I have only recently discovered the name of the torture “Attachment Therapy” I had to endure as a child and thus gained the power to educate and understand what was done to me and how it affected who I became in life. Not only that but it showed me a terrifying flaw in our society as a whole. We like to pretend horrible things don’t happen.  The sheer amount of horror stories I’ve read and seen have helped me understand what was done to me and so I feel it is necessary to join the fight to put an end to this form of therapy and STOP children from being tortured, too many either suffering lifelong trauma or 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 seven or eight years old. I lived at this facility and another of their branch facilities (RTC South Satellite Building B) 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’re an unwilling and unwitting test subject for new compliance/therapeutic medications. A handful two-three times a day plus vitamins.  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, who also happened to be my therapist) along with at least one other therapist (Regina?) 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) and my therapist (Jim). They would then proceed to have two staff lay on top of me to prevent me from wiggling 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 it’s only funny for a few minutes before you can’t breathe and it turns into searing pain that just doesn’t relent but gets stronger and stronger. So strong you feel and pray that you’re going to pass out… BUT YOU NEVER DO its torture in every sense of the word.  At this point Jim would instruct my (then) 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 a few 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 didn’t 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.  Oftentimes I really felt like I was going to die and would just wish it to end already. It didn’t take long for me to be LITERALLY DRENCHED in fear-induced sweat from the combined heat, lack of air and pain from being laid on and my feet being tickled, coupled with the emotional torture I’d just endured. Once the session was over they would release me and tell 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 promised to buy me a Butterfinger bar (my favorite candy) – I even went as one for Halloween at the RTC – as my reward for being so good during the session. Jim would then instruct my (then) potential parents to continue the therapy at home.  And it did but without the tickling or blankets. Instead, they would lock me in a mostly cement room with the exception of 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 felt like dealing 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 the house to be with relatives. And 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 the reindeer. 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