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

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

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.  

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

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

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

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

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