10 sheets of paper with trauma processing (at assigned sleep-depriving hours of the night and morning) by the start of the next day’s seminar.

BREAKPOINT was the seminar you went to if you were not performing to their standards. I hardly remember what happened there, but I was surrounded by my peers and they were telling me to do things, and no matter what I did, it was always wrong. Then they began screaming at me and humiliating me until I was curled up crying on the floor. There was some helpful catharsis, and valuable knowledge gained in the seminar, coupled with loads of psychological and emotional abuse.

I thank the end-of-seminar line dances for teaching me that dancing was something that made me feel better.

Seminar graduation was one of the only times you could hug someone without consequence. Hugs were only permitted for a maximum of three seconds in staff view.

I had developed terrible OCD there (I did not know that is what it was at the time). I began writing myself up demerits for every little thing I did wrong. I was punished for this behavior with a month-long “silence process,” where I could not speak to anyone except to ask to go to the bathroom, and my friend had to receive my same demerits. My therapist made me look her in the eyes and tell her “I don’t care about you.” I saw how much it hurt her.

I carried such self-hatred and that only made it worse. I was told I was “doing this on purpose” and “you don’t care about anyone.”

All I could muster was, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why.”

With tears streaming down my face, as I was yelled at and punished for an illness I did not understand and could not control. My therapist had labeled me an addict in my time there, and sent me to another group because I was not “working the program.”

I was taken out of CCM shortly after, in February of 2006. I was placed at a behavioral outpatient facility for about a month where I was diagnosed with OCD/Anxiety and put on medication. I was obese from lack of proper nutrition and had seven cavities from lack of access to dental care. I received an insufficient high school education, requiring me to finish out my remaining credits at a continuation school. I did not notice all that stuff while it was happening, I was just terrified of being home. Was it even home anymore? Where did I belong?

I can neither confirm nor deny that CCM “saved my life.” I was “safe” behind those walls. As a result, I became knowledgeable beyond my years and incredibly traumatized. My parents thought they were making the best possible decision at that time, and I certainly do not blame them for what happened at CCM. All that money spent, and I was not “fixed.”

-I have learned through therapy that I have Complex PTSD, and I am working on it.

-I had overwhelming OCD/Anxiety upon release. It has become manageable, but I still have triggers.

-I was socially awkward, not knowing how to fit in. I had a hard time talking and looking people in the eye and was uncomfortable giving or receiving hugs. I sometimes still feel that way.

-I felt generally unsafe and on alert everywhere. Hypervigilance. This is still a struggle for me.

-I spoke and acted like a robot. Like one of those tapes I was forced to listen to, over and over. Stuck on this cycle of shaming myself into fixing myself. This has gotten easier, but it has never gone away.

-I spent 10 years in and out of the rooms of AA/NA trying to fix myself, but I was never really an addict. I value all of the tools I learned there, and I am happy I found my freedom from that falsely given and internalized identity.

-I have a hard time forming intimate relationships. I lack trust and often seek love from partners who can not give it, perpetuating a cycle of abuse. This is what I am working through the most these days.

I did not know how to put into words what had happened while I was there. I did not know how to explain why I was not “better.” I was brainwashed. All I knew was that I felt ashamed and obligated to be perfect.

It took years to awaken to how that experience impacted me, and all that it lacked in actually helping me and my family. 10 years to be exact. I have spent the greater part of my life healing from familial and institutional trauma, and I am still healing. CCM did provide me with the opportunity to form deep meaningful relationships – my CCM sisters – and for that, I am truly grateful.

I tell my story, not so that anyone will feel bad for me, but to shine a light on the reality of what happened then and is still happening now.

We were taught at CCM to take accountability for everything, including our abuse. I am not responsible for what happened to me, but I can do something with my experience. Work through it, share it, hold space, advocate, and that is what I have, and will, be doing.

I have accomplished a lot despite that experience and the lingering trauma. I hold multiple college degrees and I am months away from becoming a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW). I am a survivor.

Please join me in Breaking Code Silence by spreading awareness about institutional child abuse and the need to reform the Troubled Teen Industry (TTI).

-Casey (CCM September 2004- February 2006)”

Christine Breaking Code Silence about Family Foundation School

“I grew up in a wonderful town, went to highly renowned schools, and received the best education. My family, which includes my mother, father, younger sister, and brother, would settle for nothing less. We traveled the country and abroad, had family game nights, family dinners every night, and read thousands of books together. Our house was constantly filled with laughter and remains full of happy memories to this day.

When I was about 14 years old, I discovered I had an alcohol and drug addiction, mixed with some mental illnesses, which my parents could never have anticipated. They tried with all their resources to help me after multiple rehabs, hospitals, and private school expulsions. They turned to an educational consultant who assured them it was time to consider a boarding school for troubled teenagers. Feeling like they had no other choice and that I may get seriously hurt or die if they did not intervene, they opted to send me to the Family Foundation School in Hancock, New York.

They took a tour of the school, which was given by one of the students, who assured them how wonderful the school was and how grateful she was her parents sent her there to turn her life around. The school was only a 2-hour drive from our home, which eased my parents’ worries about being able to visit me. I arrived at the school the following week on October 16, 2001. I was 16 years old.

After my parents left me there, it took me less than 20 minutes to realize that I was about to spend the next two years of my life in a traumatic foreign atmosphere. There were prayers on the walls and a giant triangle within a circle that read “honesty, purity, unselfishness, and love,” in front of an even larger crucifix. I was taken into the locker room and stripped down by staff in front of two other female students. Then made to shower with lice shampoo, and squat and cough, as if I were in prison. All of my clothes were sent home because they were a part of my “old identity.”

My parents were instructed to gut my entire bedroom when they got home and throw everything away except the furniture. I was to now wear “poverty” clothes, so I could see how the less-fortunate feel, and no longer “idolize” materialistic things.

I cried for the entire first 30 days I was there and was denied any contact with anyone outside the school, including my family. After 30 days, I was allotted a 5-minute, monitored phone call to only my parents, twice a week. This privilege was often taken away from me as a means of punishment. I was told my family did not want me anymore, and that this was my new family. Our school was broken up into eight “families” made up of about 30 students each. “Family Four” was my new family now and would “fix me” so my parents would want me back again one day.

In the first year I was there, I was sanctioned heavily for bad behavior and breaking rules, which were quite difficult to follow, as there were so many. For example, I once had to scrub pigs, out by the barn, in the pouring rain for four hours, because I was caught making “eye contact” with a boy for too long.

Each punishment was called a “sanction.” During the first year, I was deprived of food and only served dry tuna fish on a dry English muffin for weeks at a time, all while forced to watch the other students enjoy full meals. I had to stand facing the corner of the room, with my shoes off for months at a time because I did not deserve to be a part of my boarding school family.

Every day for months I was taken out of school and put on a “work sanction.” The work sanctions could only be meaningless work, including, but not limited to, digging holes in the ground, cutting grass with my hands, shoveling snow paths that led to nowhere on the soccer field, carrying cinderblocks and buckets filled with rocks up and down the road all day, and scrubbing large areas such as the gymnasium with only a sponge or toothbrush. Manual labor, all while malnourished from food sanctions.

The fear the school instilled in me went so deep I was terrified to tell my parents what was happening. If I did, they would ask the staff about it. If they asked the staff about it, the staff would tell them I was a liar and I was trying to manipulate them to get what I wanted. Then I would get sanctioned even more and lose my privilege to speak to my mom and dad. I was trapped, abused, alone, afraid, and forced to smile and tell my parents I was happy.

Table Topics were petrifying. A practice adopted from East Ridge, a commune in New York, where many of the staff members were born and raised. One at a time we were asked to stand at the front of the “table,” which was shaped like a horseshoe. While standing at the table, we were to remain silent and keep our hands behind our backs. The staff, and submissive students, would take turns verbally assaulting the students’ character, with the purpose of breaking us down to absolutely nothing, so they could “reprogram” our thinking. They would scream, throw things, flip chairs and tables, use vulgar names and profanity, and only feel successful when one could no longer handle anymore and broke down to tears or physical rage. About 10 students would endure a Table Topic of their own every lunch and dinner. Sometimes multiple Table Topics in one day.

It was not abnormal to see students physically restrained, punched, shoved, locked in isolation rooms, slammed against walls and floors, or chased down and tackled.

After my first year of physical and emotional abuse, and daily fear for my well-being, I came to realize the only way I was going to survive that school was to comply and become what they wanted me to be. I brought my grades up, took on responsibilities, started telling on fellow students that were breaking rules to get them in trouble, and make the staff happy. I continued to lie to my parents and even gave unsupervised tours to parents who were considering sending their child to our prison. If I gave a good tour and convinced the parents to send their child, I was rewarded. I upheld the rules and held other students accountable. I had become the staff I hated with my whole heart.

It worked. They broke me and made me what they wanted. On home visits, I would not run away, nor even consider it. I would cry and tell my parents it was because I missed them so much when inside I was screaming and dying to tell them what was happening to me. I would not listen to “negative” music or television, as I had been trained. I would not call or reach out to old friends because I was taught they were bad influences and part of my old “bad behavior.” I had become a perfect specimen of their tiny secret abusive cult in the Catskill Mountains. I was ready to graduate and get dumped back out into the real world, expected to be able to function in society.

Since my “graduation” in 2003, I have been plagued with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have been in violent and abusive relationships. Drugs and alcohol became the only thing that could make me feel better. I associated all 12-step programs with the school and wanted nothing to do with them. It took years to tell my parents what really happened at the school because I did not want to break their hearts and have them carry the guilt I had been carrying for so long. We are dying. There are over 120 of our classmates that are dead. A majority are gone from a drug overdose or suicide.

The Family Foundation School has since been shut down and featured on the front page of the New York Times on September 2, 2018, exposing some aspects of the school but hardly scratching the surface. There are still more schools out there and children enduring the pain we did. These schools are still preying on parents that are desperate to do anything to save their child’s life. This has to stop. We need to be heard. I am not voiceless anymore. It has been 19 years and not a day goes by that I do not think of that school. The fear, isolation, neglect, and humiliation are alive and well in the existing schools. Why are they still operating?

The school no longer defines me. I have grown out of my fears and worked through traumas with medications and counseling. I am clean and sober today. My family and I share the love we once had before the nightmare. I have remained friends with my fellow survivors who I sincerely consider family. I am alive more than ever. This is my story.”

Tom Breaking Code Silence about Herrick 3N, SUWS, & Cascade School (CEDU spinoff)

“I was 14 when I entered the TTI (Troubled Teen Institution). It started at a mental hospital, Herrick 3N, in Berkeley, CA. Where I will admit, I asked to go. My mom found a loaded pistol on the floor of my room while she was picking up dirty clothes. I had been kicked out of a fancy private school, stopped attending the local public school, and had recently enrolled in homeschooling. I had also been disappearing for days at a time, so much so that the cops got involved. I was not being very cooperative.

After a week in the mental hospital, where I witnessed patients being forcibly restrained for up to forty-eight hours in what they called the ‘Quiet Room’, I was told I would be going on a camping trip.

The camping trip was a wilderness program called SUWS, in Idaho. Where we hiked in circles for three weeks. At SUWS, a favorite line used by the staff who ran our program was, “It all depends on you.”

“How long are we hiking today?”

“Where are we going?”

“When can we take a rest?”

“Can we make camp?”

The stock answer was, “It all depends on you.”

Three weeks went by, at the end of the second week, going into the third, we had a three-day “solo,” where we stayed alone in canvas army tents separated from the rest of our group. We were supposed to sit there and read a book. I was given Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, The Little Prince, or Jonathan Livingston Seagull, one of the three perennial hits of the TTI.

My tent was freezing. Someone before me had smeared feces on the inside. I crafted a noose out of the nylon webbing they gave and tried to hang myself, but I did not know that a proper hanging required a drop to break the neck. I ended up making myself faint.

A week later, it was over. They put me on a plane back to San Francisco, other people in my group had their parents there to meet them at the end of the program, but mine were not there. No big surprise, our relationship was already basically destroyed.

When I got to San Francisco Airport, my parents were there to meet me. They told me I would be taking the next flight to Redding, CA, to go to a boarding school. I was made to be thankful that this boarding school would accept me because I had gotten myself kicked out of the fancy boarding school just a few months earlier. These people were going to give me a second chance!

I got to Redding, where I was met by an escort, who was surprisingly nice. He took me to KFC, we got a couple of buckets, watched TV, then I went to bed. He drove me up the hill to Cascade School the next day, May 5th, 1994.

My move-in was pretty painless. I had been to two boarding schools before, getting adjusted to new environments was old hat. What I was not prepared for was the next day after class when I went to my first “forum.”

A “forum” is a group therapy session where participants are encouraged to “run anger”—scream at the floor—and ‘indicted’ one another—scream at each other for perceived slights, personal issues, attitudinal differences, you name it. After a short check-in, the forum went off with fellow students crossing the room to yell at one another. It was one dogpile after another. When an indictment came to a close, the indicted was encouraged to run anger.

Running anger is not pretty. There are tears, snot, spit, and blood flying. Other participants kick Kleenex boxes at people who had finished running anger. In my first forum, over half the room was indicted by the other half in no particular order. The indicted could easily turn around and indict others. I had never seen anything like it before. I started crying. When the smoke cleared from the indictments and running of anger, I was still sobbing in my seat. The “facilitator” of the forum, an adult, asked me what was wrong.

“I’m scared,” I said, “I’ve never seen anything like this. This is crazy.”

The other students smiled and chuckled darkly, knowingly. Later on, in my stay, I would smile and laugh similarly when a new student would cry in their first forum.

I stayed at Cascade for 26 months. I went through their whole behavior modification program. While I was there, I went through various stages of being punished and being given privileges. At times I was able to go into town to watch movies and eat at Chevy’s. At other times I was not allowed to speak to over three-quarters of the student population. I had times when I could run the library at night and others when I was put ‘on bans’ (not allowed to have or read) with books because they were an “escape.”

Melissa Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge & Tranquility Bay (WWASPS)

“It has been almost 15 years, to the day, since I left my Hell called Tranquility Bay. I have come to realize, only in the last eight years, that those memories, whether they are good or bad, should be remembered. They were a big part of my life. They helped make me who I am today, and I am proud of that!

A little backstory first, I was homeschooled from Fifth Grade through the beginning of Tenth Grade, because of chronic kidney stones and kidney infections. The homeschooling education that the public school provided me was terrible. Due to my medical issues, I was medically addicted to opioids at 11. I was put on and addicted to so many medications at an incredibly young age. The first withdrawal I went through, I think I was 12—I thought I was going to die.

This was my life for years: hospitals, surgeries, medications, doctors. Things started to get a little better, health-wise, at 15. So, I went back to Public School for the first time in years and most of the medication I had been on was also reduced. I was so lost mentally and emotionally. I did not know how to take notes while listening to teachers lecture. I did not know how to study on my own or write a paper.

I did not really have friends to lean on either. I had maybe two best friends, and I knew the kids from school, but I did not know them well. They had not been my friends for the last six years. So, I ended up going wild. I fell in with a “bad crew,” if that is what you want to call it. I decided to skip classes and party. I felt like I was making up for so much lost time. I was having fun with friends and self-medicating because they took away a lot of what I had been on for years. Drugging and drinking, missing curfew all the time. Thinking this is what teens are supposed to do. This is when the issues with my parents started.

I ended up getting left-back my Junior year, because of skipping classes and refusing to go to summer school. After a lot of turmoil in September of 2004, and after I was drug tested and they found stuff in my system, I agreed with my parents to go to a boarding school.

So, in October 2004, about two weeks after I turned 17, I thought it was a “normal” boarding school. I figured I would come home on some weekends and holiday/summer breaks. I thought I would have phone calls weekly with friends and family, and I thought I would get visits monthly, but I was wrong. My parents knew it was a program for troubled kids, they unfortunately just did not know everything about Academy at Ivy Ridge (NY) or any of the WWASP schools.

After hearing stories from other girls, I consider myself fortunate that I was brought in the way I was and not kidnapped in the middle of the night while I was sleeping. Once my parents left I learned what that place was going to be like after only a few hours. I was stunned, lost, confused, and scared. I just wanted to call my parents and tell them to come back, it was a mistake. That is when I was informed I would not be able to speak on the phone with my parents for some time. It could be months. It depended on how hard I wanted to work the program.

My head was spinning, “I can’t call home? For how long? Work the program? What program? How?”

In the coming days, I started to learn what that meant. There were endless rules. I soon learned those rules were there to just break you down.

They did not take my kidney issues seriously, so when I would have to use the bathroom and they would say no, I would just go, and then be I trouble. If I would question them about my meds, I was in trouble. If I did not eat all my food, I was in trouble. I was not “working the program” as they would say. I remember being in Worksheets—not sure what it was for—copying from a textbook and having to pee so bad. They did not want to let me have a pass to use the bathroom, so I tried to just get up and go, and they locked the classroom door. Meanwhile, I am supposed to have a restroom pass at, any time due to my kidney issues. Here I am, having to pee so badly my kidneys are starting to hurt, so I went in a garbage can. I sure as hell was not going to do it down my pants.

That got me restrained for the first time, and they put me right in OP. I was shocked at what had just happened to me and worried about how it would be, going forward. I was just man-handled and sat on by grown adults. OP is where I ended up staying until I left AIR. We were allowed to write home once a week, but you could forget telling your parents what was going on. Your letters were read and if they did not like what you were telling your parents, they would not send that letter and told your parents you refused to write them that week (same in Jamaica).

You see, in the beginning, they tell all the parents not to believe us, and that we will, “try to tell them anything like the school staff abuses us just to get you to take them home.”

So, from the beginning, my vulnerable parents were lied to and manipulated, like all the other parents. The story was always spun to make us, the teen, look bad/defiant and we could never defend ourselves to our parents. We did not have the opportunity. From then on it was one nightmare after another.

After a few weeks in total of being there, I was expelled from AIR for being “Uncompliant” and inciting an “OP movement” as they told my parents.

The last thing I remember at AIR was a lead staff member coming in with two “officers” who had handcuffs and said “we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You are no longer welcome here at AIR and will be transported by these two individuals to Tranquility Bay in Jamaica.”

Now Is where I learn what others meant when they say they were kidnapped. I was feeling the same at that moment, saying to myself, “my parents didn’t tell me this over the phone, this would surely be a phone call right? cause I haven’t been able to speak to them since they left me here, they didn’t write to me to say this would be happening. I’m 17 how can they just take me out of the country without me talking to my parents, is this even legal, I don’t even have a passport.”

I had heard all about this place they were taking me to. It was said to be one of the worst of these types of schools at the time, (staff always threatened you with going there).

“Would my parents really send me there? Was I that bad of a kid?!”

They looked at me and said, “well…?”

I said, “Well, what?”

They said “Easy way or the hard way?”

I did not even say anything. What was I going to say? That was it, they grabbed my arms and walked me out. My stuff was already packed, I was not able to speak to my parents before leaving. I had no idea if this was real. All I had was a Tupperware of my stuff, my terrified self, and the two “officers.”

Once I saw the silver minivan I panicked. Next thing I knew I was handcuffed and inside the minivan. The large woman sat in the back and the man drove. She said we were on our way to a hotel near the airport and our flight was in the morning. She then uncuffs me and hands me a letter, and says, “This may explain better it is from your parents.”

As angry as I was, I did not want to read it, but I also needed to know if my parents were really doing this. Sure enough, I open it and see my parents’ handwriting. I read half of it and could not believe it. I started shaking with anger and fear and tore it up into pieces. The anxiety of not knowing what I was about to walk into was crippling, especially after hearing the horror stories the staff at AIR would tell us.

We get to the hotel in the middle of the night and they said to get some rest. I do not know what they were on, but there was no way I was going to go to sleep with two strangers in a hotel room. I said hell no and sat there, scared in the corner chair, until we left for my flight. I did not know these people I did not even know if they were real officers.

There we were, the next day and I had not slept. I was shaking from the inside out. I remember walking through the airport, exhausted but freaking out inside. The only thing that helped me through that flight was a handful of Benadryl. I get motion sickness and the lady going on the plane with me said my mom said I needed to take them before we fly. Her mistake was she gave me the bottle, so I poured a bunch into my hand not even counting and swallowed them.

I do not remember anything after takeoff. By the time we landed I was so out of it, I was barely able to get to the car. Most of the multiple-hour drive to Tranquility Bay is a blur as I was in and out of my Benadryl stupor.

We arrived and I remember the “supervisor” had carried me in because I was so out of it. I do not remember much until waking up the next day to meet my “buddy” sitting at the edge of my bed and a Jamaican woman yelling at me. I was told I was in the Integrity family and Mrs. Smith was our family mom, who I would meet later.

After about a week or so, and some nights hearing girls scream, I knew this was not going to be an easy place to survive, but I was going to have to try. This is where my insomnia/paranoia and anxiety started to get worse. I remember being sent to Worksheets for the first time in TB and I think it was from falling asleep in class. Because I was too scared to sleep fully at night. Your time in Worksheets depended on the consequences received.

There were pages of rules ranging from Category One to Five (CAT1-CAT5), which described the severity of the rule you broke. I just could not seem to follow all of the rules. I was breaking rules and did not even realize it. I gave up on trying early on.

From what I remember our day consisted of waking up, hygiene, and clean (everyone had a chore). After cleaning I think we went to breakfast, then classes, then PE, then seven minutes to undress, shower, dress, and be lined-up to wash your underwear, which we hand-washed in buckets; then lunch, then more classes, then group—which was a total joke and bash session, then dinner. We then watched an educational show before getting ready for Quiet Time and then hygiene, and bed.

I remember the shower was a nasty pipe sticking out of the wall, and we were lucky when the water worked, even though it was cold. Otherwise, we would have to fill up buckets in the courtyard and carry them and use that to shower. We washed our clothes/ bedding by hand and hung it to dry.

There were stretches when I would “behave,” but it felt demeaning, hurtful, humiliating, unfair, and just plain stupid, honestly. in those times my depression and anxiety were worse. It felt wrong. Everything about their methods/therapies/seminars seemed wrong. The more I heard in Group and from others, the more I knew that place was Hell, with a tropical disguise.

We were not getting real therapy or help, we were getting judged and belittled and mentally emotionally, and physically abused. We were being broken down as far as they could get us, so they could basically reprogram you to what they believed was the ideal teenager.

I was in worksheets, OP, and later isolation, on and off all the time. That is how the majority of my time was spent in TB. My family mom did feel bad for me at one point and gave me 200 points while I was in OP, so I could go to a seminar and see my parents, hoping it would get me to work. I was all bandaged up when I got to see them, and they were told all injuries were self-inflicted, not completely true.

I tried working for a very short time after I saw my parents but it did not last long. I was screamed at, teased, bullied, and humiliated by staff. Most of the time they would taunt us to get us wound up, so we could flip-out, and then they could restrain us. They knew what made us tick and used it against us, especially if they see you try and start working. They had their favorites to pick on, unfortunately. We were spat on, pushed, sat on, and mocked by staff. At times We would yell back, or spit back, or fight back, and at times we did not have it in us. We were restrained by multiple women—women four times most of our sizes—for various reasons. They would twist my arms back and push them as far as they could. They always seemed to dig their knees into the backs of your knees or toes. Some of us would be scraped up and bruised. But in the end, it was always “our fault.”

I was completely depressed and lost. I self-harmed and starved myself while there. I did not want to hear girls screaming in the middle of the night anymore, because I knew something bad was happening to them, and there was nothing I could do. So many had it much worse than I did.

I do remember at one point a “riot” was planned, and acted out, to fight back from all of the abuse, in hopes it would get out and shed light on what was happening there. Maybe hoping someone could get away. Running away was only a dream because we were surrounded by concrete walls with barbed wire on top. We were about three hours from civilization. That was one hell of a night. A lot of girls were hurt badly that night, by male and female staff. I remember being dragged down the stairs and restrained on the concrete, but what happened to me was nothing compared to what happened to some that night and the following nights.

I just needed to get out of there, I could feel myself fading day by day. My mental state was 1000 times worse than when I went in. At that point, I just had to hold on for a couple more months. I was almost 18. I was still getting in trouble, in and out of OP, but for smaller scaled reasons.

I was fortunate enough to be able to sign out at 18, as I was not court-ordered there like some of the girls. The youngest girl there was 12, yes 12! Your parents could pull you out if not court-ordered, but that did not happen often at all.

Finally, on the 29th of September in 2005, a few days after I turned 18, the staff brought me to the office where my stuff was already packed. I got the papers and signed myself out of there! I did have mixed feelings, as I had grown close to some of the girls there. We had a bond after going through what we did, and as happy as I was to go home, I was sad to leave kids behind. Them putting that ticket in my hand was the absolute best feeling ever though. To this very day, that was the happiest moment of my life; knowing I would not have to live on-edge and in fear anymore. I was going home! Thankfully, I was able to go home, unlike a lot of the kids.

My parents, fortunately, gave me an exit plan where I could go home with lots of rules, but at least I could go home. Also, unlike a lot of the teens, my parents came to know and believe the harsh truths about these places. I know and love my parents, and I know if they knew what went on there, they would not have sent me. We have since overcome it and put it behind us.

Since then I have had an amazing relationship with my parents. After all, they too were victims of deceit, lies, and manipulation. They just wanted to help me from going down the dark path I was on. They too are #ParentalSurvivorsFromWWASP and supporters of #BreakingCodeSilence

If you have read this far, thank you for putting up with my scattered memories. I am happy I can now say I KNOW I am STRONGER in many ways from that experience, and I KNOW I am BETTER than what they made me believe about myself.

Samantha Breaking Code Silence about KC House of Hope

I went to KC House of Hope, a home for “healing teens,” during my junior year of high school. I had struggled with my parents and had an attitude problem that was not getting resolved at home.

When I arrived, I was taken off all medications unless they were life-dependent, like diabetic medicines or bi-polar. I had withdrawals from being taken off my depression medications and was not allowed to stay on birth control, which had helped my severe cramps.

I spent the first three months with zero contact with my family. I was only allowed to speak to the house staff and not the other girls. We were given three serving-sized meals daily, that they received from a food bank.

We went to school in the basement. In the first week, I was required to read the 30-page manual out loud, eight times. There was a rule called “Sister’s Keeper,” where, if another resident sees you break a rule, they tell you that you are breaking a rule, and you have five minutes to tell the staff. Then that resident reports to the staff that they did Sister’s Keeper on you. They are rewarded for reporting that and it helps you advance in the program.

I had to do a purity vow and recite Bible verses in order to get to the next level in the phases. I received mail but the staff read it first and if it was not “approved,” you never saw it. My grandfather wrote to me every week for nine months and I did not get a single letter of his.

If you made it to the higher phases you were allowed a dinner pass with your family once every two weeks. They interviewed my family afterward to see what we discussed at dinner. I was told if I mentioned anything negative or asked to go home, I would be bumped back to the beginning of the program and have to start over.

We never went anywhere in public, except for church, and could not speak to anyone outside of our staff. I could not read anything that was not a Christian book. There were no TV or movies, and no secular music. We were also forced to do chores every morning and evening, as well as daily yard work, like raking leaves and shoveling snow.

I suffer from PTSD, trust issues, and feel like I was used for their profit. I was asked to go back and speak at a fundraiser a few years after I graduated from the program and was told it would look good on my resume. They wanted me to tell my testimony to get donations, however, the founder of HOH KC had to approve my testimony and edited it several times. I regret speaking and being used for donations to a traumatic program.

A Poem by Keagan

“There was a time when I was once sent away

To a place that said they could be of some aid

I learned a lot while I was there

Other places just don’t compare!

Would you like me to share with you

All that I learned?

Would you like to see

The knowledge I earned?

Alright here we go

It’s time to show you all that I know!

Don’t forget to live in fear

And for things to always

Feel unclear

Don’t forget to question what you think

And feel yourself

Beginning to sink

Don’t forget to have your spirit feel weak

From all the times you weren’t able

To speak

Don’t forget to let them inside your head

To fill your sweet mind

With bundles of dread

Don’t forget to bury what you feel

And tell yourself

That it just isn’t real

And don’t you dare forget

About all the anxieties

That come in so many different varieties!

Will I be able to talk today?

Is everything going to be okay?

Is there a chance that I did something wrong?

Is there a chance that I just don’t belong?

Can’t you tell that I’ve learned so much?

So why am I feeling so out of touch?

I don’t know how much more I can write

I’m beginning to feel like I’m in fight or flight

I don’t know how much more I can take

This is beginning to make my heart ache

I’ll tell myself that it’s all okay

Just like I do every other day

I’m trying so hard to just let myself feel

In the hopes it will one day allow me to heal

But there are times when it feels like I’m still there

And it all becomes just too much to bear”

Javier Piñero Breaking Code Silence about Hidden Lake Academy (CEDU spinoff)

How do I even begin? To be honest, I have blocked out most of my experience. It has been hard for me to write a testimonial. I threw out everything down to the clothes when I got home after my 23-month experience (January 2000-December 2001).

It is still difficult to try to put my memories together in a coherent way. Sometimes, I have to take a break and stop writing. It is difficult to organize my thoughts. It is hard to think about an experience that hurt you when you have blocked it out for 20 years. A family member asked me questions today about my experience and it helped. It brought back memories—uncomfortable as it was. Here is what I can muster to share at this time:

Unlike other survivors, I consider myself lucky that I was brought to this institution by my parents and not kidnapped by strangers in the night, like some of my peers. I was 14 years old, exactly one month away from my 15th birthday. I remember it vividly. I was listening to music on the drive using the Sony CD Walkman that I had just gotten that Christmas. Music was and still is, something that helped me escape. The Walkman was immediately taken away from me and given to my parents since it was against the rules. It was unsettling.

I was sent away for being an underachiever academically. I never went out, drank, drugged, or behaved erratically, I just shut down academically because I could not keep giving my parents what they wanted. I guess I rebelled in the only way I knew how. I went to classes and just stared out the window, instead of getting As like I used to. I was lost and I felt I did not belong. Being gay was not easily accepted in my sheltered, private Catholic school upbringing. I needed help understanding who I was. I was hurting. I felt less-than because of what I knew was something I could never change. But the help my parents looked to was not helpful.

My first 35 days at HLA was spent on “restrictions,” (bad kids club) because I was not opening up enough during the three hours, three times a week group attack-therapy sessions. To get out of sitting in the rain, menial manual labor, and round the clock “PT,” (physical training) I remember making up some fake issues with my parents to earn the “privilege” of again eating hot food.

During my time at HLA, I was also placed on “bans” with my first boyfriend, where we were forbidden to have any contact with each other. Even being too close to each other was a punishable offense. We were punished with manual labor and cold cheese sandwiches when we violated these bans, and I was transferred to the gay male dorm so they could try to fix the issue or just watch us more closely. Isolate the problem, I guess. All it did was create more problems. They really put us in that dorm—Dorm 1—to ridicule us, in a way, and make it a point that we were not normal. As I wrote this, I had to edit the quotation marks out of “bf.” It is weird that I still see that relationship as wrong.

At one point, I remember befriending one of the kitchen staff (where I would hide out most days) and giving her my home number to call my parents and tell them the truth about the abuse and what was going on. She did. My parents reported it and were manipulated to believe it was just a disgruntled employee. I was, of course, punished, but I never revealed the name of the staff member who helped me, which only prolonged the punishment.

Although it did not get me out early or “pulled,” I still stayed for the duration of my program, which ended up being 23 months, and it was worth it.

I am still so thankful that this kitchen staffer did that for me and later I found out did the same for a few others. She eventually quit because the abuse she was witnessing was too much for her to bear.

I had a calendar in my room where my roommates and I would cross out every day until graduation. Kind of like a prison sentence. I now also think that it is strange how I was using words like “gen pop” (general population) and “iso” (isolation) at 15 years old in “school.”

I remember hearing horror stories from programs like Ridge Creek, Tranquility Bay in Jamaica, Cascade in California, etc. I hoped and prayed I would not go there next. So, I tried to behave and stay out of trouble.

I remember going to youth group and church every week to avoid being on campus when I was in “gen pop.” They gave us pizza and we got to socialize with regular people outside of our institution. The strip-searches when we got back were worth it, I thought at the time.

I did what I was told, for the most part, and I wish I could say I was left unscathed; but the trauma I went through and the abuse I witnessed others go through was and is still hard to think about. Telling people about my experience now as an adult seems to surprise many when I thought I had it easy compared to others.

When I finally got home from HLA, I threw everything away. Everything. All I kept were some pictures from a disposable camera they “allowed” me to keep. I wanted to forget. But the Breaking Code Silence movement has brought all this stuff up. It has been emotional, to say the least.

I have cried thinking about my experience. I have been angry at others who are speaking out and writing about their experiences, forcing me to think about that time again. I have been mad at myself for not dealing with what I went through, sometimes. Old resentments I have held towards my parents were brought back to haunt me. I have had to confront a lot of things I had chosen to hide and ignore. But I am grateful. I am grateful to still be standing and alive to tell my story. Some of my fellow peers will never get the chance to. May they rest in peace.

In 2011, HLA (or Hitler’s Last Achievement, as we called it) was shut down due to multiple lawsuits regarding physical and sexual abuses to minors, they settled out of court and probably just moved and rebranded. As many of those “schools” do.

To fellow survivors: Be kind to yourselves. It was not your fault.

Kevin Breaking Code Silence about the Troubled Teen Industry

I was taken to the school at age 16, around three in the morning, with no warning and very little indication of where I was going.

While I was there, I witnessed daily beatings and drugging of the students. This usually involved five grown, muscle-bound men tackling one student to the ground, shoving the kid’s face into the ground until he bled, and then injecting him in the buttocks until he passed out.

I witnessed verbal abuse, such as the staff telling kids they were less than human, that they did not deserve to be alive. I witnessed a staff member make a kid bark like a dog to receive his prescribed meds. I had staff insult me and call me crazy for needing to be on antihistamines for a cold.

There was also gaslighting, making me confess to being a drug addict, (I had never tried drugs). There was also sexual abuse. I was forced to take nude showers in front of the staff and was told I would be punished if I faced away or did not face them at all times.

There was other stuff, like controlled starvation, keeping young kids in solitary for prolonged periods, censoring letters, punishing kids for using first names, etc., but I fear there is too much to fit in only 800 words.

Brittany Vigil Breaking Code Silence about Copper Canyon Academy

My name is Brittany. I went to Copper Canyon Academy (CCA), in Arizona, from October of 2009 until December of 2010. I was 16 at the time. CCA was not my first program (it was my third), but it is the one I remember the most.

Seminars are what I remember vividly though. In the first seminar, we were forced to relive all of our trauma out loud with girls we did not know. I remember sitting in front of a mirror for hours in a dark room. We were told to think of all the bad things that had happened in our lives. We were not allowed to do anything else until we had “cried it out.”

Later that day we did an exercise called “Mom and Dad,” where we confronted our parents. We were sitting in a circle, facing outwards. At one point a girl got so upset that she got up, picked up her chair, and threw it. It hit me in the head. I was denied any kind of care because it would disrupt my progress. I had a headache for days after the incident.

In seminar three, later on in my stay at CCA, I remember being down at a river, where all the girls who admitted being gay were “baptized.” I watch a girl get hit with metal hangers because that is how she felt her parents would punish her if she did not do well. As for me, they made me burn some of the few pictures I had with my family. Saying I needed to move on from the past and learn to be better. They made me burn journals that had my sincere feelings in them because they had entries of a boy I had known, which they had found during a room raid. The worst part for me was being forced to burn my favorite book. Books were my safe haven, and they knew that. I was told I would be stuck there for much longer if I did not, so I did.

I was told I had Borderline Personality Disorder, but not until the end of my program. I had been medicated with antipsychotics for over a year, off of the assumption of a psychiatrist who saw me once a month for five minutes. As an adult, I found out I never had or have that disorder.

Ten years later, I have no relationship with my family, and I have an extremely hard time keeping any kind of relationship due to abandonment issues. That is what hurts me the most. After everything and all this time, after doing what I was forced to do, they no longer talk to me because I “faked” a program or I am not the same person they remember.

Katherine Breaking Code Silence about Sagamore Children’s Center and Mather Inpatient Treatment

I vividly remember every single horrible experience I have had and witnessed over the years in a troubled teen home or also known as an out-patient facility.

Sagamore Children’s Center was the dirty little secret of Dix Hills, Long Island. Everyone in the town knew of it but never knew exactly what went down there.

I remember the countless “intakes” my abusive mother had made me endure. I was a regular teenage girl, who was too much for my addict mother to handle. She manipulated me into thinking I was the one with mental health issues, when really it was her. I spent countless years in “centers” that are supposed to help, when in reality, inside the doors of these places is hell on earth.

When I was brought in for Sagamore Children’s Center intake, I remember nothing besides the ties around my wrists feeling so tight. The staff explained it was for my own protection.

I was immediately put on a slew of new antidepressants and antipsychotics. My psychiatrist did not ask anything about me or how I was doing. My doctor was an older woman whom I can not remember the name of. After a two-minute conversation, she prescribed me the medications I would be forced to take daily. Every single day after that I was so drugged up that I could not even keep my eyes open during the day.

Little, to no, food was given. Food/snacks were considered rewards. We spent 8/9 hours in this facility per day. When I would fall asleep from the extensive drug intake during school at Sagamore, they would simply leave me there to sleep even once school was done. I would wake up at 5 PM, on my desk and nobody would be near.

I knew that the only way to get out of there faster was to obey their rules. Take my drugs, be silent, and conform to their rules.

Kids who did not comply would get a shot of “Booty Juice,” which is known as the sedative they give you without consent.

I remember they would give shots of “Booty Juice” so easily to anyone who did not obey their ridiculous rules. If you really pushed back, you would be admitted into in-patient.

Inpatient facilities, such as Mather Inpatient Treatment, had isolation rooms which were the worst trauma I have received to date.

On the day of my intake, I was around 15/16. I remember being very scared, and felt hopeless after my intake with the nurse. They put me in the self-isolation room for the night because I could not stop crying. They said I was not allowed to cry that loud. Even though my mother was abusive, the best thing for me at that moment would be a familiar face.

I kept screaming, “Please, just let me talk to my mom!”

They shut and locked the door, and left me with a sleeping bag on the floor to sleep on. I felt like a dog in a cage. Lights were off and it was the worst night of my entire life. I woke up the next morning and the nurses opened the lock. They acted like this was normal and nothing had happened. From then on I knew, to get out of this place I needed to stay silent and follow their tyrant rules.

There are a lot of other scary experiences I have had in facilities, however, those two are the most popular destinations on Long Island and nobody talks about them. I would like for these two institutions to be held accountable.

Marissa Surges Breaking Code Silence about MidWest Academy (WWASPS)

Recently, things I have pondered on for the last 10 years have come to light. Breaking Code Silence has given us the voice we did not have. As of recently, during the Covid-19 quarantine, my thoughts and emotions have been overcome by the trauma I encountered during my stay at Midwest Academy. The same feelings of isolation and uneasiness of not knowing what lies ahead have resurfaced. In the past couple of months, I came upon BCS and I felt as I am officially ready to share my story; especially to help myself heal, others heal, and hopefully to prevent other kids from having to go through what we all went through.

When I was 14 years old, I struggled immensely. I had issues with anxiety, suicidal ideation, outbursts, self-injury, as well as drug abuse. I was your typical “troubled teen,” not going to school, running away, being hospitalized, etc. My therapist recommended my parents send me to Midwest Academy in Keokuk, Iowa. That is when my story with WWASP and the “troubled teen industry” began.

I joined my new “family.” I could not say hello to anyone. I could not even make eye contact with anyone or that would result in a consequence. I had to walk in line structure, pivoting at corners and had two “Upper Levels” holding onto me at all times. They gave me a handbook and I had to copy it word-for-word. Instead of starting school, or adjusting to my new surroundings, I sat there and cried as I looked at all the rules. There were hundreds of rules.

I had a breakdown in my first week there. I was already struggling with anxiety, and my depression was coming in full force. I did not have anyone to talk to, no one to relate to. I was brought out to talk to some higher-level staff and another student. I was so confused about what was going on and got no compassion. I was told I was trying to manipulate to go home. I was told my parents were not going to come to get me until I graduated from the program. I was told I needed to suck it up and start “working on my program.” They threatened to take me to OSS, or out of school suspension, aka solitary confinement. I did not want to do that, so I pushed down my feelings and joined my “family” again.

MWA was based on a point system. Level 2 was 200 points. You typically were a “Bunk Leader” and had a “Bunk Buddy” that you could recommend consequences to. You had to recommend your buddy Consequences so you could progress in the program. If not, you got Consequences. As my program progressed, I was a Level 3 mainly the whole time. I also was given the title “Dorm Leader” and wore a medal. That meant I recommended everyone in my room Consequences, or else I would get one.

Being an “Upper Level,” you got the most privileges. You could not move up in levels unless you completed seminars. They happened every couple of months. For any small thing, you could be “chosen out” of a seminar, thus leading to you having to retake it and making your journey to going home a lot further away. We did homework for the seminars. There were six levels.

Getting points was very difficult, as one consequence could take away all your daily points. A Cat 2 as they called it. Cat 3’s you missed two days of points. Cat 4’s, you were dropped a level and to the minimum amount of points for that level. Cat 5’s and you were back to Level 1, 0 points. We did “self-reflections” every night and if the staff did not agree with your rating, you were taken away points. If you were a level 4 or above and you got -50 points in a week, you were put on probation, meaning you had to be a Level 2 for a week. They could also put you on situational probation.

I managed to get to Level 4 after nine months of being there, and that is when everything went downhill for me.

My depression was back. It was my usual depression month. I had weeks of no consequences and good behavior. I graduated from my seminars. I was a robot. I was brainwashed. I was doing what I had to do to get home. Then I fell asleep during school. Cat 3- 50 points gone and put on probation. Then I fell asleep again. Another Cat 3, and again. I trended out. I was put on “Life Buddy,” as I felt extremely suicidal, but no one would contact my psychiatrist. They told me I was doing it as “manipulation” to go home. I had to sleep in the hallways. Then I self-injured. I was sent to OSS.

OSS was terrifying. I was suicidal and all I could look at were bright concrete walls. They shut the huge metal door on me, so I was alone with my thoughts. I was fed PB&J and skim milk three times a day. I had to sit in a 24-hour structure, with no movement, or talking, to get out of OSS. I then had to write an essay on how I was going to change my behaviors to get out. I did not know what to do. I did not know what to say. I would cry and my 24 hours would start all over again. I remember acting out and trying to harm myself because that is all I knew to do when things got rough for me. I was never taught coping skills during the seminars. I was restrained by the female staff and when they did not want to deal with me anymore, they had males restrain me. I am a sexual assault survivor, so having males touch me was not easy. I acted out even more. Then I got sent to the boy’s side OSS, which was a concrete tile room, with one light bulb hanging down. I ended up ripping up the tile and slitting my wrist, attempting suicide. I was taken to the ER to get stitches. That day a staff member told me I was not going to cut deep enough. I almost did.

During my stay in OSS, I ended up having to go to a psych unit due to them not being properly trained to handle my condition. How? How is a “therapeutic boarding school” not trained to help people in crisis? I went back to MWA, being carried out of the psych unit as I screamed that I did not want to go back, and they promised me a “therapy visit” with my parents. To prepare for that visit, I wrote down every reason why I needed a different treatment. Little did I know, my parents were about to pull me and send me to a residential treatment facility that was accredited. The staff would not leave us alone that entire visit, so my parents could not tell me. They left and I felt hopeless. Until a couple of days later, I was pulled.

I am diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, Chronic PTSD, Anxiety, and various other issues. After the program, I still struggled with drug use. I still have issues with sharing my feelings, as I feel like they do not matter. It has been a long road to recovery, and I am still on it. I have a good relationship with my family, but I still feel very misunderstood when it comes to my time at Midwest Academy.

Gabi Breaking Code Silence about Pacific Quest Wilderness Program

I went to Pacific Quest Wilderness program in 2019. I was 16 and a survivor of sexual assault/rape. The program was located on the Big Island of Hawaii. I went to Pacific Quest to receive treatment for trauma and PTSD. I had a lot of internal and external anger due to my assault. I had a lot of shame, guilt, depression, anxiety, and self-harming tendencies. Pacific Quest failed to give me the care, support, and guidance I needed to treat those mental health diagnoses. In fact, the disgusting staff and program managed to worsen my symptoms and create more trauma and PTSD for me. I was re-traumatized and a vast amount of new traumas formed.

During my time at Pacific Quest, I was often thrown to the ground and hit. I was forced to watch other kids get held down. I was touched by various male staff members sexually. I was thrown into a dark shed with only a tarp to sit on and cover myself with. I was forced to sleep outside on a tarp. I was intentionally drugged up on medications that I was allergic to and that my diagnosis did require, making me too weak to fight the abuse. I was so over-medicated that I could barely speak and walk, yet I was still forced to do all of this laborious work in their “garden.”

In their “garden,” the rest of the students and I were forced to do manual labor all day that they should have been hiring outside workers for. We did all of this manual labor in off-brand unsupportive Crocs. I moved heavy barrels of rocks, made water faucets, cut down trees and fields of cane grass, dug up banana tree roots, built rock walls, etc. All while the staff stood around and made fun of us.

I was forced to not talk to anyone besides my therapist, who only came every 10 days, for most of my time there. I was kept in complete isolation. I was starved and given only two trays a day that had half a cup of rice, half a cup of beans, and one cup of vegetables, on a good day. I was forced to chug gallons of water as a form of punishment.

I was told over and over that my family did not love me. That they were better off without me. They made us do this “death to self” ritual, where they blindfolded us and took us to an empty field with an empty grave. They made us lay in it one at a time. We had to write our own eulogies and then they would read them to us while we were in the grave. Next, they would come and stand over us saying weird things, pretending to be our parents and relatives. This is a very traumatic memory of mine.

They edited the letters I sent to my parents, read and ripped out pages of my journal that were not “acceptable,” lied to my parents about my physical and mental health, took thousands of dollars from my parents, even though insurance paid for some of it, but Pacific Quest never paid back the extra. They kept the reimbursement money from the insurance company plus my parents 65k-70k.

The abuse and neglect became so terrible and unbearable that I drank an entire bottle of sunscreen in the hope that they would take me to the Emergency Room, where I could report the abuse.

They never took me, even though I was throwing up everywhere and coming in and out of consciousness. They had the “nurse” look at me the next morning. That was all.

For my entire stay at Pacific Quest, all I was doing was trying to survive. Sometimes when I look back on my time there, all I have to thank is God for giving me the strength to survive an experience that I did not think I would live through. I genuinely thought I would never see my parents again, because I would die from the abuse, or kill myself due to the pain I was experiencing.

This horrifying program left me with memories and scars of abuse that I will never be able to forget. I am now 18. I am happily sober and receiving various forms of intensive trauma treatments (EMDR, Nero feedback, Brain Spotting, etc.) for the abuse I suffered at that disgusting program.

When I came home from Pacific Quest my world erupted. I desperately wanted to die, because the painful memories were so intrusive and terrorizing. I ended up turning to drugs to ease the traumatic memories of abuse. I struggled for a long time and continue to struggle every day. I needed help and support to overcome my traumas from Pacific Quest, but I was so terrified that I would be put inside another abusive treatment center, I did not look or reach out for help. I lost hope for a long time. It has taken me a very long time to gain the courage to come back into the therapy world, but I have!

I later found out that Pacific Quest was operating illegally without any proper licensing to be open. The OHCA had received many reports of abuse and ended up making Pacific Quest cease all of their operations. Pacific Quest did a good job of selling their program. I even had a “specialized” educational consultant that found Pacific Quest and researched the program. Clearly not well enough. Pacific Quest somehow opened back up, and is still operating today. I passionately hope to change that!

Pacific Quest robbed my family of thousands of dollars and they robbed me of sanity and hope. I wish I could erase all of the horrid memories I have from Pacific Quest. I wish I could stop having flashbacks and uncontrollable anger outbursts, but it seems so impossible at this point. My body will never forget the abuse I suffered at Pacific Quest. I will never be the same again.

Courtney Feltman Breaking Code Silence about Miracle Meadows School

In August of 2004, in my junior year of High School, I was forced to go to Miracle Meadows School, a Seventh Day Adventist school to help troubled kids. I was not a troubled kid, I was a teenager.

MMS has since been shut down for child abuse and neglect. It took a girl drinking toilet cleaner to be able to tell her story at a hospital. Was everything bad? No. Was every staff horrible? No. But unfortunately, most of the staff that were there for the right reasons were not aware of what was going on, and if they did know, they hid it well. Also, it is probably good to add that the staff were not educated or certified in helping troubled youth.

There is a reason so many children who were sent to those places have nightmares, insomnia, PTSD, trust issues, anxiety, depression, anger issues, and more. The reason is that many of those places are not “fixing,” they are hurting. You cannot tell me that the 8-year old who was there with me needed to be, or that I needed to be. Most of the people that I met there had suffered severe trauma in their lives and instead of family or staff saying, “hey maybe this behavior is because they went through ‘xyz’, let’s work through that,” we were put in another traumatic experience.

Kids are not inherently bad. Product of environment? Sure. Hyperactive? Yes. Treatable with isolation? NO. If you look at the videos for MMS it looks like a quaint little place in West Virginia, run by Christians. What they did not show was the staff waking us up in the middle of the night to run laps until we threw up, or being locked in isolation for weeks while copying down “social rules,” and memorizing many verses, or entire chapters, of the Bible. We were digging ditches for hours then told to fill them back in. Digging the feces-covered rocks out of the sewer, and wheeling them a mile up the road.

Let that sink in.

Children digging in a sewer with no protection. Scrubbing an entire Gym floor on our hands and knees at 4 am. Those are just some of the things I endured.

I read an article that said the quarantine rooms were not like isolation in jail but more like a time-out. Wow, I would love for the adult that wrote that statement to be locked in a quarantine room for 23 hours a day with a bed, bible, and pillow. Be fed toast with fruit, and rice and beans for your meals. It could last days to weeks or months. That is not a time-out, that is torture. To be a child and have no access to the family who is supposed to protect you. To be left with people that are putting you through that. Can you imagine the deep-seated issues that you would have? Every phone call was monitored, every letter was monitored, if we told the truth about what was happening, we were called liars.

I played by the “rules,” and was used as a pawn to go around and sing in front of churches, to show other parents how a broken child could change. This gained me access to be able to run away, which I did.

I ran away with three girls in the ghetto of DC. That night was a terrifying experience but we turned ourselves in, because we knew we did not want to be runaways forever, and we knew we would be if we did not make a decision to go back. We turned ourselves in to our parents and were met with passive restraint in a parking lot, and spent three months in quarantine.

During the day we would dig, and at night we would be in isolation, memorizing a chapter out of the Bible and writing the rules, without clothes on. See, runaways were stripped of clothing.

We ran because it was awful. Because our families could not see the truth. Because we needed peace, freedom, safety. We came back because we knew running was not the answer, and we did not want to be seen as fugitives or delinquents. That decision was not acknowledged, and we were still labeled as such, and abused. Should we have been disciplined? Yes. We ran away from school. Should we have spent three months in quarantine digging ditches, etc? No. If you look at the picture of the quarantine room below there are now windows on the door. Those windows were not there when I was. I wonder what happened to make them install them. To be able to watch the child locked inside? Does that look like timeout to you or isolation in prison?

The defense attorney of the woman who started the schools admitted to the court that crimes had been committed.

He said, “the measures taken by Clark and her staff were perhaps what was required to take on this ministry of dealing with troubled youths.”

Wow, maybe he should read some of our case files. Maybe some were “troubled kids,” but it does not, under any circumstance, give you the right to abuse us. Prosecutor Rachel Romano felt it was telling that, while 45 letters were filed to the court in support of Clark, only eight came from students–one of which was the character witness–after decades of the school being open.

If things were not that bad, do you not think some of us would have spoken up? Do you not think if it helped us we would have gotten on the stand to defend her? But no we were not there. She was charged with abuse but plead to a lesser charge. She never had remorse, she simply asked for leniency because she could not imagine living out the rest of her life as a criminal. Physical and sexual abuse happened, and she was more concerned with wearing the title “criminal and sex offender,” not worried about the countless children that lived through hell.

Now you could look at me and say, “Hey it worked. You are successful, have a great marriage, great job, great friends, you’re not an addict, or in jail.”

That is because of me! I made those changes outside of that place. I struggled with drug abuse and destructive behavior for years after MMS, running from my trauma. I decided to make the change to do better. To want better. To be better.

I never thought I would have something in common with Paris Hilton, of all people, but who knew. I cannot explain the feelings that came up watching a billionaire’s daughter have the same issues I have from being sent to one of these places. It does not matter if you are rich or poor trauma is the same.

Nicky Hilton said “the thing is about trauma, the mind may forget, but the body never forgets. It’s trapped in you and it can come out whenever.”

Jennifer Breaking Code Silence about Spring Ridge Academy (WWASPS spinoff)

At 17 years old I was forcefully threatened into attending Spring Ridge Academy in Arizona, where I was traumatized and abused for 15 months. When I started there, I was not allowed any communication with my parents until I “earned those privileges,” or to have any contact with friends from home for several months. The treatments used at this facility are based on shame and excessive control.

We had little freedom and were not allowed to close our dorm doors, be alone, listen to the radio, or read anything that had not been approved. A roommate of mine was even put on “reading restriction” once and was not allowed to read any books, because they thought it was a distraction. There were regular room checks, where staff would go through all your stuff. I had a journal that was read and confiscated. Being allowed to go home, or even leave campus during a break, was considered a privilege that could be taken away as punishment. They would also use an isolation punishment called “introspection,” where you would not be allowed to talk to anyone all day.

The therapist I was assigned there had total control over my relationships and cut me off from several friends. I lost the first friend I made at Spring Ridge because the therapist determined we were too close and notified staff that we were not allowed to speak to or be anywhere near each other.

Every weekday everyone had to participate in a rigorous early-morning exercises, and only ate in controlled portions at specific times. So many girls either developed an eating disorder or had their existing disorder worsen at this school. The on-campus staff, who were in-charge of 24/7 surveillance and care, frequently abused their power to bully and target specific students. They also allowed one of the staff’s husbands, a registered sex offender, on campus and in our dorms on multiple occasions, putting our safety directly at risk.

The school grossly neglected my medical needs. My shoulder was injured and would frequently dislocate, putting me in excruciating pain, and the school’s nurse refused to provide me the proper medical treatment for it, because “surgery is barbaric.”

The school also failed to supply the psychiatric medication I was taking at the time. This medication is notoriously hard to come off of, and the brain zaps and disorientation/confusion I experienced from the sudden withdrawal were so severe I was unable to properly function.

(TW: sexual abuse) During the final months at Spring Ridge, I was raped on one of my visits home. I was afraid to tell my therapist out of fear that I would be held at the program longer, but she found out about it anyway. She had me talk to her about it, and ended up victim-blaming me for it. My entire treatment team was informed, and they shamed and punished me for it by not allowing me to visit home again. I developed an eating disorder, suppressed the trauma, and did not seek the help that I needed until two years later.

I could go on and on about instances of humiliation, shame, and blatant discrimination I witnessed and experienced at this school. Spring Ridge Academy is a money-hungry cult that exploits struggling young women and their families. It gave me PTSD, severe trust and relationship issues, and horrible self-esteem. My parents have been so manipulated by the program that they refuse to acknowledge how much damage it has inflicted.

That is why discovering Breaking Code Silence has been so affirming to me. This movement has provided a space for survivors to finally feel heard and believed in, which is so incredibly healing.

Anonymous Survivor Breaking Code Silence about a North Carolina Psych Unit & Provo Canyon School

​​At age 17 (January 2007), I was admitted to a psych unit in Charlotte, North Carolina. Upon admission to the unit, I worked hard to get off suicide watch and worked with staff to bring together a proposal for emancipation, for my day in court. (In the State of North Carolina, when a minor is admitted to a psych unit, they are entitled to a judicial review within 15 days of admittance, to determine whether the individual should remain in the unit, or can be discharged.)

During this time, I was approached by one of the nurses and asked what had happened before I got to the facility. She explained, that there were warnings all over my file claiming that I was extremely violent and they had prepared to keep me sedated and in isolation, but the person who was detailed in that file did not exist in front of her. She did not understand, why I was living in North Carolina, while the rest of my family lived in the U.K. She did not understand, why I had already been in the U.S. system for two years. She understood why I wanted to go for emancipation.

She was stood outside my bedroom door, the night I was picked up. It was roughly 3 am. I was due in court later that day and I was ready to plead my case. Instead, I found myself in handcuffs, with a large man towering over me, telling me he knew all about me and was not taking any chances. There was a woman present too, purely for the fact that my parents declared I was female-presenting at that time–I had been struggling with that for a while by then–but she did not say a word. The nurse outside told them to let me get changed, but “I was too much of a risk,” and I was escorted off the premises in pajamas.

I was meant to go to court that day. Instead, I was taken across state lines in handcuffs, at 17. I knew exactly where I was going, my social worker had told me a few days earlier that my parents had decided to send me to Provo Canyon School. A level 14 lockdown in the state of Utah, used as a threat, and a horror story in other facilities.

I was strip-searched, forced to squat and cough, and given a thin grey t-shirt and pair of shorts to wear upon arrival. The second morning I was taken into another room, and held down by staff, as a nurse withdrew blood.

Within the first week, I had been threatened with isolation, purely because I had said my name was Matt.

“No, you’re a girl. Your parents admitted you as a girl. You’re clearly delusional, and if you can’t follow this simple instruction, you’re going into Observation.”

I was terrified. I had already heard girls screaming in Observation, followed by their muffled cries after being sedated. I told myself it was not worth fighting them on this and submitted to their orders.

I ended up in observation eventually though, almost every person does. About five or six months into my 11-month sentence I had a panic attack on the unit, and a staff member called a “dial 9.”

Before I knew what was happening, I was being pushed into the observation room, and the door was closed. A staff member stood on the other side, telling me, “The longer you take to calm down, the longer you’ll be in there.”

I ended up spending three days in isolation. After the first day, I was moved to the Investment unit and placed in their observation room, and on the third day, I had the privilege of having the door open, which was accompanied by the staff taunting, “It’s obvious you’re not loved, why else would your family send you to a different country? Clearly your family doesn’t care about you, or else you wouldn’t be aging out.”

And I did age out. I turned 18 in December 2007 and left the facility. I left the United States, and I have not been back since.

Mentally, I am back there every single night in my dreams, and those dreams have been coming back for 12 years now. As well as the dreams, I struggle with PTSD and claustrophobia, and the idea of being stuck anywhere makes my body shut down.

I tried to hide what I went through for years. Tried to convince myself that I actually deserved what happened, but those rose-tinted glasses are long gone, and I am #BreakingCodeSilence.

Augusta Breaking Code Silence about Wilderness and Greenbrier Academy

I had a very privileged childhood growing up in NYC. I witnessed the events of 9/11 from less than a mile away at age 6. I developed anorexia at age 11, I was put in rehab at age 13, and I was in and out of there until I was 17.

During those years I went through a sexual assault and had to repeat my Freshman year. When I was 16/17 I did all of the typical NYC teenager stuff: fake IDs, clubbing, drinking, smoking weed, late for curfew, etc. I was not a “bad” kid, I was a hurt kid, and my parents were scared.

In the summer of 2012, I was depressed and angry, feuding with my parents, not sleeping, eating, or taking my meds.

What people do not talk about are the “Education Consultants” who profit off of desperate parents willing to pay to find a place to send their kids.

In August I woke up from a nightmare (I have PTSD) to find two huge people in my bedroom, a man and a woman. They told me to get dressed and I refused. I was screaming and crying for my parents. They had zip-ties and the man told me he was a former cop and asked if I wanted to do this the hard way or the easy way. Then the male grabbed my arms and the woman grabbed my legs, and they dragged me downstairs, where my parents were crying and refusing to look at me.

They tied my wrists with zip-ties and put the child-lock on and explained rudely we could either take a plane or we can drive ten hours. They were so condescending calling me a spoiled brat and snickering.

When I got to Wilderness, it was the usual: strip, squat, give up your belongings. When I first arrived I was not allowed to speak to anyone other than my “big buddy,” and I had to finish a packet, including writing your life story, before l could join the group. There I was forced to read it to complete strangers. I also had to read the impact statement from my parents about why they sent me there.

We were put on “solos,” where they blindfolded and separated us from each other–we did not know how long it would last. Because I could not produce a fire, I had to eat raw sweet potato. Despite all that, I still think Wilderness was ultimately beneficial for me. What was not beneficial was not knowing how long I would be there, where I would be next, etc.

I begged my parents to let me come home but the Education Consultant manipulated my parents by telling them I was manipulating them, and that I was not ready to come home. So I was sent to Greenbrier Academy, marketed as a fancy boarding school with an equine program, great academics, and wonderful therapists. That was anything but the case.

A girl kissed me during truth or dare and ten girls told on me, so I was not allowed to go home for Christmas. I was only allowed a monitored 15-minute phone call, once a week, where I was allowed to speak to my parents. The only other time would be over Skype, with your parents and therapist. They did weird therapy rituals, including something called “brain spotting” where my therapist tried to intimidate me into hypnosis to relive my rape.

In one specific family session, my therapist said, “Don’t you think it was really your fault for drinking, therefore you got raped because you put yourself in that situation? Do you really think people believe your story?”

She manipulated me constantly.

Community meetings were used to shame girls under the facade of concern. A group of girls on higher levels were selected to be on the Council, where they spy on girls and decide when they can move up or be moved down in the levels.

“Academics” included maybe four teachers, and we were all lumped together, it was a joke.

One time I took a pepper from the fridge in the kitchen and I was written-up by staff, so my therapist called my parents with me, who had already bought me plane tickets home for Spring Break, and told them that I clearly could not follow rules and thus could not go home.

Every time I struggled, I would get privileges taken away. There was always the threat I would be taken back to the wilderness program, or worse if I did not behave. I was put on meds I had never heard of.

The staff who were with us at night and on weekends were wonderful and caring. I could tell they felt bad for us.

We started to hear rumors about the founder of the school, Lionel J. Mitchell, and his previous program, Aldredge Academy, which was shut down after a student killed himself. When he would visit he acted like a celebrity. He would put his arms on girls’ backs and shoulders, and even teased he wanted to take the “good girls” on a trip in his jet to his ranch in Washington.

In researching now during the Breaking Code Silence movement, I found out even scarier things. Including lack of licenses and even more abuse and death. Mitchell has been getting away with this for decades. He was the founder of several places like this in Utah and was even the creator of something called “The Death March” in Idaho, with his SUWS program in the ’80s, that resulted in multiple deaths.

We found out Greenbrier is not even listed in his name, due to the number of times he has been sued. It is under his son’s name.

Everything there was bizarre, amongst teachers and therapists and heads of school all being married or related, all part of a specific Mormon sect, and all from Utah. My therapist would overshare with me about her husband, her children, her childhood. She even came up to the “Village,” where we slept in a yurt and used a sweat lodge, and told the group that we do not know what bad is because her dad hit her as a child. It was beyond inappropriate, invalidating, and weird. She would give my parents advice and shame them for giving me an allowance and paying for my phone bill because her children paid for themselves.

This is a quote from an article I found that perfectly sums this up: “L. J. Mitchell believes that society doesn’t care what happens to them because they are troubled and throwaways and that their parents are wealthy and are willing to pay thousands of dollars to send them to him for help. Over the years he has tried many versions of his programs, from calling them survival schools to what is now his latest approach to troubled teens called “Therapeutic Boarding School for Girls” in WV”              -An article in WV news from 2011.

After all of these years, he is still profiting off of this abusive industry. He is still in charge of the school and featured on the website. Several other girls have similar stories to mine and luckily my parents finally got me out of there. So many other girls were not as lucky, some not as fortunate, some whose parents had to take out second mortgages on their homes to send them there. All with the promise they will make your child into a happy and healthy “normal” person.

I think because we did not have it as bad as other places, and especially because I did not want my parents to feel bad, I made myself believe it was not so bad. That program is designed to tell you that if you do not “get better” there it is your fault alone.

It was a struggle, and sometimes still is, to enter back into society and be independent after all of this, and I was so embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Restraining a minor with PTSD should be a crime.

Daniel Stearns Breaking Code Silence about Wilderness and Monarch School (CEDU spinoff)

I needed help. At 15, I was on the verge of collapse. It was the self-loathing, the feeling of loneliness that ate away at my spirit every day as I lived a lie.

When I found the bravery to speak my truth, to say “I’m gay” to the people that I loved most, the world lit up for a moment, then burned away quickly. I found myself inside a cold room in a psychiatric facility. After a week there, parents let me know I would be leaving soon. What I did not know was that two men would shake me out of bed early in the morning. I did not know I was about to embark on an 18-month journey, more complex and painful than anything I had experienced prior. I was naive to think I understood loss and pain before. Everything I had was taken from me.

Wilderness therapy saved my life. It broke me and almost broke my body, and some moments it felt impossible to breathe, but watching the boys around me find strength while walking beside me, mile after mile, inspired a fight in me. I washed my face in an ice-cold stream after a 15-mile hike up and down off-trail hills overgrown with rhododendron. I listened to a boy cry for the first time as he understood that he is worthy of love. Those moments stand with me and I remember those who were around me, fondly.

However, the 77 nights I spent hungry, my body becoming wiry and thin, haunt me. As do the days we could not create a fire because our bags were soaked the day before, and the staff let us eat ice-cold, hard rice and dehydrated beans, as they sat by their gas stoves and chowed down on ramen. The 8-hour “testing” and psychological evaluation we were all subjected to. The strip-search at 15. Being forced to read a letter from my parents, that was full of their anger and tainted perspective, in front of 12 boys I had not been allowed to speak to for the three days prior.

Things were not right there. It saved me but I understood that I was being forced to endure something I should not have been enduring. It made me tough and resilient and I needed those lessons for what was about to come.

The Monarch School stole a year of my life; stole the lives of those I loved. I felt the evil under the smile of the woman who greeted me. I saw the intrigue in the eyes of all the others when I walked into the main building for the first time. I heard the “poor kid.” I saw a girl outside sweating, using a small tool to dig dirt around a massive tree stump. Two kids sat alone in the back of the dining room. One of them cried for the first three days I spent there. Those moments of confusion became moments of empathy and rage. “Seats” took our ability to speak and were supposed to be reflective time. When the girl I saw digging the first day spent the next two months there doing the same thing every day, I realized that it was never about reflection. It was about control.

They took our clothes. Our piercings. They took our friends, our ability to speak freely with our families. They took my books if they mentioned the touch of another. They kept us in groups of three. Alone-time did not exist. They silenced us. Blacked-out our letters. Pulled phone plugs when we attempted to show our pain to anyone outside of the bubble they trapped us under. We were outsiders. Everyone in the town looked at us with sullen eyes. And eventually, it all felt so normal. I stopped questioning it, realized my head needed to face the ground so that I could get home. I did my best to avoid trouble.

They rewarded us for snitching. I actually felt good about “holding kids accountable” to a set of rules they called “The Agreements.” Agreements were quite flexible, and if you asked for a list of them you were scolded. There was no master list of punishments, they were random. But you always knew you were about to do some labor. In the kitchen, scraping the dining hall floor with a butter knife, chopping wood, or digging up stumps. We worked because we were the workers. We had no maintenance staff, nobody tamed that land.

We, the original students of CEDU, worked the land and saved the owner millions of dollars. He was a man that loved to take the kids out on the boat, bought with our parents’ money. A man that loved to bring a special group of kids to his added house on campus. Somebody that looked me in the eyes as I broke down crying, after the student that sexually assaulted me was detained and sent home. Somebody who never delivered the detailed report I was asked to write by the police, the day after the trauma. Somebody who destroyed our transcripts and stole our money, and reveled in the joy of breaking us.

I could spin stories about Monarch all day. It felt like a never-ending nightmare drama show. That nightmare follows me. It has for the last six years. I wake up covered in sweat, head to toe. My dreams are vivid and dark, and I see the dirt on my hands and I feel the hands of that boy on me.

I feel there are two parts of my brain. I have my natural way of being and this learned way of being. This learned, manipulated version of what it means to be “good.” What it means to be right. It haunts me every day. It manifests as trust issues in friendships, romantic relationships, and random outbursts of anger at my parents, who really loved me, and did not understand what I was being exposed to. It is haunting, and it almost broke me.

I saw the light as soon as I left. I finished up high school incredibly well and made it out to my dream college across the country. Now this passion in me has been ignited me to do something.

I made a life for myself that I love but not everyone is as fortunate. So many people I knew are now gone. Too many. All under 25. So I will spend my life exposing the evil that has attempted to infect my space.

I make TikTok videos @danielthemammal every week, bringing awareness to our fight, and I have reached more people than I ever could have imagined. I see fellow survivors doing the same, and we are so beautiful and so strong.

I am proud to be a survivor. I survived and I do not see myself as less-than for that. In fact, in my vulnerability, I have found more love than ever. So for those we have lost and those we are fighting for, I will embody love. And I hope you can too.

Anthony Breaking Code Silence about Eagle Ranch Academy

I was 13, turning 14, in my last few weeks at my time at Eagle Ranch Academy, “a therapeutic boarding school” I was sent to after having a significantly traumatic childhood. Experiencing abandonment and abuse from drug addict parents.

I was sent by my aunt and uncle, who had taken me in, when they felt they could no longer help me.

I was one of the youngest patients in the program. Most of the other kids were 16/17 and struggling with substance abuse issues.

Shoes, chairs, outside time, quality of meals, freedom to express yourself, were all privileges that had to be earned. Physical restraint–to the point of assault–individualized personal attacks, made in front of other patients, etc, were parts of daily life. We had to shower in seven minutes. Contact with the outside world, including family members, was not allowed. All of the boys’ heads were shaved, and the staff were under-trained, barely in their 20s, often freshly graduated, who constantly changed.

The program director was known to pick and choose favorites. Allowing certain kids privileges and freedoms to watch television, have outside food, etc. Certain staff drank and/or did substances with students.

The education program was a practically non-existent online school, for a couple of hours, in silence, per day.

The program only furthered my lack of self-understanding and increased self-hatred. I was fat-shamed, made fun of by homophobic staff and charges, and their primary focus was on their success story kids. They kept everyone else medicated and used band-aids to stop them from acting out, so they could keep taking huge amounts of money from the families. They do not offer better therapy than other outpatient programs. They are for parents who gave up or, frankly, are too lazy.

Katie Breaking Code Silence about Casa by the Sea (WWASPS)

My name is Katie. I was taken when I was 16 to Casa by the Sea (CBS).

I had been suffering from depression caused by childhood sexual and physical abuse, so I turned to drugs.

Advertised as a 5-star boarding school for troubled teens, I quickly learned that CBS was anything like it had been advertised to my parents and the public. My privilege to speak was taken from me and we were forced to sign away our rights as US citizens every three months. If we refused to do anything we were told, we were restrained in a room with our chin on the floor and hands behind our backs for, sometimes, days.

I witnessed and experienced sexual abuse towards we children from the adult staff, as well as endured verbal and emotional abuse daily. I was not allowed to speak to my family. I attempted once to write them in a letter about some of the things that were abusive at Casa, however, I got in trouble for my attempt and was disciplined by the staff in an extremely abusive manner. The letter never made it to my parents.

The walls were too high to jump and when I saw what happened to the children who tried, I was fearful enough to remain a prisoner until I was 18.

When I was 18 I returned home and learned four months later that the Mexican government raided the compound, and the children were taken to a homeless shelter in San Diego. It is unreal to me that these places still exist within the U.S. and something must be done to put an end to this child abuse.

Kate Breaking Code Silence about Wilderness and Auldern Academy

“This is the absolute Spark Notes version:

In January 2012, I was transferred from a wilderness program to Auldern Academy in Siler City, North Carolina. I was 17. I was the first (possibly the only, as of 2017) successful escapee.

I had been sent away for things that were not uncommon for kids. I had school refusal, a bad relationship, and would not tell my parents when I would be coming home. They had been advised to work with an education consultant, who I had never spoken to.

On November 28th, I left for a wilderness program in Georgia. I did not experience any abuse at that program, so I was not prepared for Auldern.

Flash forward to January. My first impression of Auldern was, “Why am I here?”

These girls had been through some extreme trauma. Like, saw their mother get raped, or had developed a meth addiction by 16. I was stunned that I qualified to be at the same treatment center.

Like every other program, there were isolation and punishment systems. Theirs was called “Focus Reflection.”

In April, I was involved and in a stick-and-poke tattoo incident. Three other girls and I were placed on Level 3 (there were only 3 levels). This meant that we would be doing 12ish hours of manual labor a day, couldn’t speak to anyone and had to carry our mattresses out to the dorm lobby, where we had to sleep with the lights on.

During my week on Level 3, we had to carry boulders to line a path. My shoulder began to throb. I asked to see the nurse and was told no. I was not allowed to speak and was told to be quiet when I approached the staff to ask for Advil. This persisted throughout my entire stay. After I ran away, I found out that I had a focal SLAP tear, which I will have forever.

By August, I had convinced my parents to switch me to a regular boarding school that offered therapy. I tried explaining the abuse and labor, how my struggles were not that extreme, and that somewhere else could serve me better. We even had a Skype session scheduled to transfer me to the other school. Before that, my parents were scheduled to have a meeting with the treatment team at Auldern. Members of the treatment team were not employees I had ever worked with or spoken to.

The night of their meeting, I had one of my two 25 minute phone calls for the week. I asked how it went, and they told me that they told my parents that it was best for me to stay. I started to panic and cry, and then a staff member came over and ended my call. I ran out of the room and bawled.

Starting then, I knew I had to make a plan to escape.

For the next two months, I kissed ass to earn a weekend at home. I planned it out perfectly so that it would be my 18th birthday weekend, and I could stay with no problems. Unfortunately, it was not that simple.

I went home the weekend of October 19-21, my birthday being the 22nd. On the 21st, I refused to go back, knowing they could not get transport there in time to legally handcuff me. I started receiving texts from staff members, telling me that I was going to regret it.

The next day, my therapist walked into my house (she flew from NC to NJ). She started saying she needed to return with the prize. There was a moment of me asking if I should be put on Focus, and when she said “yes,” I told her to get out of my house.

I was home for five days before I gave in to going back (side note: I lost my cellphone in the middle of all of this). My dad dropped me off at the airport in NY, and I went through security and sat at the gate. An airline worker walked up to me and asked “Are you Kate?”

I said yes. He said my dad called to make sure that I would be getting on the plane. He then said, “but you’re of age, so you don’t need to.”

I got up, thanked him, and went to grab a taxi to a bus station. I then took a bus to NJ and walked to a friend’s house. She called my parents, and I was instructed to use her phone to call the therapist. When I called, she told me that I was not allowed to contact my parents, and I was not allowed to go home until I agreed to go back to Auldern. Hurricane Sandy was hitting in three days, but I still said “game on.”

Flash forward three days, and my parents try to get in contact with me to tell me to come home before the hurricane hit. I said no and that I did not trust them. They promised it was safe.

The next day, they sat me down and said Auldern called to say they had to “fill my bed and were giving up on me.”

It was at that moment that my parents realized that Auldern had no regard for my safety or wellbeing. They had manipulated my family to kick me out during a devastating natural disaster for nothing.

Becca Burk Breaking Code Silence about Carolina Springs Academy (WWASPS)

My name is Becca and in 2008, when I was 16 years old, I was sent to Carolina Springs Academy, located in Donalds, South Carolina. I lived there for a year.

Breaking silence was a CAT-2, which meant you lost 25 points. We lived in a point-based system. We could earn around 25 points a day but they set us up to call one another out for rule violations, which resulted in a loss of points. A loss of 25 points was a day added to your stay. Points were needed to vote up to different levels and with each level came different privileges. There were 6 levels in total. Upper Levels had to “vote up,” so even if they earned the points the majority still had to be in favor of them. Once you landed level 4 (1600 points) you were an official Upper Level, which meant you were essentially staff.

Upper Levels on shift had to call out their peers for violations all day long and even walked outside the line to look for violations. If we were not accountable they “staffed it,” which meant we lost double the points of the category violation plus you landed yourself in worksheets.

Worksheets was hours of the same essay topics over and over again. And if you did not comply with Worksheets that was a 206NFD, not following directions, another CAT2, loss of 25 points. Breaking three of the same violations was a CAT4, insubordination, which means if you earned any levels you now lost those privileges.

Coming in as a level 1 you get nothing but a pleated skirt uniform and some knee-high socks. No looking, no touching, NO BREAKING SILENCE. Privileges included being able to shave, waking up at 4:45 am for first dibs on a 7 minute cold shower, and a 15 to 20 minute (monitored) phone call with your parents, and only your parents. If you said the “wrong” thing (for example “there’s no hot water” or “I’m being abused”) the phone call was cut short, your parents were told you were manipulating to come home, and you got a correction.

Some violations included breathing too loudly, not looking straight ahead, looking out of a window, writing, unsatisfactory uniform, sitting with your heels off the ground, a wrinkle in your bedding, and our bed rails were checked daily for dust. We had only a laundry basket to keep our uniform and shoes in, which was also checked daily. We washed our clothes once a week. We slept in yellow sweat outfits. We needed permission to spit, fix our hair, use the bathroom, to talk, to use somebody’s name while talking, to stand, to sit, to do anything. If you were a Lower Level you needed permission to “call someone out,” and a chaperone when speaking with other Lower Levels.

There was no physical touch, no hugs, no holding hands, not even a poke. Our every move was controlled. Prison inmates have more rights than we did. We had the same schedule every day. We walked in straight lines and counted through doors. We sat on the floors. We used the bathroom/shower with the door open. There was no privacy or hot water, so our 7-minute showers were exposed and freezing. We were force-fed every day until early 2009 when we were then starved. We ate in silence. Not finishing the food on your plate, which was expired food, was a meal violation. Walking in a straight line to and from the cafeteria was the only time we spent outside. Once some girls and I were walking back to the dorms late at night and we got to see something we had not seen in months/year—stars in the sky. We broke major violations when we decided to lay in the gravel holding hands to look at them.

We lived, grieved, loved, and broke rules in silence.

Looking at a boy was a major violation! When the boys were near we were to turn around with our backs facing them to let them pass—which felt degrading. They were allowed to look at me though when I was told to dress up and dance solo to the song “Lady In Red,” in a room full of boys and male staff, who were strangers to me. I had to start the song over three times because I was told the first two times “weren’t good enough.”

During my 3rd and final attempt, I closed my eyes, fell to my knees, and did some crazy stuff with my hands in my hair. I was desperate, scared, and mortified. When I opened my eyes I had a standing ovation, and thank goodness because my getting out of the program depended on it. “Lady in Red” was my last “process” in the Focus seminar and I needed to complete it to keep my level and points, so I could vote up and go home.

Seminars were days of consecutive brainwash techniques and emotional abuse that were mandatory every six weeks or so. If we did not complete the process well enough it was called “choosing out” of the seminar, which meant six more weeks were added on to your stay. Another six weeks until you got the opportunity to complete the seminar.

We were sleep and food deprived during these seminars, which took place in a garage. They made me beat the concrete floor with a towel that was duct-taped together and when that fell apart I was told to continue with my fist. I did, until it swelled up to three times its size, and I had to sit out for the rest of that process, and received no medical attention.

Sexual abuse victims were slut-shamed. We were told, “based on your results you got exactly what you intended.”

They told us we deserved it. After they had us scream why we deserve to live more than everyone else, we were forced to look our closest friends in the eye and tell them that they deserve to die. They put us in “fight for your life” and “every man for themselves” scenarios. After killing off all of my friends, I wound up having the most “live” votes in the room. Three people in the whole room got to live; I was one of them and I had to kill off my peers to get there. Then, they were forced to tell me one by one what their “last words” to their families were. Then, we had to lay in pretend coffins and imagine we were at our funerals. It was horrific. The things that happened in that garage still haunt me.

The biggest scam is the “school” part itself. There is NO school or teachers. It was a trailer filled with outdated textbooks, where we self-taught ourselves in silence. We had to memorize the textbooks and pass three tests a week or it was academic probation and you were stripped of your privileges. On top of it all, Carolina Springs Academy was not even accredited and I had to get my G.E.D. after returning home.

At any time, for any reason, staff could physically restrain you and throw you in something we called OP, “observational placement.” OP was solitary confinement, where you were alone in a small square shed-like thing, where staff could watch you, or beat you, or do whatever they wanted until whenever they wanted. You could hear the screams coming from OP when walking in our straight line to the cafeteria.

The staff gave me CAT5s for my trichotillomania, which was an automatic loss of level, straight back to level 1, in worksheets. I was shamed and outcasted for my disorder and was denied any real professional treatment. The staff made us strip off our clothes and stand outside in the cold as punishment. Staff turned off the heat in the dead of winter because “we didn’t deserve heat.”

I was sexually harassed by a male staff member constantly, and when I came home he sexually harassed me in my inbox. Me and two other girls had to scrub semen off the walls and toilets and that was considered a “privilege.” As embarrassing as it is, at the time it felt like a privilege to scrub semen off walls to get away from our everyday torture routine.

Narvin himself brought me and other Upper Levels out to dinner at a hibachi as some publicity stunt, and then back to his house where we were scared to death. He also stopped paying Sysco, our expired food supplier, and we were then starved along with the horses and cows, who died. There were dead horses and cows all over the property. Staff forced us to lie to desperate parents about how much the program is helping us and how they should send their kids here. If we did not, it was a CAT3 BRV, which costs you 50 points.

No one knew when they were going home. We were not allowed to say or wave goodbye. You wake up one morning and your best friend’s bed is empty. They would pull you out in the middle of the night. We were not allowed to share personal information like phone numbers. We were to have no contact with each other in the real world. My mom eventually found out Carolina Springs was under investigation with DSS and she came and got me while my “family rep” tried to talk her out of it.

I was pulled out of the program as a level 5 voting up to 6. Coming home I experienced a ginormous culture shock. We did not have TVs, newspapers, current events, music, or the outdoors in the program. We were completely disconnected from the world. I missed the Phillies win the World Series, I had no idea who our President Obama was, what Facebook was, who I was. I cried when I heard music again. The feeling of finally being able to walk out the door and up the street freely is one I cannot put into words. I used to walk aimlessly for miles when I got home. Things like speaking without needing permission, taking a warm shower, sitting in a chair, closing a door, looking outside of a window, it all felt so different and weird and I had no one to talk to about it. I was silenced.

Today I am sharing my experience with the hope it will stop another child from being sent away to another unregulated, unaccredited, abusive facility.

Carolina Springs Academy has changed its name more times than I can keep up with. Owner Narvin has also changed his name to Marvin. He would advertise his daughters as students by posting their photos on his “Specialty Boarding School for Troubled Teens” webpages. Programs just like Carolina Springs Academy are still open all over the world and operating off of lies and deceit to this day. This needs to stop and these programs need to be shut down! Our trauma is valid.

Hannah Kay Breaking Code Silence about Lighthouse Christian Academy

My name is Hannah. I was 13 when I was sent to Lighthouse “Christian” Academy (LCA) for the first time and I left when I was almost 18 years old. I was picked up in the early morning hours by two strangers who gave the old “easy way or hard way”. Being hardly 80 lbs, I opted for the first, which consisted of being put in the back of a child locked car with a cage around the back seat and led onto 2 airplanes without so much as one word of where I was being taken. They dropped me off in Jay, Florida. A rural town in the middle of peanut and cotton fields. Upon my arrival, I was strip searched and forced into a shower. Once I was in there they snuck in to take my last personal items from me, my clothes. They were replaced with over the knee skirts, nylons, collared shirts, culottes and jumpers. Anything less made me look like a “Jezebel” and simply didn’t exist in this place. We could not even say the words “pants” or “jeans”.

New girls were not allowed outside for their first month. So I had to do inside “P.E.” which were basically jazzercise videos. In the first few days they said I was not moving vigorously enough for P.E. I told them that I had a bathroom problem (stress induced uti) and was in pain. They took me to a bathroom and kept the door wide open and watched me as I could not relieve myself. Then claimed I was just bulimic and looking for a way to throw up, (I had never in my life had an eating disorder). I went back and tried to do exercises to their satisfaction but could not due to the pain. I was then “floored” for my first time. “Floored” is when they instruct other students to trip, drag, tackle or otherwise put you on the floor face down and sit on top of your body and limbs. They told our parents this only happened if we were a threat to ourselves or others, but this happened to girls for simply refusing to stop picking their fingernails.

Sometimes girls would be taken to the isolation box (a minimum of 3 days) where they would be forced to listen to fire and brimstone preaching for hours on blast. They might even decide you don’t eat if you’re still being “defiant” in there, and there’s no toilet unless someone takes you to one. It smelled awful in there. But you don’t curse them for it or they will put chunks of ivory soap into your lips, like dip, until it chemically burns sores into your gums and lips. Then make you take vitamin c for days after to heal them. I was put on bathroom and shower rules. I was not allowed to use a bathroom or shower in privacy. Not just from staff eyes but from other students. I remember vividly sitting on the toilet with 4 girls standing in front of me brushing their teeth in one sink. My naked body was just another part of everyone’s day.

We had limited time to eat our meals or we would have to eat it cold and sometimes even expired later. I would get sick trying to finish my food and water in the 15 minute time limit. I would get up and flag a staff member down to take me to a restroom. One day I was flagging a staff down when the pastor’s wife stood up and announced to the dining hall that I was not allowed to use the bathroom if I felt sick. And if I was going to throw up, I would throw up on my plate.

And I did. A lot. I felt bad for the girls who had to sit at a table with me and eat their food next to my vomit plate. Eventually I was given a puke bucket that I would have to carry around during and after meals, (because of course I couldn’t use the bathroom after meals). I never once threw up on purpose while I was there. I’ve never had a history of an eating disorder. And my parents never told them otherwise.

But many other girls had greater bathroom problems too. The pastor’s wife also said it wasn’t physically possible that we would have to use the bathroom as much as we claimed. Girls would wet themselves in church, in their beds, in school. They said they never used mechanical restraints but I and many girls witnessed times when that did happen. They once punished a dozen girls by forcing them to live in the classroom for a month. They sat at wood desks with the lights on and ate cheese sandwiches and water without speaking or any stimulation. They were zombies. We would have “RAPS” which sometimes went for hours into the early morning. They would stand girls up and have others rat on her for any rule they broke or friend they made. People would pass judgments on their spiritual well being and blame their lack of relationship with God for things like a student’s mental health.

A known child predator previously ran the facility and lived on the premises. He sometimes ate meals and preached to us. One female staff members was secretly gay and wrote me letters which now make me sick, there are numerous assault allegations against her. One staff member would shave an Autistic girls head when she misbehaved. The man who ran our P.E. was ex Air Force, ran us beyond crying and puking. I watched him drag a girl across the field when she couldn’t run anymore, this happened plenty of times. We had a “Silence” rule that resulted in students not speaking beyond “pen, paper, or potty” for YEARS. Best case scenario, there was approx. 2 hrs a day you might be able to speak to another student. If you were in good standing, had someone to monitor your convo and it was about approved topics. But friendships were strictly prohibited. You also could not keep a diary/journal or calendar or write poetry or even freehand draw stuff.

We memorized hundreds of scriptures to be allowed privileges like going outside or butter for toast. Forced to sing, to pray, to work. You could not express negative emotion, no crying loud or clenching your fists. I was forced to stay up all night to “floor” other students and pin girls to their beds. If a girl wouldn’t sleep, they were threatened to run the field “til they were tired”, some scrubbed floors all night then were “floored” for falling asleep during the day. Phone calls /letters were monitored, they would tell your parents you were lying/manipulating if you got something through but mostly they would rip up/sharpie out your letters, or take away your (1) 30 minute call/month. There was no therapy, no checklist of things to accomplish in order to leave, no medication for anything that wasn’t physical. I witnessed/experienced medical neglect. And they charged parents THOUSANDS per month for us to run their program.

Today the staff that ran Lighthouse Christian Academy work for a new facility called Masters Ranch in Couch, MO. It’s been 9 years since I left Lighthouse. I have a degree in Business Administration, I own a business, and I advocate against the TTI on TikTok (@Hwy89survival). But I suffer deeply from complex post traumatic stress disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder and major depression as a result of my time at LCA.

The years where I was meant to be finding myself were spent losing myself. But I have learned to live with the remains of that girl, I’ve salvaged fragments of her personality and passion. With them I’ve put together a person that maybe I wasn’t meant to be, but it’s the person I need to be. And I stand with my fellow survivors today. #BreakingCodeSilence

Emily Graeber Breaking Code Silence about Second Nature Blue Ridge and Island View Residential Treatment Center (Aspen Education Group)

I was 14 when my tumultuous ride through the troubled teen industry started. I was legally kidnapped days after Christmas, December 27, 2006. Everything happened so fast, The light flashed on, I woke up to a male voice yelling  “we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” This stranger grabbed me, from there my memory goes blank. I woke up in an airport, looking around I saw a sign, “Welcome to Georgia.” I was disoriented and confused. Handcuffing me with zip ties, they forced me into a car. Two hours passed and they stopped, got out and put a bandana over my eyes, saying the purpose was so I wouldn’t be able to find my way out. Out of where? I frantically questioned who they were, where they were taking me, only to be met with silence. Handcuffed, blindfolded, and hysterical, I was left at Second Nature Blue Ridge (2N), where I spent the next 90 days. Almost immediately I was strip searched for the first time in my life. These new strangers instructed me to undress, squat, cough, and spread my cheeks. I was terrified as they took me deeper into the woods. They left with a group of girls, all wearing the same clothes as me. There was no question, I was stepping into a very strange parallel universe. Every type of abuse happened in tandem with living outside, excessive hiking, crazy weather, poor hygiene, unqualified staff, malnutrition, and medical neglect. I spent 90 days living outside, in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

2N convinced my parents I would die if I didn’t go to long term placement. Several programs owned by Aspen Education Group were recommended-Aspen also owned 2N. I was brought to Island View RTC, a lockdown residential treatment center in Syracuse, Utah where I spent the next 17 months. For $16,000 a month, I was no longer my parent’s problem.

The motto – greatness not compliance, yet compliance was the only way out. The environment was tense and toxic, trust was scarce, fear was used as a means of control, abuse was rampant. The level system kept us in check, colored bracelets indicated what level we were on. Progress was difficult while it was easy to lose everything and be demoted back to the lowest level. Staff gave sprinkles of praise that resembled kindness when we “worked the program.” Encouraging us to point out each other’s flaws and wrongdoings, throwing others under the bus was a learned way to get ahead. All the while, we’d be bracing ourselves for the same mistreatment to come swinging right back around from our peers. Being expected to incessantly hold others accountable was similar to dogs being trained, on our toes at all times.

No doctors were ever present for strip searches, only staff. It consisted of getting naked, squatting, coughing, spreading your cheeks, twirling around with your arms out, shaking out your hair, your ears and inside of your mouth were checked; it was excessive and humiliating. Staff would get up close to inspect my naked body, noting each scar and mark, it was violating to say the least.

The most feared punishments involved silence and isolation. YZ was sitting in a plastic chair for 18/24/72 hours, following the group around in silence. Not allowed to communicate, interact, or participate. Groups were held in circles, anyone on punishment would be placed outside of the circle against the wall, to further ostracize and make an example out of them. You’d plead your case in front of a panel of upper levels, who decided if you could be taken off YZ, if you seemed sorry enough.

Individual Focus (IF) was more intense. Sitting at your desk all day, no speaking or interacting. They’d say; no verbal or non verbal communication, you couldn’t even look at anyone.

Restraints were traumatic and used in excess. Some staff even seemed excited to jump in and eagerly participate in the violence. Agitating kids they knew would react, staff felt justified in tackling them to the ground. It would go from 0-100 in seconds, sometimes getting a running start, which could result in rugburn or worse injury to the child being targeted. Once the kid was down, staff would do anything to keep them down. I saw staff body slam children, grab a child by the back of her head and thrash her face into the floor, I watched helplessly as my peers screamed out “I can’t breathe” with 2-5 staff wrestling them. If you didn’t see it, you’d hear it, as the child would almost always be screaming. The energy would shift when these violent encounters took place, we were totally powerless watching our peers get manhandled. There was no way to intervene without subjecting yourself to the same violence. Eventually it became part of the background, I learned to look away and tune it out, I was desensitized to it. The child getting restrained could be let go if they were calm for long enough, otherwise they were dragged to the time-out-room. A small isolation chamber that had 3 walls, a drain and a metal door that locked. Some were locked in there for hours, sometimes months of the same kids being put in time out. Some spent more time in isolation than out, they never stopped fighting. I was scared for them, sometimes scared of them, but also in awe of their tenacity and strength. The screams that came out of that room, make up the soundtracks to my most vivid night terrors.

I was overmedicated with a cocktail of serious medications for conditions I didn’t have. The choice was to take the meds or get pilled by the nurse.

Any inkling of sexuality was punished. Conversion therapy wasn’t advertised, but it was implemented. LGBTQ+ children were bullied, humiliated, and called degrading names by staff and other kids. Same sex sexually acting out was deemed a phase. I had to give a play by play to my parents and all of my peers, explaining exactly what happened between myself and another girl, describing every movement in detail. I was then punished with silence and isolation for 72hrs. The shame lasted so much longer.

Attack groups disguised as therapy, the most feared was Problem Solving Group (PSG). Throughout the week we’d report transgressions then hash them out in PSG. Tuesdays were doomsday, your struggles, traumas and insecurities were analyzed and thrown in your face until you submitted. Group would end with the majority broken down. We had to turn into monsters to get through these frenzies. I am deeply sorry to anyone I mistreated.

Parents were warned we would try to manipulate them, and say we were being abused. Parents were coached to ignore any cries for help, negativity was seen as manipulation. In reality the parents were being manipulated by the program.  I encourage all parents to believe your children, especially if they say they are being abused.

Too many things that will stick with me forever. I found a friend on the ground, she had cut herself badly, blood was everywhere. She left, we never saw her again. We weren’t allowed to ask what happened, and we haven’t been able to find her. I hope she sees this.

Another girl and I walked in on our math teacher masturbating. He was instantly fired, we were told he was arrested, to not speak about it, or tell our parents. I’ve followed up with police in UT, no report was even made. Many of us have followed up with our parents, who were never told of this incident.

My therapist, who was the program director for many years, married one of his former patients in 2018. This helped bring to light his long, dark history of grooming his patients; as many of us realized we too experienced being groomed by him when we were children in his care.

I had visited home and I was on my way back to IV. The plane landed in Utah and I sat. I kept sitting, figuring someone would come retrieve me or I would just get up and go back like I was supposed to. I watched as the flight attendant counted everyone on the plane twice, missing me both times. The plane took off with me still on it, to San Francisco. I was willing to risk anything to be free and away from IV. I was lucky to only spend 48 hours on the street before I was taken in by a family that kept me safe. I am very grateful to them, I could have been met with a much different fate. I spent the next 18 days in Oakland. I wasn’t aware that anyone was even looking for me, the plan was to just disappear and start a new life, say goodbye to everything I loved to just not go back. I was a missing person in MO, UT, and CA. Someone recognized me and called it into a tip line. People showed up to get me, and they very clearly promised I would never be sent back to Utah. They said my Grandma was dying and I needed to come with them to say goodbye, I went back with them willingly. My grandma passed away right after I arrived, it was if she waited for me.

I was not surprised when I found myself back in Utah, my parents did not keep the promise. I saw several staff outside waiting as we pulled up, excited to get their hands on me. Berated, interrogated, told I was going to be kept there till 18. A notoriously evil staff member backhanded me during my strip search, while I was naked, saying “no crying.” They screamed about the chaos I caused and said I would be lucky if my family ever spoke to me again.

I spent the next 58 days on IF, isolated, not allowed to speak to or look at anyone. For the entire punishment they told me I had HIV. They were likely trying to punish me for being sexually active while in California. They made it seem the test was pending, and that it meant I probably had it. They allowed me to believe I had HIV, and I was terrified. I was assigned my own toilet, sink and shower; which I was required to clean anytime I used, my teammates were not to use the same facilities as me. I would hear staff say to my peers “who knows what she could have” but, all the tests came back negative conveniently right after I was taken off punishment. I was too young to know that STDs can’t transfer through showers or sinks, and no STD results take that long to get back. My therapist would come by and talk at me for 10 mins, leave, and said that counted as therapy. I was not allowed to speak to my family during this time, I was not allowed to write or receive mail. I had no way to communicate. The silence, mind games, hopelessness, and insurmountable grief drove me to madness. I cried more than I ever have before, especially about my grandma. I didn’t know how to process death, I was 15, I needed love and compassion, but I was on my own and had to figure it out. Staff and therapists were quick to say that she wouldn’t have died if I didn’t run away. I was blamed for her death so many times I believed it, that level of guilt has been difficult to shake.

Before I was released back into the general population, I was the target of several groups. My peers aggressively told me how my running away affected them. I went on an accountability tour, begging every human at IV for forgiveness. They even brought me to the boys teams, to apologize to them too.  I was a complete shell of a person, I knew if I even slightly stepped out of line I’d be thrown back into isolation. I had no choice but to become everything I resisted and hated during my first 8 months, to get through the last 8 months, I got with the program. 

I thought I was free when I graduated. I wasn’t aware of what, and how much I carried out with me, but time has revealed all the wounds. It took years and years after leaving to fully free myself from the grips of Island View.

I lasted six months at a non abusive therapeutic boarding school set in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The teachers were kind and patient, but it was difficult to acclimate, difficult to know how to even be a child. I went home, got my GED, and found a vocational college. I completed an associates degree in Veterinary Technology. I started a dog walking, animal care business that took 9 years to build (+only 2 months for COVID to wipe out)

It was a blessing to find the WWASP survivors community, so many survivors helped me see I wasn’t alone, and helped me see that I didn’t deserve what I went through. This inspired me to create several online support communities for survivors of IV and Elevations over the years. These connections are the only positive thing that came out of IV.  So many of the things I love about myself are bits and pieces of those who were right there with me through the darkness, proving themselves as family time and time again over the last 14 years. Island View had no idea that while breaking us, we would later unite through the trauma. Sadly, many have overdosed and committed suicide. They shouldn’t have been burdened with the pain they held. I can’t make sense of the deaths, but I can live my life to the fullest, and try to enjoy it because they don’t get to. Treatment should not leave a community of survivors, nobody should have this many dead friends.

*In 2014, a child was injured during a restraint at IV. The facility was forced to rebrand. It’s now named Elevations, but in the six years since rebranding, not much has changed other than the name. 20 of the current staff at Elevations worked at IV, children leaving Elevations in 2020 telling the same horror stories that myself and so many others have told from years prior. I used to think Elevations was the same as IV. It’s devastating to say, after speaking with recent graduates of Elevations, it’s so much worse.

In 2015 I posted on reddit, on the anniversary of my kidnapping. A reporter saw it, and spent the next 8 months digging deeper. The Huffington Post published a 36 page investigative piece, https://testkitchen.huffingtonpost.com/island-view  I felt exposed and excited, but not much happened- nothing I was aware of, at least at that time. This movement has turned on a faucet of survivors reaching out sharing how that article has impacted them. That it helped them recognize the abuse they faced, helped their parents believe them, and helped them see that they aren’t alone in their pain. The world wasn’t ready to listen back then. I’m elated that has changed. I couldn’t be more grateful to that reporter,  Breaking Code Silence, and Paris Hilton, for we are finally being believed, and I feel beyond heard.

I struggle with C-PTSD, nightmares, sleep is exhausting, trust is hard. Connecting my adult struggles with being institutionalized as a child has helped solidify that it wasn’t my fault, and I didn’t deserve what I was made to survive, none of us did. Recognizing my worth has been one of many steps in starting to heal. I love the person that I am today, I know what I deserve, and I can and will have a good life while still recognizing and addressing my pain. I am so determined to turn some of these scars into strengths, I feel obligated to do some good with all of this bad, anything else feels cowardly.

I am focused on healing, staying connected with those that matter, and continuing to hold my abusers accountable, while exposing them for what they are. I will make a great life for myself no matter what, despite the darkness. I look forward to the future.

I keep sharing my story in hopes it can help prevent other children going through the things myself and so many others were forced to survive.

I implore parents to listen to your children, ask what they need, believe them and always stand by them.

We will never stop fighting back.

My name is Emily Graeber, I am #BreakingCodeSilence

Savannah Emard Breaking Code Silence about DePaul Youth and Provo Canyon School

Hello, my name is Savannah Emard. I was known as Emard or 391 in Provo Canyon School.

I was there in 2008 for half a year. I was having behavioral issues and drug/alcohol issues. I was living in a home where my stepdad was struggling very hard with alcoholism and I was picking up the wrong coping skills to get through the day. So, my mom sent me to an inpatient facility that would help me learn how to express myself properly and pick-up healthy coping skills. That is why I went to Provo.

I went to a spot in Portland, OR called DePaul Youth, back in 2005-2006, and they helped me a lot. They helped me come out to my mom and helped me understand I was not wrong for being a lesbian. 

I was willing to go to Provo because I felt myself slipping into the unknown. Into drugs, running away, self-harm, and trying to find friends anywhere I could find acceptance.

I went to Provo willingly. I was compliant. I remember being picked up from the airport and they were mean for no reason. They were not telling me where we were going and just kept repeating that I will not be able to keep any of my clothes. I got to PCS and they did everything they could to keep me in the unknown.

They had mostly young Mormon staff and, being Mexican from Seattle, I knew nothing at all of Mormonism. They took that as insulting and I felt they had it out for non-Mormon kids. They made it clear that they went to BYU, and this was all for school credit. They did not care about us as humans at all.

I still remember a staff losing me on my first day and all he kept saying was, “Little orientation girl where are you…”

Then I got in trouble because he lost me. I had a male staff tell me women know when their period’s start, therefore, I cannot leave to get a pad. They always thought everyone was lying, no matter what. I hurt my knee in Provo canyon and nobody took me to get it checked out. They did not have me elevate or move it. They had me in this old-school leg brace that ended up hindering me so badly my meniscus snapped when I got out of PCS and had to get surgery at 16.

They would do intrusive medical exams without parental consent or even our consent. The worst part was my doctor outside of Provo told me my knee surgery was very preventable if I had the proper help.

I kissed a girl when I was in Provo and they made sure I paid for it. I was put on Investment (the secure unit) for months and they isolated me at a desk facing the wall in the sick room from 7 am-9 pm for a month straight. I could not eat, speak, or go to the bathroom without permission. They did deny me and did just leave me with my hand raised until they felt like sighing and saying, “What NOW Emard.”

I always felt like a burden no matter what I did. The staff hated me; well, they did a good job to make me feel that way at least. There was one or two staff who were nice but 90% hated me. I watched grown adults antagonize children. Physically restrained and hurt young girls, including me.

When I was at that desk for isolation, they took me out one day for a tooth filling my mom and insurance wanted. So, they rushed me from the dentist before the dentist could tell me to be careful eating while my mouth was numb. I ended up chewing through my cheek on accident and they refused to help me. They said I did it for attention and I needed to live with what I did to myself. I still have a huge scar in my mouth.

I remember one girl hated me because I looked like someone from her hometown that assaulted her, but they made us roommates so many times. Nothing got better, she hated me and I needed to be separated from her. Racial and homophobic shit was said from her and to be honest I do not blame her. I just wish that they would have let me leave her alone, instead of being her roommate almost my whole stay.

I learned no healthy coping skills from Provo. They did nothing to help me. The only thing I gained from Provo was friendships through trauma, CPTSD, severe anxiety, fear, depression, low/no self-esteem I have night terrors of Provo still. I have lost many relationships because of my CPTSD and I will need help for the rest of my life to deal with these issues.

Mia Breaking Code Silence about Spring Ridge Academy  

I was kidnapped from a parking lot outside of Danville California on August 28th, 2017 (two weeks before my seventeenth birthday). A woman and a bigger man got into the car I was in and said I needed to cooperate or else I would be cuffed, detained, and or muzzled. They would not tell me where I was going, or for how long. I was placed into a wilderness program and after, a TBS called Spring Ridge Academy.

During my time, I was shamed, isolated, and bullied. Staff targeted me, harassed me, and even stole from me (items I never received back). They would break us down to the point of panic attacks and turned girls against each other to make us the image of who they wanted us to be. They hid information that I had the legal right to know as an eighteen-year-old and hid information from my parents as well.

I was told if I left SRA, I would die. During my stay, I was diagnosed with PTSD, depression/anxiety disorder, and insomnia. I am not saying I did not need treatment at that point in my life, but Spring Ridge was far from what I needed.

I am not looking for validation that I was abused at SRA during my stay. I want justice for the voices that are still silenced at this facility today. I understand that there are people that may not have experienced this personally, but I hope this inspires the girls that have, and to not let victim-shaming keep us from stepping forward.

Mic Breaking Code Silence about a Residential Psychiatric Hospital in Reno, Nevada

“I am going to start by apologizing if my words or sentences are jumbled, this is a real struggle for me to talk about. When I was roughly 15/16 I had been sent to a residential psychiatric hospital in Reno, Nevada. Though I only spent six months there, they were some of the hardest months of my life, and still, haunt me to this day.

On my first day, I felt like I was walking into a prison lobby in a movie. They took all my shoes and clothes, made me strip naked, and examined every inch of my body for what felt like hours. I was given medication that they said would help calm me down and I do not remember the rest of the day.

I remember constantly feeling like a prisoner or a science experiment. I could not stand too close to other people, there was no physical contact of any kind. I was put into the “quiet room” or an isolation cell every couple of days for being too talkative or for asking too many questions. I was given multiple shots in my butt which would knock me out for a day or two and heavily sedate me. They kept forcing me to take meds and I did not know what they were. Some mornings I would stand to get out of bed and pass out from having such low blood pressure, caused by overprescribing my meds.

There were some days we were not even allowed outside, and if we were, it was for an hour at most. I called my mom almost every night crying and begging her to pick me up, but the doctors kept telling her I was not ready. I had a roommate who had been there for three and a half years. Halfway through my stay, she was kicked out onto the streets because she turned 18. I do not think anyone has heard from her since then.

It has been about 10 years since I was taken out by my mom against the doctor’s orders. I still suffer from some of the memories and have a hard time trusting people or keeping people in my life. I probably will forever.”

Caroline Lorson Cole Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

When I was 14, I was trafficked into a private “prison” for teens run by businessmen from Utah and this is my story.

I was in my bedroom putting pictures of my friends in a notebook to take with me to summer camp, when my door was kicked in by a tall man and woman wearing all black.

They started screaming that I was in their custody and not to make any sudden movements. They told me I could do it the hard way or the easy way and flashed me a pair of handcuffs.

Stunned and confused by what was happening, I complied and agreed to follow them to their black truck.

They told me they had mapped out my home and neighborhood and there was no way I could escape.

I had no idea where they were taking me, but they brought me to the airport, following me closely and eyeing every possible way I could escape.

After two days of flying and driving, they handed me off to a second set of “transporters” who drove me 6 hours to a lockdown facility that was 180 miles from the closest city.

I was told by the facility staff that if I tried to run they would break my legs, I was told that if I didn’t comply they would send me to a facility in Jamaica where there weren’t any child labor laws to protect me.

I was trapped, I was alone, I had no way to communicate with the outside world.

I knew something was wrong when another girl flung her body over the second story balcony to escape, another girl drank a bottle of bleach.

I was observed by staff while I showered, used the restroom, and slept. There were motion sensors and bars over the windows and every door was held shut with a magnetized lock.

After 18 months of being there, I was expected to act as quasi-staff, constantly cleaning and working to run the facility.

The owner of the facility, on several occasions, would take me to his house and have me clean his floors and bathrooms, and babysit his children. In return, he’d give me a candy bar.

They told my Mom to not believe my complaints, and that I was a liar and manipulator. All of my letters home were monitored and redacted if I tried to say what was happening.

For 29 months, I was stripped of my human rights, used as a pawn to siphon money from my family, and immersed in a violent oppressive prison with no escape. They called this “treatment.”

These prisons still exist, they’re in your state, and now they’re contracted with the fostercare system, juvenile justice system, and can even be paid for through IEP plans.

This is a crime against children and has to be stopped. Not one more child needs to live with C-PTSD and be exploited of their dignity, finances, and well-being.

#BreakingCodeSilence, #BenefitsTraffickingisHumanTrafficking

Michelle Breaking Code Silence about Cascade School (CEDU spinoff)

I don’t hide the fact that I was “shipped off” at 15 years old to a “therapeutic” boarding school. Cascade School in Whitmore, CA. Regardless of what I’ve shared, what I actually remember, and the questions that are asked, not one person (who hasn’t gone through the experience) understands. One day I just disappeared… poof! I was sent to a cult-like, abusive “school.” I was “attacked” and broken down on a daily basis. I was reprimanded for dressing incorrectly, not cleaning well enough, making eye contact with the opposite sex, etc. I was told that it was MY fault that I ended up there because I was a “spoiled whore.” The molestation at 11 years old was MY fault. I was the DIRECT cause of my parents divorce. The school was supposed to “fix” me, to mold me into the numb, emotionless, robotic girl that I did eventually become. It’s been hard since the day I stepped foot in that program. Paris Hilton attended the same school I went to, and others before and after that. The abuse was too much. The “workshops” and “raps,” the daily dose of medication (to this day I still don’t know what I was given), the punishments, the lack of communication with my family, the eerie, pedophilish staff members (many of them, not all), etc. There is so much that I remember, but there is SO much more that I don’t; subconscious has protected me in that way I guess. I was diagnosed with severe panic disorder just a few months after I graduated and I have struggled with anxiety since. Several years after I left the kids overtook the school and held the staff hostage. The school closed permanently after that. Just wanted to share as it’s been on my mind a lot since watch Paris’ documentary.

Kristin Schwab Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

When I was 17, I became a victim of human trafficking. I was recruited into a private “boarding school” for troubled teens and kept there for over 13 months. This is my story.

On September 5, 2005, I was in my basement watching “A Cinderella Story” with my sisters when my mom called us all upstairs. In my kitchen stood both of my parents and two strangers. My mom introduced them and told me they were taking me to a school. I was then permitted to hug my family before they were instructed to leave the room and go down to the basement. I can still remember the unusual expression on my mother’s face as she walked away closing the door behind her. Once my family was out of the way, I was told “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” It was late and I was caught off guard so I chose to cooperate while I was handcuffed to one of the transporters and lead outside to their car.

Shortly after midnight, we arrived at a locked facility in Ogdensburg, NY called Academy at Ivy Ridge. My belongings were taken, I was strip searched and given sweat pants, a t-shirt, and sandals until they could provide my uniforms. Sneakers and weather appropriate clothing would have made it easier for me in the event I tried to run away.

With tuition costing over $40,000 a year, my family was under the impression that I would receive a great education, expert care from therapists, and of course proper nutrition and medical care. Unfortunately, none of this was actually what I got.

All doors, both inside, and out, were locked at all times. The windows had bars similar to those in a prison and I was severely punished if anyone caught me looking outside. I was forced to comply with extremely strict rules and had to earn the privilege of providing free labor to the facility. This included cleaning bathrooms that were clearly showing black mold and picking up debris from carpets by hand. We could also earn the right to be “junior staff” which essentially meant the school didn’t have to have an adequate staff on payroll. Some girls were even allowed to visit staff member’s homes to babysit or clean without pay.

For thirteen months I was completely cut off from the outside world. I wasn’t allowed to see or speak to my family so they were oblivious to what was really happening to me. I had no access to TV, radio, or internet so I had no idea what was happening anywhere beyond those walls.

This type of trafficking is a serious crime and needs to be stopped. Places just like this one are still holding children as prisoners all over the world. They are in your state, and today are even contracted with the foster care system, juvenile justice system, and IEP plans can help cover tuition costs.

I live with C-PTSD and will probably spend the rest of my life in fear to some degree because of what was done to me. I’m asking for your help bringing awareness to the troubled teen industry, help us make sure that not one more child has to endure the pain that thousand of teens do every year.

#BreakingCodeSilence, #BenefitsTraffickingIsHumanTrafficking

Veronica Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

At age 14 I was sent to Academy at Ivy Ridge in Ogdensburg, NY.

I agreed to go to a boarding school for 21 days and was not allowed to know when I was going. On July 4th, 2003 I was awakened by two strangers and was asked to strip down in my bathroom for a cavity check. I was kidnapped, blindfolded, and handcuffed on the way to a behavioral modification lockdown facility for “troubled teens.” They painted a pretty picture for my parents to reel them in. My parents were desperate, they were manipulated to sign away all of their rights. I was taken into the hands of monsters.

My one and a half year stay started. From the moment I went through the intake, all of my rights were taken away. I was not allowed to speak or non-verbally communicate without raising my hand to ask. I could not look out a window, take longer than five minutes using the restroom or shower, and all while being watched by staff–Mind you, the staff were not certified or licensed.

We were subject to extensive psychological, physical, and, for some, sexual abuse. We were silenced and stripped of our human rights. I was restrained various times for not wanting to take the medications they prescribed. Every girl was drugged, we were walking zombies. I was left in Intervention/Isolation for hours/days at a time. Sometimes laying on the floor facing down on my chin for what felt like a lifetime.

They used attack therapy to break us. I could go on and on…

We need to save the children. For all the girls and boys still in these facilities, these places need to be shut down!

To all the girls, including myself, that are currently still battling with trauma, we are not alone, we are survivors.

I am a survivor

Daphne Breaking Code Silence about Pacific Quest Wilderness Program and Maple Lake Academy

My name is Daphne, I am 19 years old and I was a victim of mental health abuse by the Troubled Teen Industry. From August 2017 to July 2018, I was sent to Maple Lake Academy in Spanish Fork, Utah. My time in treatment began when I was 16 and sent to Pacific Quest in Hawaii, which is now closed by the government. My main issue there were my therapists who lied and told me my parents did not want me home and I had to be somewhere else.

I was on-board with Maple Lake because I was told I would be doing equine therapy. That was a lie. There were red flags, like how every staff member was an undergraduate college student, with an average age of 23 years old. Every Wednesday, they had this thing called “Team” where my therapist would tell all my personal information to these college students.

I had a few issues here and there that grew into this monster of full-blown abuse. I noticed that one of the staff members made me move rooms to accommodate for someone else because I was “easy.” They talked down to me all the time because they knew I would not physically react and could take advantage. I was not allowed to tell my parents any of this because all my phone calls were supervised, and I would be punished for saying anything negative.

By October I could not take it and I ran away from Maple Lake. Sometimes I cannot help but wish I were never found and died, to avoid the abuse that followed. They found me, so I was put on this protocol called “Mattress,” which was a mix of isolation and public humiliation. I was afraid of being punished again, so I faked my whole personality and earned privileges because of it.

After I could not take faking my life anymore, everything became a mess. My memories from this time are warped in terms of timing but too clear in terms of details. I remember one of the therapists (not even mine) told me in group therapy that I would be raped and killed one day. Not once, on multiple occasions. My therapist gave me the assignment to write about a traumatic event which she read to my parents, without my consent. I walked into the room and found out she read to my parents about how I lost my virginity.

One time I slept in because I just got back from a 16-hour flight, so I was refused breakfast and punished for eating an orange. I once sat down in a van and because another girl wanted my seat, she punched me and kicked me, and the staff did nothing. The staff was not allowed to call 911 and only the “Sheriff” for some reason. During a recreational therapy task, they made me rub my breasts against someone’s mother for the sake of “trying everything.”

The worst thing I can remember happening there was being put on a hold. There is something called PCS training which is illegal. It started because I got into a fight with my therapist as usual because she was awful, and we did not get along. Girls would storm out all the time, so I tried to do that. A male staff member started grabbing me and out of fear, I tried to struggle out. Before I knew it, I was pinned to the floor and they would not let me out unless I calmed down. How do you calm down when multiple people are pinning you to the ground?

My last week there was bad but in retrospect, I am grateful it happened. During an argument with my therapist, I said something I knew would get me into trouble so that I would get my farewell canceled. It hurt my legs to be in bed all day and it sucked eating on the floor, but it beats the weird rituals they did whenever someone left – lots of invading personal space and cringy music.

Recovering from the trauma is not over but I have gotten better. It was hard for me to get into college considering the education was terrible people did not help me apply to schools. Luckily, I somehow got into an art school because I knew how to draw. I gained a lot of weight there and from stress eating after, but I lost thirty pounds and look like myself again.

I feel like I am still seventeen because it is like my age froze for the whole time I was in treatment. Sometimes it does not even feel real, it feels like it was a nightmare. The worst part is that children are living that nightmare right now and cannot reach out about it. These places need to be shut down and abusers need to be punished for what they do, it is horrendous.

Summer Breaking Code Silence about Elevations Residential Treatment Center

When I was 13 years old, I struggled with anxiety, depression, PTSD, and eating disorders. In September 2015, I was hospitalized for a suicide attempt. When I was later discharged from the inpatient treatment center, my social worker spoke with my parents and convinced them that I should be admitted to Elevations RTC.

The next three months were the worst of my life. To 13-year-old me, it felt like an eternity. I was stripped naked, searched, and had to take an unnecessary lice shower while staff watched. Being watched became normal. While you were at the first rank, staff had to be with you 24/7. Staff always had the restroom stall and shower curtain open to make sure you were not doing anything against the rules. You could be promoted by the Board of Directors after two weeks–if you wrote a letter trying to convince them how good you were and why you deserved it. I was not good, so I was at the beginning rank for three weeks. I was with staff 24/7, slept on a thin mattress in the hallway with bright lights overhead, and had no privileges. When I say no privileges, I mean none. You sat with staff all day, staring at the wall, letting your mind wander. You could not even have a deck of cards or go to school until the second rank.

I was the youngest female student/patient at Elevations RTC at the time and the only girl from Utah. The girls were split into two teams, based on the hallway they lived in: Ruby and Amethyst. I was on Ruby. The first day there, at my first team meeting, I was torn apart. I was immediately harassed and bullied by two of the girls, while the staff watched and called me cruel names.

Yellow Zone was one of the punishments for being bad. The other was the Time-Out Room, which was solitary confinement. When you were on Yellow Zone, you sat at a desk all day. You could not speak or look at anyone. The Time-Out room was a cold, dark, concrete room at the end of the hall. You could be on Yellow Zone or in solitary confinement for up to 48 hours. Of course, most people got thrown back in an hour later.

One of the most traumatic takedowns was one from Amethyst. A girl who could not stand without the use of a walker or crutches moved in a ‘suspicious way’ in the shower and was dragged by the arms, naked, from Amethyst Hall to the isolation room at the end of Ruby Hall. She was screaming the whole way, begging staff to stop hurting her. Her legs were full of carpet burns and bruises.

One time my roommate passed out while at the gym, fell backward, and hit her head. She was unconscious for a few seconds before staff noticed and went to check on her, probably because they thought she was being lazy or faking it. She returned to consciousness with some help and had to finish the rest of P.E. before receiving nothing but an icepack. Later that night, while we were playing cards, she passed out and began to seize.

I screamed, “She’s having a seizure, she’s having a seizure!”

I cleared the area of things she could hit her head on and did not touch her.

The staff hollered back “I’m busy,” clearly not believing me.

I had our other roommate check on the staff, and all they were doing was sitting next to a new resident on their phone. By the time staff came to our room, my roommate was done seizing, and had returned to consciousness. I told them she had had a seizure and they said I was not medically trained. They never reported it to the doctor, nurse, or anyone. We showered and went to bed shortly after that with no further incidents. The next morning, on the way to school, she passed out and began seizing on the concrete. Staff saw it this time and called 9-1-1. After being released from the hospital, she continued to pass out.

This barely scrapes the surface of the horrors I endured and saw. Elevations RTC has left me with PTSD, dissociative amnesia, and nightmares.

Isabella Breaking Code Silence about The Magnolia Cabin

“I had been in and out of treatment facilities since I was 13 years old. The longest time I spent in treatment was 10 months at age 16. The facility I will be describing was a place I was in for only one month, however, there is trauma I am still working through to this day. To help describe what I went through, I’m going to share my Google review I wrote back in 2016:

“I was a patient here for just over a month in June 2013. I am writing this review in 2016 because I am still dealing with the emotional trauma that I suffered while attending this facility. I am writing this because this is all I can do to warn others about the care here. If you love your child, please please please do not send them here. I was in the Magnolia cabin and it was the worst month of my life. I have been to other rehab facilities and I can say this facility was borderline abusive and not a place for any human being. According to this facility, everything is a privilege. I was denied food and bathroom “privileges” and I was traumatized by the way everyone around me was being treated. Scratching your arm (in the most innocent of ways) could eventually be led to being restrained. This place is most definitely hell on earth and I came out traumatized and much worse. If you have a loved one and are considering this place, I urge you to not come here. I would not be writing a review 2 years later if this was not something close to my heart to share. I went as far as to contact the head of whoever is in charge of this place with my complaints, and I received an email back stating that there would be an investigation and I would get the results. Needless to say, that never happened. Please don’t send your loved ones here- literally any other place would be better.”

As I have continued to process my experience at this facility, I have realized that the term “borderline abusive” does not do it justice. My experience was abusive. There is no scenario I can think of where throwing a child against a wall is okay. There’s no scenario where denying children basic human needs, such as food and a restroom, is okay. I was here when I was 15 years old and I am now 23 and still actively speaking out against this facility.

To clarify, I have been to multiple facilities and none of them were safe or productive in actually treating my issues (depression, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, etc.). This facility was just the most blatant in the abuse I endured. The biggest message I have for people is this:

Even though the stigma towards mental health is moving in a positive direction- the treatments for mental health (or anything trouble-teen related) are not even close to where they need to be.

Diana Breaking Code Silence about Academy at Ivy Ridge (WWASPS)

There is an art to remembering.

I remember everything about Academy at Ivy Ridge from late 2003 to late 2005. I trained my brain to do it. I remember the way the dormitories smelled of rot. I remember how each girl’s strand of hair crossed in a braid as we stared ahead in line-structure. I remember the noise of students’ flip flops rushing against the locker room floor, sometimes dragging if they had broken. In addition to the small details of daily life in the program, I remember the abuse. I remember the taste of blood in my mouth when I was forced to take medication I did not want. I remember when I was dragged by my hair and shirt down a hallway and thrown into a bathroom before having all my clothes ripped off. I remember the way that woman looked at my naked body, the same way she had looked at me on my first day during a strip search. She commented on the size of my breasts. I had just turned fifteen.

I remember the way everything felt. The air was heavy, surging steadily with desperation and hopelessness. Students always held their breath, because we lived each day in terror. There was the fear of being targeted by the staff members, the fear of being forgotten by our friends and family, the fear of making one tiny mistake and having to start back over at level one, zero points. Anything you did was scrutinized to the extreme and announced to humiliate you. When males walked by, we had to put our eyes and heads down in the most degrading fashion. We were given bunk numbers. We were told that everything that had happened to us in life was our fault. Rape, molestation, deaths of friends and family members–you name it. We had to own it and take accountability for it. What positions had we put ourselves in? What clothing had we been wearing? What choices did we make in infancy that led us to this horrible moment in our life?

That horrible moment in my own life was the loss of my father. I was a toddler when a man blasted through a red light and hit us. I remember it all in slow motion. I was pulled from the wreckage, hysterical, and thrust into the arms of strangers. I learned what heartache felt like that day. I learned what it meant to die and leave this earth, even though I had only been on it for three years. But it is important to say that I like who I was from the beginning of my life and I like who I am now. I do not dwell on what led me to Academy at Ivy Ridge. I can simply say I was devastated. I was angry. The world had wronged me, so I was going to live my life exactly how I wanted. And who could blame me? I had already seen too much. I felt wiser than every person around me. Thus, I was set on doing everything my way, and I constantly questioned the meaning of things. This did not make my life or my family’s lives any easier. I will end the story of my childhood there because it was at Academy at Ivy Ridge that it perished altogether.

I have been to other boarding schools but did not experience anything even close to what I saw at Ivy Ridge. I had medical exams performed on me that I was not comfortable receiving. I was forced to carry around an enormous and heavy box as a punishment. That specific form of discipline was even crueler as it forced me to maintain “stress positions” from morning until night. I was not allowed to speak freely to other students. I was not allowed to talk to my family for almost a year. I was endlessly gaslit, being told that I was imagining things when I would accuse them of brainwashing. I spent weeks, if not months, in “worksheets” where my day consisted of sitting in a perfect position, copying lines of textbooks, and high-intensity workouts.

As there is an art to remembering, there is also an art to forgetting. I do not believe I have yet mastered the latter. Ivy Ridge still visits me in my dreams. It still dictates my brain’s fight-or-flight response. It still deters me from opening-up fully to others. I am in love with the life I have now, but I would give all my happiness away if that meant I could save one child from experiencing a school like this. No child deserves that level of abuse, neglect, and anxiety. To all the parents out there who are struggling, please do not let sending your child away be a possibility. These schools will lie mercilessly to get your money. And these predators will tell you anything you want to hear if it means that they will get a commission on your child’s enrollment. This is not just sick; it is also a form of trafficking. Understand that these facilities are trained to pull on your family’s emotions like strings. They will destroy your life without guilt and, sometimes, they will even destroy your life just for the fun of it.

My story is not unique. Thousands of families have been pulled apart by these institutions. This needs to stop. It is time we heal. It is time to break code silence.

Jessica Breaking Code Silence about Darrington Academy

I did not have a good relationship with my mom–never have. My mom has always been more controlling than loving. I had a (very toxic) boyfriend that my mom did not like. She wanted to keep me away from him, so I started sneaking out of the house at night to see him. I never did drugs or any other crimes. Sneaking out to have sex with my boyfriend was the worst thing I did. I was a lost child that needed love and guidance and I was not receiving that at home, or from anyone. I did not have any adults I trusted or could talk to. I could not talk to my mom about anything because she was not understanding at all. Instead, she would call me names, which made me feel awful. So, I did not tell her things. I became very secretive and hateful.

In May of 2005, after just turning 17, my mom, aunt, and cousin drove me from southern Florida to northern Georgia. They told me we were going to a school that would help me. I did not know what I needed help for.

I arrived at Darrington Academy and was taken into a room with my mom, aunt, a man who worked there, and my “hope buddy.” I remember crying and begging them not to leave me there. How could they just leave me in a whole different state with a bunch of strangers?! My crying and begging did not work. They left me there. I was then taken to intake where I had to get completely naked in front of strangers. It was mortifying. They then took my clothes and gave me my uniforms. Khaki pants, collared and button-down shirts, sweats, P.E. clothes, and fake Birkenstock-looking shoes.

I was eventually taken to the trailer with the rest of my new “family.” I was scared and confused. I cried uncontrollably for the first three months I was there¬¬–I wanted to die. The food was disgusting. You had to eat all of it, or you got in trouble. I went from 100lbs to 130-40lbs in three months. I hated looking at myself in the mirror. We were not allowed to shave, wear our hair down, pluck our eyebrows–nothing that made you feel like a human being. They said wanted us to love ourselves for our true selves, so they made us be natural.

We had to walk in line and pivot, military-style. We had to count while using the bathroom, even if it was in the middle of the night. Five-minute showers with no conditioner for our hair because conditioner was a “privilege.” We were only allowed to say five words without having to ask permission to speak first. Those five words were “thank you, sorry, excuse me, you’re welcome, and bless you.” We made our own language with those five words. Sometimes that is the only way we were able to communicate!

We had our daily group “therapy” session, where we further brought each other down through “feedback,” which was usually negative. We had to sit with our feet flat on the floor and our hands in our laps. If we moved or sat lazily, we would be punished. It is incredibly hard to be so conscious of your sitting position.

There were very few staff members who felt bad for us and were kind people. Most of them were just mean. They got pleasure from telling us what to do. They were verbally and mentally abusive. They enjoyed giving us consequences.

We had no contact with our family. Only the letters we wrote, which started off handwritten then turned electronic so they could monitor and delete outgoing and incoming messages.

The seminars were absolute insanity. I heard some things I had never heard before. I had no idea what the word sodomy meant before one of these seminars. I was exposed to so much. Often during these seminars, we had to make things up just to seem like we were working our program so we could advance. During the focus seminar, I remember they wrapped our towels with duct tape and one of the exercises was to bang the towels as hard as we could on the floor to let out aggression. The music was blaring, kids were screaming, the seminar staff members were yelling things at us to keep going. It was very bizarre. I remember banging the towel on the floor and being so exhausted, but I just kept going and screaming for fear of being kicked out for not taking it seriously. My body was sore for a week after that.

After about six months I had finally made it to Level 4, or Upper Levels. I was so excited. I could shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows, and curl my hair! I was even happier because this meant I would get an off-ground visit with my family! My first visit was going to be at Christmas. I could not wait! I was under the impression that if I finished school my mom would take me home during my off-ground Christmas visit. I only had one class left to graduate. It was algebra, and math has never been my subject. I decided to have one of my friends who was super smart in math do my work for me. We got caught and I was dropped from Level 4, three days before Christmas and one day before my family was supposed to leave to come to see me. I was devastated. I spent that Christmas so insanely depressed. I was so embarrassed. I hoped and prayed my family would come to get me. But they did not.

My next seminar was PC1 (Parent-Child 1) which was in February of 2006. Just two months before my 18th birthday. My mom came up for the seminar. I remember telling her exactly what she wanted to hear, in hopes that she would take me home right then. Why would she make me sit there for two more months when she could just take me now? Well, the seminar ended, and my mom left me. Again, I was absolutely heartbroken. I cried so hard for days. Then I told myself it was just two more months; I could do this. Two more months and I would be 18 and free.

Those two months were a roller coaster. I have never felt such heartache and pain the way I felt being at Darrington Academy. That place forever changed my soul. The only good that came out of that place were the girls there. We formed a bond that only we could understand. My friendships with those girls are something I will forever cherish. I could not have gone through that without them. They are my sisters and for them I am grateful.

Sarah Breaking Code Silence about Spring Creek Lodge Academy (WWASPS)

Sixteen years ago, at age 15, I woke up to find two strangers next to the bed. They proceeded to search me and my purse. I looked over and saw that my mom was there crying. At first, I thought I was being arrested for truancy. I told them I was on my period, and they refused to let me take care of it. By the time we arrived at the airport, there was blood all over my pants. They told me that we were going to Montana to a boarding school for three months. At the time, three months seemed like forever. Little did I know that my stay would end up being 18 months.

I arrived at Spring Creek Lodge Academy later that day after sundown. It was in the middle of the woods. They did my intake paperwork and brought me to a room in a large cabin. When we walked in, there were ten bunk beds lining the room and about 20 girls in matching outfits. They stared at me and started pointing and asking questions. The staff took me into the bathroom and had me undress and shower. I was up all night, and the next day I was taken to a bizarre seminar where I was ridiculed, humiliated, and had to share devastating information about my previous traumas to a large room full of people that I did not know.

There were strict rules in place at this facility, which included no looking through the windows, no looking at the boys, no talking in line, no talking in the classroom, no talking in the ‘Hungry Horse’ (aka the cafeteria), no talking in a group and no talking anytime we were ‘on silence.’ Some of the other rules consisted of eating 50% of each meal no matter the circumstances and no intentional burping or farting. Consequences included deducting points that made our stay longer, ‘Worksheets’ and Intervention. Worksheets was a lavender room with cubicle pods where you would sit in silence and complete school work all day. If you broke the rules, you were sent to intervention, which consisted of solitary confinement.

Eighteen months later, I was set to graduate after multiple traumatizing experiences, including student suicides and punishments that led to hospitalizations. During my graduation phase, aka ‘trail,’ we were forced to shovel snow, walk at night in the snow blind folded for what seemed like forever, and participate in a sweat lodge that became extremely hot, especially for the kids with asthma and heart conditions. Before the sweatlodge, they blindfolded us and forced us to chug obscene amounts of ice water, telling us we were going to swim in the frozen lake and that we needed to drop our core body temperature. Still blindfolded, we were asked to change into shorts and tank tops, not knowing who was watching us. After we were dressed, they told us not to move because there was a cliff in front of us. I started backing up and felt a hand grab me. After taking off my blindfold, I realized that the cliff was actually behind us.

When I finally got home, I battled with extreme social anxiety and agoraphobia. I ended up homeless and heavily addicted to heroin. I have since then gotten my life together somewhat but not to any extent of a normal person. I still battle with severe trust issues, insomnia, social anxiety, OCPD, CPTSD, and many other mental health issues.

Tia Breaking Code Silence about Auldern Academy

I arrived at Auldern in April of 2014 and left in June of 2016. Before attending Auldern Academy, I had spent a month in a rehab facility for drugs and alcohol and two months in a wilderness program. I can not say one bad thing about either of those places, besides the fact that they recommended Auldern Academy to my parents.

I will never forget the day I arrived. I was greeted by students telling me how terrible the place was and to get out while I still could. I cried to my parents about how everyone I talked to was miserable, and the staff told my parents to stop comforting me and leave at once. Within days I became friends with a girl. They looked at her as a “negative influence” and quickly tried to end our friendship. I had been there for three days when they set up a community group (a group where peers call each other out) strictly about my company with her. Staff told 55 students to sit in a circle and tell me something I was doing wrong. I never had in my entire life felt the way I did during that group. Students I did not even know were telling me how horrible I was (instructed by staff members), and my therapist was calling me out for things that I said in my private session.

A few days went by, and Sydney and I ended up peeing on the lawn and taking a picture of it. I cannot tell you why we peed on the property; I think it was our idea of fun in such a horrible place. Staff found the picture of us and placed us on a consequence called “Refocus.”

When placed on Refocus, you are not allowed to go to class or communicate whatsoever. Your days consist of work projects, walking up and down a hill with a backpack full of rocks, and my personal favorite, raking the forest. After even one week on Refocus, I had learned my “lesson.” I was utterly traumatized from not being able to speak and how they treated me during this time. The staff members would laugh and say I was allowed to eat because they “legally have to feed me,” but I could not enjoy my food. After some time on Focus, they evaluated us to see if the treatment team thought it was time to come off. It had been two weeks of us following all the rules, and they told us to stay on Focus because they thought more time would be beneficial. I felt so trapped because I was doing everything I was supposed to, yet they would not take me off this consequence. Finally, after 25 days, I was taken off Focus and allowed back into the community. A lot of people hated me because Auldern academy turns students against each other. The staff at auldern will give consequences for being friends with someone they disapproved of, and nobody wanted to deal with that.

I was so traumatized from the experience that I became a complete kiss butt. I was terrified of getting in trouble to the point where I would even tattle on other students to keep myself out of trouble. In no time, I was the staffs’ favorite. Being the staff’s favorite for a bit, I heard what they said about other students. It ranged from telling me other students’ diagnoses and their medications to referring to some using cruel names. I heard everything. Every night they would go into the office to talk about people, and a lot of times, they invited me to join. I had gotten very high up in the program and was doing everything I was supposed to by the time I had been there for a year. I was almost the highest phase; I was a student of the month for several months and would get picked for all the “positivity outings.” Somehow, this was not enough. They told my parents that they thought I needed to be there for at least another year. The news broke me. I had survived that year thinking there was an end in sight and I was utterly crushed when I found out. I got over it and continued doing everything right for the possible chance of getting out sooner.

Some time passed by, and they decided my fear of Refocus might be why I was doing so well, so they decided to put me back on Focus to shake things up. I was brainwashed and convinced this was not a terrible place for a while, but I could see things clear as day after that happened. I knew who the staff were, and it finally sunk in that they wanted me to suffer. It got to the point where I was so terrified of Refocusing that I would turn myself in for things that nobody could find out. Auldern had a way of making you think they know everything and that they were always watching.

After I had been there for some time, I remembered that I had sent a nude picture to someone from my previous high school on my first break home. Terrified that they would find out, I told on myself. After, they forced me to stand up in front of the entire community and say that I sent nude pictures and explain why what I did was wrong. That not being enough, they decided to call my parents and tell them about this. I will never forget the phone call with my father about sending a nude picture at 15 years old. The more miserable I became, the harder I sucked up to them. I had to get out of there. I could not stay until I was 18.

There was a consequence for everything there: Cutting yourself, kissing someone, listening to an iPod without having the privilege, etc.

Eventually, I got out of that place despite them convincing my parents I was not ready. I was unprepared for what was coming when I got home. I would wake up in the middle of the night screaming and crying for someone to help me, and I would not remember it. I was diagnosed with PTSD and panic disorder weeks after being home from Auldern. I still have severe panic attacks to this day, but I have learned to control them.

I am speaking out to save others from what I have survived. To keep them from watching friends dying from drug overdoses. An addiction they were never treated for because Auldern academy told them they were lying. TTI abuse must stop, and if putting myself out there is the only way, so be it.

Kim Breaking Code Silence about Caron Foundation Adolescent Treatment Center, Four Winds Hospital, Stony Lodge Hospital, KidsPeace Hospital, Lourdesmont School, and Horsham Clinic

In the spring of 1998, at age 12, my mom found an old entry written in my diary about drug use and was understandably concerned. My parents sent me to a therapist for an evaluation, where the therapist barraged me with questions about my drug use and, when I answered honestly, made to feel that she thought I was lying, despite a negative drug test.

A short while later, I went to my regular family therapist, who told me that I was being sent to inpatient rehab at Caron Foundation Adolescent Treatment Center (Wernersville, PA) immediately following that appointment. I later found out that the other therapist who referred me had a daughter at that facility. They admitted me despite having another negative drug test and not meeting the criteria for any “substance dependence,” and I spent six weeks there. How they justified the need for inpatient to the insurance company, which paid for the first four weeks, I still do not know. I felt continually pressured by staff into admitting to more and more drug use that never happened and, to please them and fit in with my older and much “cooler” peers, I did.

When I did try to tell the truth, the staff did not believe me or told me that I was “minimizing” or “in denial.” While there, my parents and I were “educated” about my “chronic, progressive, incurable, fatal disease” and told that I was “a liar and a manipulator” and that anything I said that contradicted Caron was evidence of my “disease.” Caron forced me to attend 12 Step meetings and identify with the label of “addict,” which I proceeded to do for almost 20 years.

A little over a year later, I accidentally overdosed and was in a house fire, resulting in being in critical condition on a ventilator for several days due to carbon monoxide poisoning and anoxia. I was sent back to Caron directly from the hospital for a couple of weeks. I was severely bullied by others, ostracized from the community, and told by my peers that I was lying about the fire and staff did not intervene or correct them. Out of desperation, I ran away but was returned to the facility and discharged shortly after that.

Upon discharge, I started high school and attended IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program) almost every day after school based on Caron’s recommendations. I also had to go to additional meetings every week and was not allowed any contact outside of school with my friends.

Feeling overwhelmed, trapped, and like I was not allowed to have a life outside of school or treatment, in addition to not having the time or space for my brain to heal, I became more and more angry and emotional. At that point, at age 14, I was sent to Four Winds Hospital (Katonah, NY) to be evaluated and treated. They placed me on a cocktail of heavy psychiatric drugs despite the evaluation showing no need for them. I continued to take various unnecessary medications for the next ten years.

Throughout the following decade, I experienced numerous side effects from the medications, including having tremors so bad I could hardly write, feeling sedated and emotionally numbed, having increased anxiety, and having more difficulty with impulse control. I also eventually began to develop the early signs of tardive dyskinesia. However, thankfully, that was reversible and had other as-yet-unexplained neurological side effects, which disappeared after I stopped the medication. Despite the evaluation stating otherwise, I was told that I had a “mental illness” and would likely need prescriptions for the rest of my life. Over time, everyone involved in my “treatment,” including my parents, seemed to see all of my thoughts, emotions, and behavior through the lens of “mental illness.” I felt like I ceased to be a person and became a collection of symptoms instead. I was subsequently treated about a year and a half later at Stony Lodge Hospital (Ossining, NY – now closed) and then KidsPeace Hospital (Orefield, PA) following suicide attempts. At Stony Lodge, they restrained me for the first of many times. I had everything taken from me, including my dignity. They forced me to eat with my hands because I could not have plastic tableware. I could not shower or use the bathroom in private.

At KidsPeace, my treating psychiatrist took me off the antipsychotic drug overnight, which threw me into a psychotic episode that I did not come out of for another month and a half. Before I learned that that episode was not proof of my “illness” but the result of antipsychotic withdrawal, I was an adult.

The following fall, I experienced painful rejection and isolation from my peers at school and was kicked out of school for throwing water on a teacher. As I felt my life falling apart, my emotions and behavior got more out of control. Numerous inpatient and outpatient facilities in NY and PA (including Stony Lodge, Lourdesmont School, KidsPeace, Caron, Horsham Clinic, and others) treated me. I continued to be overmedicated and was repeatedly physically, mechanically, and chemically restrained. As things continued to get worse despite (in fact, because of) multiple treatments, I was eventually sent to an RTC, Rancho Valmora (Valmora, NM – now closed), and was a resident there from 06/2002-08/2003 (ages 16-17).

While there were some helpful and positive things about it, I also experienced verbal, psychological, and physical abuse and medical neglect. I was completely isolated from everyone outside the facility. All my phone calls were monitored, and my mail was screened. I did not see my parents without supervision for six months and, by that time, they had been instructed to disregard anything negative I had to say about the facility. I was put in “5-point” prone physical restraints almost every day for months on end, primarily used for control rather than safety. In the vast majority of those times, I was not a danger to myself or others; I dared to think that I should retain some bodily autonomy and control of my own life. The facility used my “non-compliance” to convince me and those around me that I deserved this “treatment” and that I brought it on myself. I graduated high school there and was discharged a month before turning 18 directly to Caron’s Adolescent Extended Care program for another three months.

I returned to Caron once more voluntarily on my 19th birthday and was admitted into their Adult Relapse unit. Since then, I have not returned to any inpatient facility in over 16+ years. I subsequently completed my bachelor’s degree and now direct a small mental health peer advocacy department. I am a wife, mom, stepmom, and dog owner. However, I spent a decade of my adulthood in a highly fundamentalist, cult-like sect of Alcoholics Anonymous.

I have spent decades blaming myself for everything that happened, believing I deserved it all, that I was “ill” and could not trust my thoughts, emotions, or experiences. In each case, the treatment itself became a self-fulfilling (and arguably self-serving) prophecy. I was “treated” until I developed whatever condition they were “treating” me for, and then that was used as evidence of the appropriateness of their treatment. The treatment industry gaslighted me, and I now have C-PTSD, anxiety, nightmares, abandonment issues, and trust issues. But I am no longer letting anyone else give me my identity or tell me my story. For the first time, I am speaking my truth. I will not continue to stay silent for anyone else’s comfort anymore.

Anonymous Survivor Breaking Code Silence about Miracle Meadows School

I have lived my life as if my time at Miracle Meadows School (MMS) never happened—Living in denial for the last 14 years has done more harm than good. No one will ever understand the things we endured there. There is not one student today who can say they are not mentally scarred.

What I went through was real. I was taken to the middle of nowhere and left with strangers who abused me for years; all because I was an ‘out of control’ 14-year-old who was tired of her abusive life at home and just wanted some type of way out.

I thought I was on a family weekend away, but instead of heading home, we ended up at a big tan building. I was dragged out of the car by a tall man and lady. I cried and screamed for my mom, dad, or brother to help me. The staff told them to drive away. I kicked and screamed as I watched them drive off. I was wrestled to the ground and placed in handcuffs. From there I knew that this was it. I was stuck.

I was taken up a two-mile road to a large white house. They took all the stuff my parents packed for me. I was given khakis, a blue polo, a white t-shirt, and overalls. As I continued to cry, they stripped me naked and put me in a five by three-foot room. I was isolated from all the students, my family, and everything I knew. I was always told I was a liar, so no one would believe me if I tried to ask for help. I was scared, not knowing where I was or what was going to happen next.

There were times when I was kept in the quarantine rooms for months. They had no air conditioning or heat, the staff controlled the lights, the windows were bolted shut and surrounded by barbwire. We were forced to write hundreds of lines or bible chapters, for something as simple as looking at someone. We could not talk or look at each other for days, weeks, or months at a time. I was forced to become a vegan. If I did not eat my food, they would make me run laps or do other physical exercises until I ate it. They watched us use the bathroom to make sure we did not throw our food up. They also watched us shower. We were always told privacy was a privilege.

I watched a girl drink cleaning products to try and get taken to the hospital so she could tell someone about the abuse; instead, they made her throw it up and handcuffed her to a bed. We were beaten by staff, some students were raped and molested by the staff. We had to do intense labor, including paving roads on the campus, repairing the dorm roofs, mowing acres of land, digging ditches, laying concrete, and more. They had us working there from early morning until night, and sometimes throughout the night.

I remember repairing the girl’s dorm roof and falling in. I was made to continue to work after falling through a roof! I had to run laps around a field (the size of a football field) in 90-degree weather, without water. I ended up having a seizure and woke up two days later in the hospital. I am highly allergic to bees and was given epinephrine one time but never taken to the hospital. I was stung on multiple occasions and just given loads of Benadryl.

We had to read the Bible multiple times a day. We went to church every Saturday. We had worship three times a day. We were not allowed to watch television or listen to music. We were forced to follow the Seventh Day Adventist religion and beliefs.

Any communication with our parents was monitored. They would purposely say we did something wrong when our parents came to visit so that we could not go off-campus with them. We never had teachers; we were given workbooks to complete and none of the credits counted once we left there.

We were denied necessities, like coats, gloves, and hats. I remember just putting on layers of clothes every time I was woken up at odd hours, in zero-degree weather, to dig ditches. We were not given boots, but they were required to dig ditches for 10+ hours a day. Most of the time when we asked for sanitary products we were told to use toilet paper.

The students would randomly be taken from Miracle Meadows School in West Virginia to another school in Tennessee, to avoid the abuse from being investigated. Every time a staff member would get caught sexually abusing a student they would go back to their country. The staff were all in the United States on Missionary Visas. We were taken on Mission Trips to other countries. We were forced to do hard labor and put in dangerous conditions.

I went on a Missionary Trip to Brazil. We were forced to clean up and paint a maternity ward that was full of diseases and deceased bodies. We were forced to do manual labor the entire trip. All the students were vomiting and had horrible diarrhea the whole trip. I ended up so sick running a 105 temperature and having to be carried through the airport. I was still never given medical attention.

This is not even the tip of what I went through and saw in that hell of a place. Miracle Meadows was supposed to be a place to ‘help at-risk youth;’ instead, they charged our parents $2,500-$3,000 a month, to use and abuse us. They did not teach us anything, no lessons were learned. My life was ruined! So were hundreds of other students’ lives.

The school and staff destroyed many lives. There are thousands of other schools just like this one, still destroying lives. Most of the students started doing drugs, using alcohol, stripping, prostitution, never finished school, are homeless or have killed themselves. We have anxiety, depression, CPTSD, PTSD, bipolar, commitment issues, trust issues, nightmares.

I watched a 7-year-old come to the school. I tried my best to comfort them as they cried. I knew how I felt at 14 being away from everyone and everything I knew. The trauma is unforgettable. The loneliness we felt can never be filled. They made sure to break us down to our weakest.

Miracle Meadows made me distant from the Church since it was used as punishment. I resented my family for years for sending me there. I have lived most of my life not being able to trust anyone. I have learned to block out my trauma and smile through my pain. My life was never easy after leaving there, I did not even know who I was. I have had endless nightmares about being put in quarantine, or not being able to eat. I have constant anxiety daily, which usually come out in forms of anger and frustration.

I thought after leaving there I was finally free. I did not realize I was far more damaged than before. I did not know how to fit in. I did not know how scared I was of thinking people cared. That place has made me, a once social child, into a completely anti-social adult.

No one will ever be able to understand the trauma and effects that it still has on me today, other than the other students that went to MMS and other schools like it.

I am so grateful for this platform and I am so sorry for all my fellow survivors. One thing they could never take was our strength and pride. We will overcome this together. It is going to be hard, but we need to be the voices of the thousands of kids that are currently living our nightmares.

The school was shut down in 2014, they finally got caught! Those kids were saved. I recently drove up to the school with my mom and just drove and walked around. The girl’s dorm was burnt down but the quarantine rooms were still standing. I stood looking into the distance at the campus, crying and yelling. I felt every bit of rage from everything that happened to me leave my body. I cannot say I have completely let go, but my journey has begun!

I fell many times after leaving there. But I can say it never broke me. I am stronger, and I do not think there is anything in this world that could break me. One thing they could never do was make me forget that I serve a purpose. I am a survivor!

I am sharing my story so that hopefully I will encourage other students to tell their stories. These corrupt boarding schools, which make millions abusing ‘at risk youth’ need to be shut down. There are thousands of kids living nightmares as we speak. There are thousands of parents paying lots of money, not knowing that their children will come out ruined for the rest of their lives. When is it enough?! How many more kids need to endure the torture of these places. It starts with us!! Speak up, survivors. We are their only hope!

Jill Breaking Code Silence about SageWalk, Youth Care of Utah, and Excelsior Youth Center

Aright y’all, strap in because this is about to be a LONG and intense ride down trauma lane.

I want to preface by saying that I do not necessarily blame my parents for sending me away, as I do believe they were manipulated to think it was the best option for me. But I do harbor a lot of resentment towards them for it. I am not sure I will ever be able to fully let go.

Let us begin.

SAGEWALK, OR: In 2005, I was awoken in the middle of the night and kidnapped by two complete strangers- a man and a woman. In my delirium, all I really remember is being told that I could “do this the hard way or the easy way,” and my parents standing behind them. I remember being so confused that my parents were just letting these people kidnap me. I went the easy way and walked outside with them to a white van where they drove me from my home in California to the headquarters/offices of SageWalk, a wilderness program for troubled teens in Oregon. I was drug tested with a couple of other kids (this was a whole issue for me because my drug test supposedly came up positive for PCP, which I’d never even heard of, and the rest of my treatment plan would consist of unnecessary drug treatment and brainwashing to believe I was a drug addict). I was strip-searched, and all my clothes and belongings were taken from me and replaced with a set of bright orange clothes and a huge heavy backpack that I could barely lift, filled with the bare essentials for survival (mind you, I was 15 years old at the time and absolutely terrified by strangers seeing and searching my naked body). I was then blindfolded and driven for what seemed like hours to the middle of nowhere. They told me that trying to run would be useless because we were nowhere near any roads or civilization anymore, so I wouldn’t survive if I tried to run. I met up with a small group of other girls and some staff members.

From there, my time at SageWalk consisted of strenuous hiking and generally just trying to survive. We hiked anywhere from 5-30 miles almost every day (carrying those heavy backpacks). There were no showers or bathrooms. At the end of every hike, we were instructed to dig a communal “Latrine” with large sticks or branches we found in the woods (no shovels). It was just a big hole in the ground. I remember squatting over that hole to use the bathroom while flies swarmed around everyone’s excrement and feeling absolutely disgusting. Our diets consisted of plain unseasoned grain-like foods (oats, lentils, beans, rice, etc.) that we cooked over the fires we had to start ourselves with flint and steel. If we couldn’t start a fire, we didn’t eat. Food and laundry drop was once every other week, and we had to make that little bag of food last two weeks and wore the same clothes every day without being washed. Some days we had to skip meals to keep hiking, and I just remember feeling so hungry all the time. We had to use dirty sticks we found on the ground to eat, no utensils. We also had to eat whatever we made so as not to waste food; I remember one girl who made too much oatmeal one morning, and they forced her to continue eating it as she was vomiting. Every morning we had exactly 5 minutes to pack up our sleeping bags and shelters from the night before and be dressed and ready to hike. If anyone didn’t make it in that 5 minutes, everyone was punished and had to unpack everything and do it again until we all got it right. We had to set up shelters every night with tarps they gave us to tie to trees, and we just slept on the ground under those tarps. Some nights were unbearably cold. They took our shoes at night, so we wouldn’t run away.

My feet became extremely calloused and cracked and often bled, but I was forced to continue hiking. If one person stopped hiking out of exhaustion, we were all punished. One of those punishments was finding rocks to fill our pockets to add more weight, and then we would continue hiking. At some point in the program, you have to go “solo”- which is separating from the group and staff and surviving on your own in silence without help from the group. They gave me a whistle in case any bears came along, so that was nice of them, I guess?

After your solo in silence was over, they did some supposedly Native American ceremony where you were “reborn” and given a new name. My name was Phoenix Rising From Obsidian Mountain. Honestly, looking back, it was pretty gross as this whole place was run by white people, and I’m sure that was some kind of bastardized version of an actual Native American ceremony.

SageWalk was closed in 2009 after a boy (Sergey Blashchishen) collapsed and died during one of the hikes.

YOUTH CARE, UT: After spending 33 days at SageWalk- I was transferred to Youth Care in Utah, where I spent the next five months. It took over a week and several showers to get my hair unmatted and all the dirt off my body from SageWalk.

Youth Care was/is a coed program and set up like a large house with several rooms. Each room had four beds. There was a small classroom where we did schoolwork. There was also a small white room with no furniture and no windows for isolation if anyone misbehaved. Every day was just a tedious routine of breakfast, therapy, lunch/school, therapy, dinner, fucking therapy. This wasn’t good helpful therapy either- this was brainwashing therapy used to make us believe we had been such horrible kids that needed to be reformed to fit our parents’ and society’s standards. It was all about how our presence and behavior negatively affected everyone else and not actually helpful for our problems. Remember that sketchy drug test I mentioned earlier? Yeah, so I was brainwashed to believe I was a drug addict, and if I said otherwise, then I was lying and manipulating them and my parents. I sat in group therapy with real addicts with actual problems relating to their addiction, and I felt like such a fraud. I started to make up stories to appease the therapists, and then I started to believe those stories.

No phones, though we could write letters to our parents and anyone on our approved list of people. All letters were read before being sent to make sure we weren’t saying anything untoward. All incoming mail was also opened and read before we got it. Many of us were heavily medicated. Again, if one person misbehaved, then the group was often punished. I remember sitting in a chair in silence, facing a wall for hours for something SOMEONE ELSE did. The whole program was just an emotional, psychological, and physical prison, dressed up to look like a nice place to treat your troubled kids.

Youth Care is still open today, as far as I know.

EXCELSIOR YOUTH CENTER, CO: My next and final treatment center was Excelsior Youth Center (EYC) in Colorado. This place was like a weird mash-up of a group home/juvenile hall/psychiatric facility.

There were several “cottages”, which is just a nice way of saying lockdown dormitories. I was in Shalom cottage. There was a special unit called “TLC,” which was just several small unfurnished rooms for solitary confinement. There was a sorry excuse for a school where I learned practically nothing. And a prison-like cafeteria. I don’t really know what else to say about this place that hasn’t already been said about these facilities at this point, my will and spirit had been completely broken, and I just did what I was told. I kept my head down more often than not, and so I didn’t end up in a lot of trouble or experience the same punishments that other girls did. I lived here for the next year, just sort of aimlessly existing in their routines. There were some highlights, though, mainly some of the people I met and am still in contact with today.

Excelsior closed in 2017.

SIDENOTE: I wanted to also mention the outrageous lack of medical care in all of these facilities. I started experiencing severe abdominal pain at SageWalk that had me curled up in the fetal position digging my feet into the dirt. They didn’t believe that anything was wrong with me and didn’t give me medical attention. Again, I experienced this pain at youth care and was told to just drink water. It wasn’t until a home pass from EYC for thanksgiving when my parents took me to the ER after a particularly brutal episode that it was discovered I had an ovarian torsion. It had gotten so bad that my ovary has actually died and swollen to the size of a baseball, and I needed surgery to have it removed. I could have died if this continued to go untreated, and in fact, there was a kid (Brendan James Blum) who DID die at Youth Care in 2007 because they ignored his complaints of abdominal pain, which turned out to be a bowel obstruction.

In summation, I spent a total of 18 months in the hell that is residential treatment. I came out of treatment and did not even know how to function on my own. I was far worse off than when I went in, and it took a lot of time to un-program their brainwashing and find some sense of normalcy. My youth and formative years were effectively stolen from me. I still have extreme anxiety and other lasting effects on my psyche from my time there.