Born in Huntington, West Virginia, as a very young child I endured severe child sexual, physical and emotional abuse, domestic violence and complex trauma at the hands of my biological father and older brother. I was isolated and was not permitted to have friends, which was strictly enforced by whatever means necessary. My only friends were cats. A radio played in the basement constantly so the neighbors couldn’t hear the screams. My dad would tell me not to cry because it didn’t hurt when he would beat me. There were constant battles with the neighbors where my dad would pull guns on the neighbors if they turned around in our driveway, which was at the end of a dead-end street. Breaking the forced silence I lived in and attempting to get help when I was 10 years old nearly cost me my life, but I knew it had to stop and my dad was dangerous. Despite being threatened with a .44 magnum handgun, I reiterated the sexual abuse allegations to the Child Protective Services’ worker who watched my dad run at me and then left me there, telling my dad he had to leave and the worker never returned. My house burned down within a few months of CPS’ visit and my dad picked me up from the same school where I told of his abuse. I was severely beaten for telling on my dad and “trying to get him into trouble” as he called it. When I was placed in kinship care, my brother picked up where my dad left off and he blamed me for the things that my dad did to him. Until the day he died in 2020, my brother made it his life’s mission to punish me for what my dad did to him, everything from beating me with a belt and stealing my identity to trying to kill me with a butcher knife. I was placed in my first foster home at 11 years old, which didn’t work out. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 11 years old and post-traumatic stress disorder. I was moved to my second foster home which ended when I was returned home to my biological mother at age 12. I heard that they aren’t permitted to hit you in state’s custody, so when I was 13, I refused to go back home to live with my mom and was placed back in state’s custody. I was never able to return to my second foster home due to no beds being available. I was placed in three more foster homes. After jumping out of a social worker’s moving vehicle when I was 13, I was placed in a lockdown treatment facility. When I was 14, I went to Golden Girl Group Home where I spent the next four and a half years, during which time I testified against my dad in court at age 15 and he was sentenced to 45-105 years without the possibility of parole. My dad died in prison of COVID and underlying health conditions in November 2020 in Mount Olive Penitentiary. Prior to his death, I was able to forgive him for what he did, but he was where he belonged. Despite missing most of middle school due to being moved around so much in state’s custody, I graduated high school with high honors on time and had 13 poems published by the time I turned 18. I was never adopted. At around 17 years old, I was placed in the permanent legal and physical custody of Golden Girl Group Home. Golden Girl Group Home is my childhood home and the first and only safety and stability I knew in my childhood. I almost decided not to go to college because I didn’t think I was ready, but the group home enrolled me anyway. I attended Marshall University and started with remedial classes in math. I also volunteered for the Team for West Virginia Children for two years while I was in college. During my junior year of college, I was retraumatized by being repeatedly raped for months by a guy I was in a domestically violent relationship with. After taking a year off to recover, I returned to Marshall to finish obtaining my degree. Despite making a C in my introduction to social work course, I declared social work my major. I made straight A’s through the core social work curriculum courses and graduated with honors with my bachelor’s degree in social work. My senior thesis of over 400 pages on the correlation between domestic violence, child abuse and animal abuse was sent to the president of Marshall University. I obtained my license to practice social work through the Council on Social Work Education examination process and worked for CPS for almost a year following graduation from college. I didn’t have medical insurance in college and had no way to get my medication, so I went without it. Within six months of leaving CPS, my unmedicated manic bipolar disorder acted up to the point where it caused me to go into a catatonic state and I ended up becoming disabled as a result. I don’t have everything figured out, but I know I have hope. There is always room for hope and I’m not giving up. Despite being disabled, I joined the Step Up for Women program and got a pre-apprenticeship certification in manufacturing amongst various other training and have also attempted to return to work. I am also currently working on writing a book about my life. I want to empower, inspire and encourage people to not only survive but overcome and thrive despite the adversity they face and chase their dreams, using my life story as an example of what can be done and more. It’s easy to tear someone down, it’s harder to build someone up, but much more rewarding. The best way I have found to overcome and thrive despite adversity is to flip a negative situation into a
A #BreakingCodeSilence Experience at CASA in Mexico
The first thing I noticed going through the gates was how run down it looked. They ushered me inside and I heard nothing but silence in the hallways. There were girls walking around in single file lines from place to place but no one spoke at all. Classrooms were silent. There was no noise at all except maybe the wind or the staff. The staff were all Mexican and did not speak English. The only people there that did were the administrators who were American and turns out they owned the place. I would later learn that all these programs were owned by the same family which operated out of Utah. This was the gate we passed through into the facility and the of my freedom I would see for almost 6 months: I was surrounded by American girls my age and one middle aged looking Mexican woman and I assume told to strip in Spanish. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand Spanish so the lady was becoming more frustrated with me. One of the girls raised her hand and asked something in Spanish to this lady and I guess she got agreement on it because the girl turned to me and told me in English that I needed to strip out of my clothes. I complied and stripped down naked in this room full of girls and this adult stranger. They handed me a sweat shirt and pants that I would have to wear for the rest of my time there. All my belongings and regular clothes were taken away from me for the remainder of my time there. Casa was operating on the bones of an old motel (Ironically, the old motel used to be called Motel California) and every room was jam packed full of dirty mattresses everywhere. They had obviously gone over legal capacity because there were 4-5 dirty mattresses piled on every small 20×20 room’s floor. Some of the mattresses had sheets and some did not. They ended up moving the girls out of the main building to some trailers sitting on the lot. The small trailers would house 40 girls per trailer with the bunks stacked besides each other. Because of the living conditions, almost everyone had lice and scabies and there wasn’t really any treating it. This appears to be a picture of the trailers after WWASP was abandoned. To give you an idea, there’s 40+ beds in this long line and we were all to sleep here with 2 bathroom stalls in the door at the end: There are communal showers beyond that door next to the bathroom stalls. The rules were that we had exactly 7 minutes to shower from the time we walked in dress to the time we walked out and there was no hot water. We often had shampoo or soap – never both at the same time so it made showering pretty quick and gross but most of the time we’re trying to not get completely immersed in the water either because it was freezing cold and the trailers were often freezing so we didn’t want to shiver all night. The entire facility was fenced with 30+ foot walls except the part facing the ocean. There was only a small sliver in a classroom we sat in where we could see the ocean but I dreamed of running out that window and finding a way to scurry down whatever drop there was to get to the ocean and hopefully escape. I’m glad I never tried because what I didn’t see from my point of view was that there was a huge drop which you can see here: One girl eventually did jump off of there but she didn’t escape and instead broke her leg. Unfortunately, it did not change things at Casa or close that school down though the Mexican authorities would later shut it down in 2004 for child torture but it was long after I was gone. This is a more recent photo. One of the girls from the WWASP group dropped by Casa recently and took photos. Someone obviously touched up the paint on that red fence but beyond that, it looks EXACTLY the same. I was assigned a “buddy” for the first three days who would be exempt from the normal rules of no speaking to explain things to me. My buddy explained that we were not allowed to speak to each other ever. Since none of the staff spoke English, we were never allowed to speak English when we spoke and the only time we could speak was to ask staff a question. The only exception to this rule was when we were in our hourly group a day because one of the American administrators or their wives would be in there with us or this ominous thing that happened once a month called a seminar. There were no therapists. There were no medical staff. We have a “family rep” who would talk to our parents on our behalf. We couldn’t write to friends or whoever we pleased. There was no list of patient rights and responsibilities. It wasn’t a treatment center, it was something called a “behavioral modification center.” We were only allowed to write to our parents and we could not seal the letters – we had to allow our family worker to read them and decide if it would be sent. We could only receive mail from our parents. There would be no communication to the outside world and outside of the one hour of group a day (which was NOT fun – I’ll get to that shortly), there was completely isolation except for the occasional knowing glace at each other or non-verbal communication we could get away with. We could not move or do anything freely. We had to ask to stand up, sit down, use the restroom, etc. Staff were expected to be referred to as “mama” or “papa.”. The facility was coed but we were not allowed
James’ #BreakingCodeSilence Story
Many of you know me, or at least know of me, but I assume some of you might not, or perhaps you haven’t actually heard my story. I attended an abusive program called Casa by the Sea when I was 15 years old. My crimes were skipping school and shoplifting, my punishment was Isolation, beatings and solitary confinement. When I acted out, I was made to sit cross-legged facing a wall for 14-16 hours a day, sometimes for a week or more, and when I refused I had my shoulder dislocated, and my face smashed into a concrete floor by three grown men. I was underfed, and had food withheld from me as a form of punishment. I lost nearly 50 pounds. I was forced into group showers every day while watched by adult staff. I was strip searched and had my head forcibly shaved. I was given strange medications without being told what they were. I was completely cut off from the outside world, even my family. I was not allowed to speak without express permission for an entire year. I endured mandatory attendance of brainwashing cult-like seminars, where girls were forced to blame themselves for, and reenact, their own rapes. Where I was forced to dress up in women’s clothes and dance in front of my peers. Where I was forced to act out condemning myself and my peers to death. Where I was forced to participate in the abuse of other children. I was told multiple times every day that this program was saving my life. I know people who were raped, forced to eat their own vomit, made to sleep in dog cages or were forced to literally run themselves to death in wilderness programs. I’ve lost countless peers in the years since to drug overdoses and suicide, as they tried desperately to escape the emotional damage caused by these places. I have personally struggled with trust and abandonment issues, leading to a long string of failed and toxic relationships. Complex post-traumatic stress disorder featuring long-term recurring nightmares that lasted for nearly seven years. Binge eating disorder, causing massive swings in weight gain and loss. Depression and anxiety, particularly passive aggressive personality disorder and one hell of a hero complex. I’ve been speaking out about this for over 10 years, few believe me and even fewer know how to respond, so they just don’t. It’s ignored. At first even my own parents thought I was exaggerating or seeking attention. That I was only saying these things to hurt them. Which is exactly what the program told me would happen. I was told that I was just a “bad kid” and that everyone would see me as a liar and a manipulator. So, for six years after the program, after having been shut down whenever I tried to talk about it, and told to “move on,” I tried to do just that. It isn’t easy to admit that I was abused as a child. Especially not as a man in today’s society. I carry with me a great weight of shame and embarrassment and when people tell me that I’m just looking for attention, wallowing or lying, it’s like ripping open these old wounds every single time. I have nothing to gain personally by talking about this, it doesn’t bring me any satisfaction and it alienates my family. If I don’t speak out as someone who was there and saw it firsthand, then who will? I don’t want anyone’s pity, attention, vote, or money. I just want you to hear me, to believe me and when you’re comfortable, if you are comfortable, I’d like to offer you an ear of validation for your story in return.
Sabrina’s Story
I would like to share my encounter with childhood abuse. From the ages of 11 to 17 I attended five different Independent Fundamental Baptist programs for troubled teens. I came from an abusive home. My childhood was stolen from me. My adoptive mother was physically and emotionally abusive towards me and my three other siblings. When my adoptive mother Mary got cancer my aunt took me in for a short period until she placed me in my first Troubled Teen Industry (TTI) program called Charity Haven in Milton, Florida. The program was run by Dave and Norma Walkden. They owned and operated two separate programs located in Texas and Florida. I was told I would be with my sister to get me to comply with going to this program. That was a lie. We were separated; my sister was in the Texas program called Victory Acres while I was in Charity Haven in Florida. While I attended this program I was subjected to religious cult beliefs forced upon us girls. If you refused to be saved and follow the program they would stick you in a room they called the prayer room and play brainwashing sermons and music through the speakers. There was no bathroom in this room; you could only be out of the room to use the restroom a couple times a day. They took away your privileges to shower with shampoo and conditioner and would give you only a bar of soap to wash your hair and body with and a tiny comb and a rubber band to fix your hair . I attended this program for maybe about six months. One day Norma, whom we were told to call Mama Hen, loaded me up in the van with the other girls, I wasn’t allowed to have shoes on because they didn’t want me to try to run away. They drove me to Lucedale, Mississippi to Bethel Boys and Girls Academy, a military school run by Herman Fountain Sr. While I attended Bethel we were forced to do extensive hours of calisthenics as a form of punishment to wear us out. When I arrived Herman Fountain Sr. and Drill Sergeant William Knott greeted me by yelling and spitting in my face and physically pushing me around to the point I fell backwards and attempted to force me to do calisthenics until I could no longer do them. I was 11 years old . I stayed in this program until I was 12 1/2 . My adoptive father came to get me because my mother was dying . I stayed at home for 6 months. The week after my adoptive mother died, I came home from school and my aunt had my bags packed and told me I would be returning back to Bethel. I was 13 years old at this point. By now the girls dorm in Petal was finished so the girls were moved off the boys property in Lucedale. I stayed at Bethel till I was 14 years old. I ran away for Bethel with 2 other girls who left me a laundry mat by myself after I fell asleep. I was scared and called the programs director Herman Fountain Jr who was running the girls home with his wife Dodie Fountain to pick me up. We went back and I was forced into a solitary cement room . Herman would often make racist comments about me being biracial and would call me little nigger baby,” half-breed” and :mutt.” He was openly racist to Black girls when they arrived at the program. He would say ”do you know what we do to your kind here in Mississippi?“ During the day I was made to stand in the corner for days on end, sleep deprived, bathroom denied . Forced to dig a tree stump up with a teaspoon, corporal punishment with a wooden paddle. One day Dodie loaded me up in a van and drove me to Lucedale from Petal, Mississippi. When we arrived I saw Dave Walkden there with four other girls. I was told I would be going with him to his program he reopened in North Carolina called Victory Acres. This program was soon shut down by Children Services. While all the other girls were placed in the care of their families, my aunt came and picked me up and drove me back to Charity Haven. Me and one other girl were the only ones there. The other girl eventually went home. I woke up to Bill MacNamara standing beside my bed telling me to come with him, and warned me that if I did not comply he would tie me up and drag me out by my hai . I complied and got in the van. He reopened a program called the Rebekah Home for Girls and renamed it New Beginnings Girls Academy after the State of Texas forced them to close. While he was trying to find a permanent dorm for us we stayed on the property of Thanks To Calvary Boys Academy in Devils Elbow, Missouri. Bill eventually found a permanent place for the girls home in Florida. While I was there my basic human rights were denied such as shower privileges revoked for two months at a time, sleep deprivation by forcing me to stand at attention at the end of my bed. While the rest of the girls were allowed to sleep from 9:00 PM to 5:00 AM, I had to stand there from 9:00 PM to 4:00 AM and was only allowed to sleep from 4:00 AM to 5:00 AM. I was held down by other girls while Bill MacNamara spanked me. He told me I was demon possessed and shined a flashlight in my eyes for what seemed like an hour and poured dish soap into my mouth and laughed at me as I threw up and forced me to clean it up with my hands. He called me a worthless slut (I was a
Natalie’s #BreakingCodeSilence Experience
I am #BreakingCodeSilence Natalie Silver PROVO CANYON SCHOOL #324 99-00 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 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. I am #BreakingCodeSilence Natalie Silver PROVO CANYON SCHOOL #324 99-00
The Relationship Between Child Maltreatment and Mental Health Outcomes
When someone leaves an abusive environment, it’s common for those around them to assume their problems will lessen. If you leave an undesirable situation for something better, you should in turn feel better… right? The harsh reality is that trauma can follow you. This doesn’t mean a survivor chooses to allow trauma to linger, but more so that the events they underwent had a direct impact on their developmental arc. Extensive research into the future health consequences of child maltreatment has continuously shown a close association to mental illnesses such as depression, anxiety, personality disorders, and other mental health conditions. The first step in understanding the health consequences of child maltreatment (CM) is recognizing what it encompasses. Emotional neglect, emotional abuse, physical neglect, physical abuse, and sexual abuse are all considered different forms of CM. Often overlooked are non-physical forms of abuse such as what fall under the concept of psychological abuse. Though not spoken of nearly enough, psychological abuse has been documented as one of the most prevalent forms of child abuse. It has been known to be developmentally damaging, and can bring about negative features such as helplessness, aggression, emotional unresponsiveness and neuroticism (Rizvi and Najam, 2014). Before we go more in depth, let’s take a look at some facts about CM in general. According to the World Health Organization, about 3 in 4 children between the ages of 2-4 regularly suffer through physical and psychological violence. In addition, 1 in 5 women and 1 in 13 men report being sexually abused between the ages of 0-17. The World Health Organization notes that consequences of CM can include impairments mentally and physically as well. Not only that, but they mention that the social and occupational outcomes that stem from CM can even slow a country’s economic and social development. The effects of this type of abuse extend far beyond the perceived average scope that society itself faces the long-term repercussions. With that being said, consider how impactful this type of behavior can be to one person, especially a child whose brain is still developing. Mental Illness Symptoms and Childhood Adversity Mental illness does not have one extreme. There is no formula to how mental illness manifests itself through a survivor of any form of abuse. The outcomes that come from wrongful childhood treatment are individual and can shift depending on the person. Even two people who experience similar instances of CM can have two entirely different mental health outcomes. Analyzing the relationship between mental health complexities and childhood adversity produces better insight into mental illness and its individuality. Depression, Anxiety, and Bipolar Disorder Early childhood adversity may make someone more prone to depressive behavior and overall mood disorders. In fact, there has been a definitive link found between CM and major depressive disorder. If you weren’t already aware, the experience of any form of child abuse more than doubles the risk of developing a depressive disorder (Klumparendt and Nelson et al, 2019). A research article published by BMC Psychiatry ran a study aimed to find the relationship between CM and major depressive disorder. 1,027 participants between the ages of 18-65 with no bipolar or psychotic symptoms completed a childhood trauma questionnaire including a self-report questionnaire that analyzed four different mediators used to account for the association between the two. These included emotional regulation, attachment, attribution style, and post-traumatic stress disorder (Klumparendt and Nelson et al, 2019). The sample results published by BMC Psychiatry provided a plethora of findings. 16.3% of participants met criteria for experiencing a current major depressive episode. A whopping 48.8% of participants were suffering from mild to severe depressive symptoms, and 12.2% scored above the cut-off value for showing potential indicators of post-traumatic stress disorder. After looking at these statistics, it was unsurprising to find that nearly half of the entire sample (48.7%) reported at least one former episode of a depressive disorder (Klumpared and Nelson et al, 2019). BMC Psychiatry later published a study that was more focused on social anxiety in adulthood from those who have experienced a form of CM. The reason behind the analysis was to see how evident social anxiety was in abuse survivors, and to examine how common other mental disorders were among the sample. 1,091 participants who were all treatment seeking outpatients were assessed with a childhood trauma questionnaire as well as a questionnaire on stressful social experiences. The study found that patients with social anxiety and depression reported significantly more severe cases of emotional abuse in their questionnaires. Second most common was physical abuse followed by sexual abuse, emotional neglect, and lastly victimization from their peers. The effects of CM were proven to extend past social anxiety, and indicated potential in bringing about varying types of anxiety and other depressive disorders overall (Bruhl and Kley et al, 2019). Yet another mental health outcome that can be seen in suvivors of child abuse is manic depression, also known as bipolar disorder. Although bipolar disorder is a known mental illness that can severely affect one’s mood, many people are not aware of the link between manic depression and childhood adversity. To get a firmer grasp on the significance of these adverse experiences and bipolar disorder it’s essential to understand how it can present itself. The International Journal of Bipolar Disorders published an article in 2020 on a project conducted at the clinic of the Ruhr-University Bochum in Germany. The study lasted 2 years and consisted of 48 men and 86 women with the average age being 24 years old. The study utilized self report scales and assessments such as the Beck Depression Inventory II (BDI) which is a 21 item assessment for the severity of depression, the Hypomania Checklist 32 (HCL) which is intended to serve as a measurement for hypomanic symptoms, a three part questionnaire that had the participants recall memories of CM, the Altman Self-Rating Mania Scale (ASRM) where respondents were asked to complete a five item scale ranging from 0-4, and the Bochumer
Cynthia’s Story
It’s been more than 15 years since I was kidnapped in the middle of the night and imprisoned by my parents in a school called Academy at Ivy Ridge, in Ogdensburg, New York. I was there for 19 months. I know it’s difficult to understand… but I’m currently going through a lot mentally at the moment. It’s difficult but at the same time, I now see the light at the end of the tunnel. At the boarding school I went to, it was incredibly traumatic for me. Now that the industry has been exposed more through Paris Hilton, so many people have come forward with their stories. It has brought forth so many emotions. Being older, I now understand that what happened to me was something really serious. It paved the way for the course of my life thus far. I never spoke about this school. I put almost all of it deep down in my mind, but the truth is I, along with other girls and boys, was abused, degraded, brainwashed and taken advantage of daily. We were stripped of our basic human rights. They broke us down to nothing, only to build us back up by their standards. We were all trapped there. Like prisoners. but they took away our hygiene privileges. We needed permission to sit, stand, talk, everything. I was no longer allowed to communicate in Spanish with my parents. Everything had to be in English and the only way I could communicate with them for almost a year was through letters we had one hour to write, once a week. These schools spent crucial years stifling our creativity. If we did not oblige, we received our consequences. It’s an experience I can honestly say did much more harm than good. The generational trauma and toxic conditioning I’ve suffered at the hands of my parents keeps us from having any type of relationship today. At 30 years old I struggle with my identity, as well as depression, and PTSD. I have weekly sessions with a therapist and I’m enrolled in a wellness program. Through this movement, I’ve begun the process of truly healing. Human rights do not begin at 18 years old. Please, sit down and talk with your children. Choose any other course of action available to your family. Do not send your children to these schools. You’ll be risking their future health and happiness. Metaphorically, my parents got away with murder. They murdered my soul by silencing me 15 years ago and having me falsely imprisoned in an institution that wasn’t accredited, hired local predators without running background checks, brainwashed every student there, taking advantage of and manipulating every single child there…every last one, all because I spoke out and reached out for help over their abuse. For those of you who don’t know, I voluntarily spent three weeks at a youth shelter my freshman year of high school, all to get away from getting beaten by my parents. After that, Child Protective Services (CPS) was involved in our home. I had a case worker and weekly visits with her and with someone else from Catholic Charities. After the abuse continued, becoming more visible and more apparent, my parents hired transporters to forcefully take me, put me in a child-locked van, deny me the right to call the police and my case worker, and ultimately lock me away with absolutely no opportunity to reach anyone from the outside world. This institution assisted in covering up their abuse and even manipulated me into changing my own narrative. I lived in that institution for 20 months. I’ve been silenced, both of my siblings lied under oath about the abuse going on in our home. One of those siblings grew up to be everything my parents raised them to be, and to be honest, that’s not really on them – It’s on my parents. My parents are both narcissists who raised us all with trauma, not love. Why do I post about #BreakingCodeSilence so much? Why do I do my best to spread awareness about the corruption and the abuse that’s guaranteed by Worldwide Association of Specialty Programs and Schools (WWASP) programs? Why? It’s very very simple. I ask all of you this: please take the time to read what I post about this movement. Click the links, watch the videos, educate yourselves, please. Institutionalized child abuse is real. I’ve lived it. It causes life long damage. Being able to advocate for my inner child, the one that was abused and misguided, it means everything to me. Advocating for young children suffering in silence in these institutions right now, that’s my fight. In the past few months, the sense of purpose and the emotions that have compelled me to come forward and stand in solidarity with all survivors of this movement has been triggering, healing, devastating and rewarding. I’m taking the good with the bad; fighting the good fight. Ultimately my parents failed me. They, along with the State of New Jersey, CPS, and last but certainly not least, Academy at Ivy Ridge, failed me. Having the opportunity to expose these people for a chance at shutting these “schools” down, ensuring the well being of future children, and being able to heal and have closure, I’m taking that and running with it. Full force. I am so grateful to say big things are coming. My survivor family… #iseeyousurvivor. I truly love all of you. Our bond is unbreakable. I’m fighting for you, for those we’ve lost, for all of us. We all deserved so much better than our pasts gave us. I’m looking forward to being able to change that narrative and turn it into something positive. We all deserve that.
Hannah’s #BreakingCodeSilence Story
My name is Hannah. I was 13 when I was sent to Lighthouse “Christian” Academy 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 two 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 item 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 indoors “P.E.” which was 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 urinary tract infection) 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 they 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 three 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 four 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 member 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 could 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 a 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 them 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 of the 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 girl’s 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 a 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 were around two hours a day you might be able to speak to another student
Josh’s Breaking Code Silence Story
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
Gaby’s Breaking Code Silence Story
I was a rebellious child. My parents decided to send me to the King George School, an “emotional growth boarding school” in Vermont. It was a CEDU school. CEDU was a company founded by members of the cult Synanon, who owned and operated several therapeutic boarding schools and behavior modification programs. Before its bankruptcy, the company’s schools faced numerous allegations of abuse. Here is my story. When I was taken to the school, I was not fully informed what it was. I was told it was an arts school and that I was going to be able to dance. Yes, they had dance classes in the name of “art therapy” but that was not the full picture. When I arrived, they started going through my bags in front of me. I did not understand why I could only choose 5 CDs to keep (so much for an arts therapeutic school promoting music) or why they took away the condoms that, while I was a virgin at the time, my stepmom graciously gifted me so I was prepared when I was ready. I was then strip searched naked and had to jump up and down and cough before being allowed in any other building. The first few days when kids asked me “why are you here?” I answered, “for school…?” I literally had to figure out what this school was all about by putting the pieces together. I have blocked out many memories from the experience and I wish I could bring them back to fully paint the picture of my life there. Maybe from continuing to do this work, they will come back…for better or for worse. The biggest trauma from the high school was simply having my basic rights taken away, in little ways, daily. Absolutely no physical touch was allowed, so either we were deprived of that need or we would sneak into the cubby room and have a third “watch out” for us. All phone calls to parents were listened to and monitored by staff, so we felt like prisoners who could not speak out against our experience. There were no phone calls allowed to friends. All incoming and outgoing mail was read and any information negative about the school in outgoing mail or “triggering” to us in incoming mail was blacked out. I received pieces of mail from friends where I could only see their intro and sign off. Not that I look down on my friends at all, but it was very traumatic when all of my closest high school friends would casually tell stories about sleeping around for drug money when I hadn’t even drunk alcohol. It was normal to be sitting in class and just seeing someone run down the hall screaming and banging her head against the wall or threatening to self-harm. The students at the school ranged from “my parents don’t know how to parent” to drug addicts to serious mental health disorders. And to be clear, NONE of our staff had therapeutic or social works credentials or even backgrounds. It was just the highest paying job in town. To make this clear, one of our biggest activities was called “raps.” Twice daily we would sit in a circle and talk about what was going on at the school. Mostly it was to call people out for not staying “in code.” In one particular rap, the night before, a bunch of girls were sitting around gossiping and talking about my best friend Zoe (not nice, but as girls do…) Instead of just letting that blow over, in the rap the next day, the counselors decided that the best way to handle this was to have each girl go around the circle and share directly to Zoe what they don’t like about her. Imagine a teenage girl and how traumatic that is. Academics were a joke. The dance program that I was “there for” was a complete joke. There was a dance teacher that they hired that actively told students that being gay was not okay. Again, teenagers in their formative years and figuring out who they are, being told that they are not okay. I invited her to my presentation for debate class about gay marriage. She was not pleased. They had people going up on pointe before they were strong enough. I saw massive injuries take place in the dance studio. Then, when our dance teachers quit and they did not have anyone to teach the classes, they approached me and asked me to be the dance teacher at my own school. They took me out of art history class, said they would give me a certain grade, and I taught my friends to dance. This was the education that parents were paying money for students to be studying dance. I did not get to explore with rebellion, a development experience for teenagers. I had never been to a house party or a normal prom. After a few months of being at the school, they decided I was still too rebellious and that the reason I was not doing well was because I did not go to a wilderness program before boarding school. They told my parents that the only way they would allow me to stay at the school was if I left, went to a wilderness program, and then came back. But of course, what wilderness program were they pushing on my parents? Ascent in Northern Idaho, also a CEDU program (owned by the same company as my high school.) You will see in an upcoming documentary, Teens For Profit, how all this money is wrapped up with each other. It’s sick. The worst was when I was sent to the wilderness program. At the program, I was physically and emotionally abused. We did an exercise where we had to present to our group every bad thing we’d ever done and every major trauma or milestone we went through. I presented and then was asked to step