I’ll cut right to the chase, and save you some time, I’ll tell you my story, if you don’t mind the rhyme. It started quite young, I was three and then four, I was in bed for a nap, when he opened the door. What happened next, was so very profane, Just a child, just a baby, it was so inhumane. I’ll spare you the details, from this all, it was sick, I zoned out, I played possum, teleported, quite quick(ly). Fast forward 10 years, thought I was safe from abuse, I was barely 15, now a toy for his use. He came to my window, all drunk and in “need” , he wanted “to screw” despite all of my pleas. I said “No”, “ I don’t want this to be my first time, you are drunk, I’m not ready, as he grabbed my behind. He said “ I am your boyfriend, you’ll do as I say,” you can cry, you can beg, I’m not going away.” He pushed me down hard, on the edge of my bed, I said no, I said NO, he ignored what I said. “Are you going to force me?” I begged, gasping for breath, he pushed me down hard on the floor, as I wept. I grabbed at the bed, to stand up, get away, He pushed me back down, So I started to pray. One hand held my wrist, as he straddled my waist, He unfastened his pants, Readied himself, without haste. I remember, I stared hard, at the flower on my bed, in my mind, traced the emblem, wishing that I were dead. He finished, he left me, the same as he came, back out of my window like this was some sort of game. The abuse, it went on, many years I endured, Went from broken to shattered, my soul stripped down to the core. Eventually, I broke from his bond, not my curse, there’s no happy ending, the story gets worse. One night with some friends on our way home from the game, that Night, took it all, I was never the same. In the back of the van, I was held hard to the floor, “friends” took their turns “taking”, til my soul was no more…. I said not a word, when Dropped off on my street, Slowly, I walked up, I just stared at my feet. Could this be my life? the abuse and the pain, there must be more than I see, it can’t all be in vain. Needless to say, the spiral began, the cutting the writing, the drugs for the pain. Thank God for my family, my church and my friends, I had great support, so my life didn’t end. The scars can’t be seen, they’re still hidden inside, But with love, faith and family, somehow I survived. Please don’t remain silent if you’re hurt and in pain, talk it out with SOMEONE, you are NEVER to blame. What seems hard is not hopeless, In the dark, look for light, Stay strong, And stay true, never give up your fight!! YOU ARE WORTHY
Rebecca’s Time at Carolina Springs Academy
My name is Rebecca and in 2008, when I was 16 years old, I was sent to Carolina Springs Academy, located in Donald’s, South Carolina. I lived there for a year. 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 loss of points. Breaking Code Silence was a ‘Category 2’ violation, which meant a loss of 25 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 total. Upper levels had to “vote up” so even if they earned enough 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’re 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 were hours of the same essay topics over and over again. If you didn’t 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 got 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 4:45am for first dibs on a 7 minute freezing 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 loud, 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 were 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 basically 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 absolutely no touching, no hugs, no holding hands, not even a poke. Our every move was controlled. Prison inmates have more rights then we did. We had the same schedule every day. We walked in straight lines and counted through doors. We sat on 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 everyday 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 haven’t in months and years: 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 totally 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 3 times because I was told the first 2 times “weren’t good enough”. During my 3rd and final attempt I fell to my knees and did some crazy stuff with my hands in my hair. I was desperate, scared and mortified. I got a standing ovation and thank goodness because me getting out of the program depended on it. “Lady in Red” was my last “process” in the ‘Focus’ seminar and I needed to graduate ‘Focus’ in order 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 6 weeks or so. If we didn’t complete the processes well enough it was called “choosing out” of seminar which meant 6 more weeks were added on to your stay. Another 6 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 using my fist, so I did, until that swelled up 3 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. They put us in “fight for your life” and “every man for themselves” scenarios. They had us scream why we deserve to live over one another all while
Theo Gets Transported to LaVerkin
The following is my account of March 10 and March 11, 2005 – the night that everything changed. Oftentimes on television and in music the world coming to a stop sounds like the screeching of a car slamming on the brakes. So much so that the term “a screeching halt” is in our lexicon and used in day-to-day life. I can’t speak for everyone but I can tell you what it sounded like when my world came to an abrupt standstill. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t earth shaking. It was just fast. It was the blood pumping in my ears and the fear of the unknown racing through my heart. It was the feeling of a caged animal trying to lash out while being transported against its will. When I got off the bus in El Jebel, Colorado at approximately 11:30 pm I had no idea that my entire life was about to change in every way imaginable. When I saw my mother’s Honda CR-V in the parking lot I just thought it an odd coincidence, not unlike running into an ex right after a break up and seeing them with another person. It’s not something one ever really enjoys but you shrug it off to the best of your ability and then obsess about it later until you can vent about it to a friend. Looking back at it I think I was the one who walked up to my mom and said “hi.” In the years since I’ve wondered if my mom even saw me get off that bus; if I could have walked past her car in the dark of night unnoticed and how differently my life may have panned out. However that isn’t what happened. I walked up and said hi. When my mom offered me a ride home, a warm shower, clean clothes and a soft bed, I didn’t say no. Truth be told what sealed the deal was when my mom mentioned my cats. I missed them. I wanted to see them so I hopped in her car. And thus the ball began to roll. I walked into the house I had spent much of my adolescence in and it seemed strangely alien to me. I remember walking through the house and giving everything a once over. Almost like a patrol. However I also felt like I was walking through a museum of memories: “here’s the spot I broke my arm in the 8th grade while learning frontside boardslides in the backyard;” “here’s the spot my mother broke a wooden spoon over me;” “here’s the spot I seriously considered swallowing a bottle of pills;” “here’s the spot I masturbated feverishly after finding my first Hustler magazine” It was all there. Little had changed. I guess it was just me that was absent. Finally I came across the jewel of my mother’s house: my cats. Patches and Blue were the best friends I could have ever had. They were the perfect beings, selfless and caring. In all the years of teenage angst, abuse, fights, you name it, they were there. I often referred to them as my guardian angels. They seemed to have a sense about the state of the household and always knew the perfect time to come up to me. They brought a sense of calm to life. My focus on all the shitty things would fade away and in their place would be my focus on their two perfect faces. I doted on my cats for a little while and then decided to jump in the shower. I had long hair that I had recently tried (and failed) to cut myself and in my days on end of spending my nights drinking with whoever would take me into their home or their bed, I hadn’t showered in a bit and for the first time in a while actually looked forward to rinsing off. I stayed in for quite some time, basking in the steam of the hot water. I’m not really sure how much time passed. I got out of the shower and grabbed a towel to dry off. I went into my room and threw on some pajama bottoms and a Sex Pistols t-shirt I had ripped the sleeves off of. My cats were in my bed and I sat down next to them. My mom entered the room. There was no fight in her tonight. She just stood at the doorway and simply said “They’ve missed you.” It was an odd moment. For the first time in a while I had no snarky remark for her. No contempt, nor feeling of anger for past deeds. I just nodded my head and wondered in amazement why there was a lump in my throat. For so long I had convinced myself that emotion was weakness. I had done so much in two years to make myself into this hardened model of a human. Yet my eyes were now burning with moisture at a simple moment between a boy, his cats and his mother. Just then there was a knock at the door. I got up. It had to be around midnight. My mother didn’t say anything, she just stood to one side of the doorway. I walked past her and saw my father standing outside the sliding glass door that lead to my mother’s backyard. To truly understand how bizarre this all was, one must realize that my parents both had restraining orders against each other. They used them against each other in a sadistic game of mutually assured destruction. To take things another step further, I was still buzzing on the Oxy’s I had taken earlier. As I walked to the sheet of glass standing in the way between my father and myself a plethora of circumstances flashed through my mind. A death in the family seemed the most logical. I figured my grandmother must have died. My dad being the little mama’s boy that he was, it wouldn’t have
Bobby’s HLA Story
This post is not to deter from any other survivor who has told their story. This is my story. They have their own stories which deserve just as much if not more attention than mine does. It has taken me 16+ years to tell my story to the world. This post barley scratches the surface of my story though. It is a long post too. You may look at the photos and see me as a smiling and happy teen but that is far from the truth. I was in a dark place in my mind and an even darker place in person. I feel it is my time, my right, and my duty to #breakcodesilence. Many have seen the documentary with Paris Hilton but these stories have been told for a longer time period and ignored. Now is our time as survivors to step up and tell our stories…. this is mine. I was 15 and at a boarding school in Connecticut called Canterbury. It was a normal prep/boarding school. I was struggling academically by choice and because I wasn’t comprehending some things. I was skipping class constantly and creating lies. I told everyone I received an email saying my biological father had died. It was my attempt to get attention. I was failing school and only doing well in the theatre program and swim team. I had made friends but alienated a lot of people as well. I was taken for testing and psych evaluations. They recommended seeing an Educational Conaultant. That was the beginning of what even my family would come to see as the start of even worse times in my life. My consultant who recommended a lot of other children to the same program recommend I go to Hidden Lake Academy. Her name was Jean Hague. My eval said I needed to be somewhere with therapeutic benefits and an established theatre program. My counselors I was lucky to have because they actually tried to help us. A lot were not as lucky as I was in the counseling department. I was truly blessed with the two counselors I had. There was no established theatre program either. I was withdrawn from Canterbury and brought to HLA by my Aunt and Uncle. The school was nestled in the mountains of Dalonegha,GA. It turns out hell looks awfully pretty. Brochures showed kids riding horses, a pool, and smiling teens. The setting seemed to be perfect for what my family thought was going to be a great place. Immediately upon arrival I was told a list of rules including limited contact with the opposite sex. I was there to focus on Adam not Adam and Eve for sure not Adam and Steve. From this moment everything changed. I was taken to a room where my belongings were being rooted through. I was told all my cds were to be donated to the school. At this moment all my clothes were takin to be monogrammed with my initials. I was then escorted to a bathroom by a rather large guy and told to hand over my clothes. He then instructed me to squat , cup my testicles, cough , and turn in a circle. I was 15 being stripped searched for what would be the 1st of 50 times probably. I was taken to general student population and thrown to the wolves. There was no pool, horses or smiling teens .This school taught all of us to be against each other. It was worse than any high school bullies or cliques. I was right away told I was gay, a fag, a bitch, and mutiple other things. I was compared to a student who was there before me that was gay. He was not me nor was I him but older students thought it funny to point out similarities and make fun of me for those similarities. I found my group though. It was the losers club basically. They would become my life long friends though. We were all bullied by students and staff though. I wasn’t aware yet of the deep dark secrets this place held. My first night was filled with hazing from night staff, kids snorting laundry detergent or acne pills and screams in the night. My first few weeks went by without event for the most part other than the night time rituals. In therapy we really hadn’t begun to dig to the root of problems yet. They had something called restrictions. For those that got into trouble we were placed in single file lines after school. They would then Have us do army PT or calisthenics and what amounted to child labor in the afternoons. We dug trenches, built staircases, cleaned the property, cleaned students sheets, cleaned dumpsters with a toothbrush, carried downed telephone polls from one location to turn right back around and take them where they had been, and we did writing assignments. Things such as a 30 page life story, 10 pages on why you held hands with someone, 5 pages defining what oppositional meant. All this was meant to be therapeutic. I stayed out of trouble for about 4 months until I got restrictions for being in a relationship. Relationships here meant hand holding in secret, whispering and just basic human contact. Some obviously went further than others but we were teenagers with no freedom or semblance of teen child hood. When I got to restrictions the first time I knew it was bad. I was out of shape being degraded by military personnel. I was called every name under the sun. I was fed moldy cheese sandwiches and warm Gatorade that at times had been peed in. Eating was already rough as sometimes you had 5 min for an entire meal and sometimes you missed a meal due to chores. The food was mediocre but on restrictions it got worse. We were marched around campus and told to do random chores all while being barked at by people who
Letter From the Executive Director 2020
2020… Where do we even begin? Part of me was dreading this year’s end of the year letter. With all of the loss, separation, social distancing (do we hate that phrase yet?) and anxiety that we all felt, how do I even try to articulate the kind of year that The Humanity Preservation Foundation – HPF for the cool kids – had? For a lot of us, 2020 was about survival. Whether it was surviving a conference call with your boss while the kids are having an epic lightsaber battle behind you. Or going into the office every day because you work in food service and people gotta eat. Or maybe losing that job and not knowing exactly how the electric bill is going to get paid, we ALL had our battles. What ended up motivating me to write this letter? Well, it’s the fact that so many individuals embraced those battles and seem to be coming out of COVID a stronger person for it. Seeing people take the time to grow closer with loved ones (I know I did) search for a deeper meaning and refocus on what is important gives me hope for the future. There wasn’t a lot of quitting that’s for sure and there was some remarkable progress made as a species. As a nonprofit, I was never afraid that HPF was going to quit this year, but I was worried that we may become one of the 40% of charities that had to close their doors this year because funding was gone. Instead I was able to witness a very passionate group of volunteers step up and decide that we were going to make “lemons out of lemonade”. A group that has been making weekly Zoom calls cool before it was cool. There were a lot of Firsty Awards handed out to say the least. First Virtual OTA Happy Hour First Virtual HPF Bingo Event First Lemonade Stand First #AbuseStillSucks Campaign First Virtual 5K First #AbuseStillSucks High School Education Poster Program First Orange Meets Purple Event First #SundayStories Email First #BreakingCodeSilence Special on #HandsOff First Masquerade Ball The list could go on, but what I want to mention is that at this year’s OTA Masquerade Ball, I left all of the attendees and those that tuned into the livestream with a challenge. I asked that everyone try and make one small step on a daily basis that exemplifies living your life with an Orange Heart. Living your life with an Orange Heart can mean whatever you want it to mean. Personally, I try to focus on strengthening the relationships that are important to me and not being so negative. It’s making that little bit of extra effort that can sometimes go a very long way. Have you been keeping up with your challenge? If not, how are you going to live with an Orange Heart in 2021? I would be curious to know, so try messaging us on Social Media or sending us an email or tweeting us or all that other good stuff. I wish you a truly healthy and happy 2021 and can’t thank you enough for choosing to follow along on this wild adventure. Just remember, there is no light without darkness and I can’t imagine happiness without some sorrow. Thank you from the bottom of my Orange Heart. Charles “Buddy” Custer Executive Director / Co-Founder BCuster@HumanityPreservationFoundation.org
Elizabeth’s Time at Mount Bachelor Academy
A month after my 13th birthday, I was sent to Mount Bachelor Academy (“MBA”). 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 1989 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 and 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 was 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 had 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 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 Lifestep “The Castle” was 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
Alexandra’s Experience at Growing Together
On February 28, 2004, I was involuntarily entered into a controversial drug-treatment center for teens, and my life was changed forever. But first, a little bit of what led me to the program called “Growing Together” in Palm Beach County, Florida. The label of ‘troubled teen’ was assigned to me sometime in 2002, when I was thirteen years old and in sixth grade. I was shamed and labeled a slut as well by the mothers and religious leaders at the Christian school I attended because my body had developed sooner than most of the other girls my age. There were also rumors about my parents separating and it seemed like the whole school knew about it. With all of this going on the faculty at the school decided I needed to be ‘saved.’ They forced me to get on my knees and recite their prayers, they forced their religious beliefs and Bible verses down my throat every chance they got. In response, I grew angry at God because of the way it was all being relentlessly pushed on me. Eventually I got so sick of it all, I just went along and did what they wanted so they would leave me alone. A few months later though, my school year ‘ended early’ (I was not technically expelled, but forced to leave early) because I wrote, “Just smoke weed, that’s all you will ever need,” in a classmate’s yearbook. The following school year was a huge transition for me. I entered eighth grade in public school, and it was difficult to find a place to fit in since I was coming from a private school. I barely knew anyone there since I hadn’t attended this school the previous year in seventh grade like almost everyone else. While trying to find a new set of friends, I was being silly and teasing a boy by taking his hat in one class, but after class he punched me a few times in front of a group of kids and no one did anything to stop it. Later that same month I got expelled for deciding to sell a girl a Xanax pill I had found to try to make some money since I was not legally able to have a job, but I had no idea the pill I sold her would cause her to have an allergic reaction. So now, it was off to an alternative school that was an hour and a half away from home. This is where I learned what it was like to be around people who don’t like you because of your skin color. Being the only white girl in the school quickly taught me to just do my work, stay out of everyone’s way and bring nothing of value from home to school. The girls wanted to fight me all the time just because my grades were going up and I had a release date to go back into the regular school system. This was one of the most terrifying times I ever had in the education system and I was glad I survived it. Meanwhile, I grew up watching my parents physically abuse each other after my brother was born, separate from each other, renew their vows and separate again until my mother decided to file divorce papers on Valentine’s Day of 2003, when I was fourteen years old. Little did I know this was just the beginning of even more turmoil to come. My mother moved my brother and I five times within the year and we were both confused and repeatedly struggling to make a new circle of friends. My mother was going out to bars every weekend and leaving me home alone with my seven-year-old brother. The relationship with my father was non-existent because my mother told me the divorce was all of his fault, which I would later learn was untrue. When I was able to go out with friends, mom allowed me to hang out with people who were much older than I was, and I began experimenting with drugs. It was that spring when I lost my virginity and became sexually active. I was also taken advantage of by multiple people in 2003. During this time, my mother was always hustling to make some side money, doing things from renting a room out of her house to breeding dogs. One time my mother rented out a room to a ‘friend’ of mine who was a twenty-three-year-old man. He also worked for my mother doing handy-man tasks around the house and barn. This supposed friend of mine on the night of his birthday which was a school night. He came home drunk at 4:30am, entered my room with a condom on, put a pillow over my head and raped me. I was frozen with fear. I was screaming inside of my mind but I couldn’t move. The next day, not knowing what else to do, I told my mother what happened. I was shocked when she didn’t believe me. This was the worst day in my life. So I talked to my friends about it and they didn’t believe me either. NO ONE BELIEVED ME. My anger took root and grew more and more each day until I decided I had to take drastic measures to get him out of the house. I decided to try to commit suicide on a Friday night by walking in the road late at night with my arms wide open, hoping a truck would hit me. When a SUV drove by, instead of hitting me, he stopped and asked me if I was ok. I told him no, that I wanted to die. I was already dead inside and felt all alone with no one to turn to for help. When I went back home that night my fight or flight response kicked in. The moment my assailant arrived back at the house, I started throwing everything I could at him. Hair dryer, an
Orange meets Purple | #BreakingCodeSilence
September 29, 2019 (9/29) my buddy Josh was caught for a 2nd time in a one-month period using again – a relapse after being clean for 6 years. He is what I consider as a “beyond a best friend”. He is married with 2 little kids and that day decided that he was going to give up all hope. I had been helping him out since December, 2018 as he was dealing with some recurring child abuse trauma that he faced when he was a kid as a result of being sent off to a behavior modification school (also known as Troubled Teen Industry) that had resurfaced as he approached his 30thbirthday. I myself am a survivor of child (sexual) abuse and although different than his situation the aftereffects and resurfacing of the trauma are the same. I went public with my story on Oprah in 2010 and launched a foundation to assist those that have been victimized and educate to prevent it from happening to others. My knowledge in this area is quite full and my friend had trusted me with his story and guidance. The foundation’s logo is that of an Orange Heart – representing kindness, positive energy and hope. On 9/29 when he finally answered my txt and finally let me call him, he told me where he was, and he allowed me to come to him. We sat in each other’s cars for 5.5 hours and I walked him through a better plan, took him to rehab where he would detox, start a program, and go into therapy. That was over a year ago and he is not only sober but thriving with a new perspective on that matter. I do all kinds of speaking presentations on the subject matter of childhood trauma and that often addiction is the symptom of a bigger issue and that many do not even realize that what happened to them as a child has a profound impact on them later on to the point where drugs and alcohol seem like a better solution. People do not understand how trauma effects the brain long term. My heart breaks for those that have been abused or neglected in some way, by people that didn’t see the worthiness of a child. And THEN they or society discounts them even more when they decide to take drugs to numb out what hurts classifying them as something less than human because they are an addict. My friend who is also a member of our team of volunteers and I decided we would create and host an event in Riverside, NJ in September (9/26/20) – in honor of overdose awareness/recovery month – with that color being purple and decided to call it “Orange meets Purple”! The event is to bring awareness to the connection of childhood trauma and addiction and let people know that it is okay. That as a child you were a victim at the hands of an adult that should have taken better care of you and that help and recovery is possible. We will tell the full story of that day (almost a year ago) and provide support materials at a breakfast. Enough is enough with hurting children! Enough is enough with hurt adults thinking whatever happened was their fault compounded with that of a substance addiction. I could have lost my friend and there is not a day that goes by that I am not thankful he is still here and healthy. Married, raising his two children, working hard every day at his job and at the same time helping others! No matter what I will stand by his side and it is a true honor that it will include having him next to me at this event! If you are a victim of childhood trauma, I am happy to talk to you about it! Editor’s Note: The Orange meets Purple event took place on 9/26/20 and was a great success. My buddy Josh and I were able to tell the story of what happened that day and inspire others to not give up hope knowing that there is a better way. We were also able to provide language to the need to prevent childhood trauma but if in fact it has happened then it is critically important that it be addressed through the recovery process. With just over 50 attendees, we had 3 to 4 addiction recovery agencies handout information of the services that they offer, provided guests with a list of suggested readings, and a list of movies on the subject matter. Some guests received books that were given away as well as an iPad (critical for attending meetings in a COVID/Virtual world). The tag line of this event read as followed “HOPE is the first step” – and nothing could be truer. The Humanity Preservation Foundation will be hosting the 2nd annual “Orange meets Purple” on August 21, 2021.
Paths that Change and the Gifts that Come with the Changes
It was very early on when the path of my life was decided and probably earlier then the typical child. At the time, I really had no idea how the paths of life can change and change so quickly. It was my 4th grade year of elementary school and I was very excited to have the teacher that I was going to have for the year. My brother that was 3 years older then I had the same teacher for his 4th grade year. I will call him Mr. A. That’s right – Mister! For me it was the first time that I realized that a man could be a teacher. I had a great relationship with Mr. A and during the course of the year, from time to time; he would allow me to grade some papers or assist him in the classroom with a variety of tasks. Whenever he wanted a volunteer for something I was sure to raise my hand. It didn’t take long for me to realize that when I was to become an adult I wanted to be a teacher! For me, it was one of those things that I just knew for certain and it wasn’t long after that I decided I wanted to teach at the elementary level for special education. As sure as I was about what I wanted to do when I grew up is how much I was unaware of how one’s path in life could change and quickly at that. I was a typical kid that was growing up in the 70’s at the Jersey Shore in the typical home life set up of mom, dad, brother and myself. It was a very small town in which everyone pretty much knew each other and it was customary at the time to never have a locked door on your house. It was a time period where you went outside to play, and you didn’t come back until it was time to eat dinner. Just 3 years after making my decision of wanting to be a teacher my life would change forever. It was at the age of 12 when I was sexually abused by a trusted neighbor. The horrific acts that took place would ravage my body and claim my innocence, purity, and the loss of childhood. What would remain, that I would carry right into my adult life would be a fragile young man. Even though what you would see was an exterior that portrayed that everything was ok. That’s because this was a customized abuse. Complete with grooming and a tailored made plan that would make me feel like a willing participant that would only get into trouble if I ever spoke up. It would last for a period of 5 years when at the age of 17 I put a stop to it by saying I could not do it any longer. It wasn’t until I was 21 that I would tell my girlfriend, (who became my wife), what had happened to me. I was under the misconception that in doing so, I was healed from this level of abuse, but never really knew that it was abuse or that I had nothing to do with what happened to me. It was something that I just didn’t want to speak of again and that would only lead to it sitting inside of me. My defense mechanism was that I would just simply lead the perfect life and a home, career, and two children later, that is exactly what I did. It was the same thing that I did in high school and it worked then. All I had to do was excel at everything I did and nobody would ever see a flaw. The only problem is that life gets complicated, and paths change. For 24 years I had maneuvered in this manner and the bottom gave out in 2005 and it was then that I decided that I need to seek professional help so that I could move past this and live freely! After 5 years of therapy, and countless number of times I felt like I moved beyond my childhood, it would rear its ugly head again. After putting my story in a book format, the reality of it all scared me to the point where I couldn’t even recognize who I was and wanted out of my life, marriage, etc. I knew I had to do something and remembered an organization that had group weekends of recovery, Malesurvivor.org. Everything that I had done up until that moment was in preparation for what was about to happen. In May of 2010 I attended their Weekend Of Recovery and it turned my life around. For the first time I was witnessing and hearing all the thoughts that had been in me for nearly 30 years and the amazing power of knowing that you are not alone. I could see the shattered look in the other men’s eyes, and it was one that I had seen in myself, but also in others that I could not place my finger on. Regardless, I came out of that weekend for the first time really knowing that what happened to me was not my fault. With that came a drive to want to speak out knowing how many men and women suffer from the ugly and destructive affects child sexual abuse has on the victim and their families and being able to relate to that having gone through my own valiant battle. The opportunity to speak out would come 5 months later and on November 5, 2010, an episode of from the Oprah Winfrey Show aired on national television. She did a special called “200 Men Sexually Abused” with Tyler Perry and I was one of the men profiled on the show. It would be the first time that I publicly spoke of my abuse, and would also give details of what happened. It was the best thing I
Executive Director Letter 2019
A lot can happen in a year. Even more apparently can happen in a decade. HPF started the year off with a bang. We had the 2nd Annual Orange Tie Affair. We launched a web TV mini-series #HandsOff. We continued to help those needing advocacy support and those who had experienced abuse. And then something odd happened – we kind of hit a plateau. I’ve had countless conversations with other entrepreneurs and successful startups. Most of the books out there will tell you the same as well. Get to the 5 year mark and magical things will happen for your organization. There was a lot of excitement coming into this year and you could feel it at the OTA…and then it just stopped. Rhett and I had a few conversations about this sort of lull. Initially we chalked it up to summer time and post OTA blues, but then it continued on into the 2nd half of the year. Now when you reach a plateau like this, there are two ways to handle it. You can continue on doing the same things that got you here. Or you can take a step back and evaluate what happens “next”. We chose the ladder and it was the best decision we could’ve made. Taking a step back allowed us to look at how we’re structured and what’s going to allow us to continue to grow. And then something magical did happen. On December 1st, the State of New Jersey’s new legislation significantly extended the statute of limitations for sexual abuse claims. What this means is if you have been a victim of child sexual assault/abuse in The State of New Jersey, regardless of when it happened you have the right to investigate if you can file a claim. It was a game changer and it put HPF at the forefront of helping victims navigate what this change means. 2019 was another good year, but the 2010s was an even better decade. HPF is set up for more magic to happen in the roaring 20s and we hope you continue to stay along for the ride. There are some great partnerships in the works that will continue to allow us to support past victims and empower those that are looking to make a change. As google said with its end of year video – the world is looking for heroes and why can’t that be you? Thank you once again from the bottom of our orange hearts and we wish you a healthy, happy and love filled 2020. Charles “Buddy” Custer Executive Director / Co-Founder