evenlesssleep at Ironwood in Maine

This testimony was found on Reddit. All rights goes to the original author known as evenlesssleep.

Here is a quick summary off the top of my head, of what I believe are the worst things I experienced at Ironwood RTC (also affectionately known as "Ironhood" by a select few residents). I have tried posting something like this to the subreddit before, however I wasn't happy with the way I formatted the information. This post is now here to stay. I can guarantee that any information I have regarding Ironwood is more transparent than the information Ironwood's secretaries are willing to release, or even speak on. So please, feel free to ask if you have any questions.

If you are reading this because you are considering placing your child at Ironwood due to concerns about your child's mental well-being, please be aware that Ironwood is not licensed by the Department of Health and Human Services.

In 2006, Ironwood (IW) was founded with help by former employees from Turn-about Ranch (Wayne Stinson and Teresa Shinedling). I was a relatively new resident there, arriving in Winter of 2007 and "graduating" from the highest level of the program in 2008. I was escorted to this program from my home in FL, three weeks after I turned sixteen years old for the reason being that I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. I spent eight months in this program.

CONCERNING PRIVACY

I was required to write in a journal, which was explained to me as "a private resource that nobody will read" --Bonnie Rector. We were expected to write in these journals every night. Not writing your journal page for the night would result in a punishment. As a collective, our journals were systematically read by staff, who then used the contents of our journals against us during one of what we referred to as "intimidation sessions".

CONCERNING FREE SPEECH

My rights to communication were revoked for days at a time, under their rules of the "Code of Silence" (COS). I was not allowed to talk, acknowledge, laugh, make eye contact, write notes, or use sign language to communicate with other residents of the program, for things as simple as asking what their favorite musical group was. I simply cannot begin to count the amount of times I was put on COS. I recall one time I was put on COS for a day or two by Brian York, because I dared to utter the words "Jesus Christ" in a conversation that was within earshot of him. There was also another time where I asked a new resident what kind of music he had liked, while we did dishes, and Lisa Wing gave me a COS for the rest of the day.

CONCERNING MAIL CENSORSHIP

My outgoing mail was censored. We were forced to write "e-letters" home every Wednesday. These were written on A4 printing paper, which were never placed in envelopes, but instead handed straight to a designated staff member, who then scanned these documents using a computer and sent the resulting electronic file to my parents' e-mail. We were instructed that the e-letters had to be of a positive nature, regardless of you were actually feeling that day, otherwise we were to be punished. I recall a point in which I was sitting in a corner, with tears of sadness falling from my eyes, re-writing my e-letter home because the one I had originally written to my parents wasn't "satisfactory enough" per Erin Wilbur and Gordon Thayer's expectations.

I had a peer of mine confide in me that they were told by staff members they were "writing too many letters home".

Another peer of mine actually had one of his sealed envelope letters opened by a staff member named D'arcy, who read it over and told him that he didn't write enough in the letter to his parents, despite the fact that he was going on his "home visit" to see his parents the very next day. He was at the highest level in the program when this happened. Despicable.

My very first day at IW, I was forced to write a letter home to my parents while on "Impact". Impact was where you went if you didn't subscribe to the program in full. It was a 4x4 foot circle of rocks in the woods, that you were not allowed to leave. You are given a fire to keep warm. You are not allowed to let the fire go out, even if the wood is burning wet, and the wind is blowing smoke in your face for hours. If you left the circle, your time in the circle started over. You were not allowed to communicate with other residents (COS) while on Impact. You were not allowed to sleep or lay down while on Impact. Its purpose was to allow a person reflect on why they were in that situation, in addition to detoxifying new residents. Anyway, I must have written a four page letter while in that circle. When I was finished, a staff member named Greg Cooley read my letter and gave me an extra day in isolation because the contents of my letter were negative. My first four days at this program were spent in isolation.

CONCERNING TRANSGRESSIONS

I was unreasonably punished for my actions.

I was sent to "Impact" again for 3 days, after asking Aimee LeClerc if I could go outside to watch the rest of the boy's group play basketball. This was a day or two prior to Thanksgiving, marking my second week at Ironwood. This means I had literally spent 50% of my first two weeks in this program in their freeze your ass version of solitary.

A couple of months later, I had belched a single time during lunch, and was given twelve demerits for doing so (they were trying to also make laughing at farts a punishable offense, I kid you not.). This translated to me being expected to perform twelve additional hours of labor, in addition to a demerit I had already "earned". I was forced to work a total of thirteen hours on our "free" day, Sunday.
At one point, I had attempted to file a complaint to staff that certain residents were physically assaulting me when staff was not on the floor. I was punished to "Work Impact", along with the entire boy's group, to fix ruts in the road at the main entrance in order to "protect my identity". I was forced to work with the perpetrators, and they were able to easily deduce that I was the reason why they were being punished.

CONCERNING EMOTIONAL NEGLECT AND APPROPRIATE ACCESS TO MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES

I witnessed a young man in a wheelchair harm himself by dumping his body into a fire pit. He was within 30 yards of me, as we were both on "Impact", otherwise known as isolation. I can still feel the cold and sharp sting of adrenaline I felt at that moment. I can still hear the thumping of his body after he fell. I still hear the crackling of his orange jumpsuit as he writhed in the fire. I was unable to go anywhere while this happened. I was forced to stay in that stone circle, to watch and to listen. I asked to speak to a licensed therapist within the hour after I had witnessed that, and I was denied. It wasn't because these events unfolded at an unreasonable hour either--it was broad daylight.
That was not an isolated incident either. There were plenty of other times where I had asked for access to a licensed therapist while in isolation while under incredible emotional distress, I had been refused services.

Why was I refused adequate access to mental health services? This event haunts me to this day.

CONCERNING PROPER CARE OF FOOD PREPARATION AND CONSUMPTION

Food was used as a punishment. We were forced to consume bulgur wheat in it's raw and uncut form, which made the entire boy's lodge ill. I was forced to eat avocado slices that had been left to ferment on a table for three hours while we were in school session, which led to my becoming painfully ill as my insides rejected it. We were forced to consume highly unpalatable food that staff were unwilling to even taste. I wonder if there are any of my peers out there that still remember "Ashtray Chili", and "Formaldehyde Noodles".

CONCERNING MEDICAL NECESSITIES

My mother and father made clear to me that they paid money for IW to have my teeth examined. At not one point during my stay there, was I brought to a dental clinic to see this procedure through.
What happened? Where is that money now?

CONCERNING SLEEP

In the lower levels of this program, only an army blanket and sleeping bag were all we were given to sleep with (we slept on particle board with no pillows or mattresses). We were told that if we were caught using the army blanket given to us as a pillow, we would be punished. I slept in this fashion for over three months before I "earned" the right to use a pillow.

CONCERNING VERBAL ABUSE

I was verbally abused by staff members. I quote,
"You look like the type of person that abuses animals." --Aimee Leclerc "You're an asshole." --Erin Wilbur

CONCERNING PROPAGANDA

We were expected to be columnists for "The Treatment Times", a summary of our activities at IW. I was under the impression that this information we had authored was sent to our parents back at home through the same means as our "e-letters". I was shocked to find out that they were using my writings, including images of me, without permission-- as a propaganda tool for themselves on the IW website. It took over a month, and multiple phone calls in order for them to comply with my demand that they were not allowed to use my image, nor my written works without my exclusive permissions.

CONCERNING CODE VIOLATIONS

There was a ladder inside of the main lodge of the level 1's and 2's, that was built out of scrapped tree trunks the level 1's and 2's had found in the woods surrounding Ironwood. This ladder was used for access to a loft which held supplies. When code inspection day came, I was instructed along with another resident to carry that very ladder out of the lodge, and to bury it under foliage behind the level 1's and 2's facility. This same ladder was shortly brought back into use inside the lodge after the inspection officials had left.
Why couldn't IW afford to buy/install a ladder that was up to code? Shameful.

I wish I was making this up, however everything that I have written here is true, and is just the tip of the iceberg. I will try to update this as much as I humanly can, as my memories are innumerable. Anyone with a logical explanation for how any of this is an effective treatment for major depressive disorder, I urge you to please leave an answer, as I have not found one yet. I, like many of you out there, fear that I now suffer from post-traumatic stress as a result of being sent to this type of facility. I fear that I will never be granted closure regarding this experience, due to the moral apathy and inaction of Marion and Rod Rodrigue, the original founders. Cheers.


Sources:

• The original testimony on Reddit
• Factsheet about the facility (Fornits Wiki)

Aftermath of a stay at the Discovery Academy

This testimony was found on Reddit. It covers mostly the aftershock of having been placed in a institutionalized environment. All rights goes to the original author.

I started smoking meth at age 16. I grew up in a decent home, but my ma is crazy (neurotic i think), was emotionally absent as a mother and left when I was 15 for a man she reconnected with thru AOL. I had a hard time fitting into society in Texas and went down the wrong path way too early, having being given independence from my parents, but not much guidance. Everybody says I'm "book smart", but I had no idea what I was getting into as that little girl.

Meth was great for a while, partied on and off. Had awesome crazy sex, got my homework done, room was clean, and I'd tweak out and do artwork. I didn't get caught til I was 17, when I was nearly kicked out of high school for selling Xanax to support my meth habit, but was only caught with a weed pipe.

I was sent to wilderness therapy, which sucked but was cool. Following that time in the woods, i was immediately taken to an institution called "disovery academy", a therapeutic boarding school, aka lockdown for rich kids. The effects of institutionalization have never left me. If jnterested, see Erving goffman's "total institution".

That school was a few states away from my home state, but on my 18th birthday, I left because they couldn't legally hold me for therapy anymore, I would have to check myself in, and I refused, being able to see the program for its exploitative, harmful nature. My father and his new wife (who had encouraged sending me away so there would be no obstacles to her wedding) refused to let me stay with them. My mother wanted to send me to another state to live with her sister. Mind you, before all this, I had just been a high school student with no responsibilities. Now, I'm 18, and I'm gonna have to pay all my bills, find somewhere to live and try and stay sober with no support from my family, who were busy with their new families. So I tried. I went to the other state. It didnt work. I came back to texas and did ok for a few months. I paid rent at my mothers husbands house. I paid my phone and my car insurance and found a good job in literally one week. I started community college eventhough I never technically finished high school, I flew under the radar with great SAT scores.

Well I couldn't hold it together. My family were acting terrible, and I had no life skills for handling responsibility. My stepdad kicked me out, due to his anger/control issues, eventhough i was as straight as possible (only a little beer/weed after work). So i reacted and I made some really bad choices and spent a few months in a terrible period of my life, freshly 18y/o girl spun out in Dallas. The things I have seen and the people I have met are the worst. It kills me to think that people have to grow up in those families. I have lasting damage from being raped several times, starting before the meth use, and during this period the sexual exploitation was the worst. I now live in a state far away from my loving family partially because of this period in my life. There are a few people-- mid level suppliers and gang bangers who I absolutely do not want to run into. Then there are my scummy former cohorts, white trash from my hometown who I let pimp me out to the threat above. I strive to live a beautiful life these days just to spite them. In a few short months of constant meth use I experienced: beatings (the worst my ex smushed my face into a parking lot), three times people tried to steal my car, I was roofied, I was banned from motel 6 because I had a threesome over a pile of dollar store stuff that we dumpster dived and we left the room trashed, I was pimped out at the end of a five day long acid trip to a scary ass dealer and now still fear that they will come after me for not taking a trap they set up, I went thru five phones and two blackberries, had another threesome and ruined my friendship with my best gf, got chlamydia/hpv and possibly herpes, was arrested and jailed for five days and then had to do the whole probation/court dance, I was chased by gang members and had to hitchhike forty plus miles to safety, I was nearly beaten for the accepting the help of a black stranger and really, I came out better than most. After I lost my car and therefore place to live, I begged my mom to let me stay at her stupid husbands house again and got myself into state college ASAP.

College was going great until I transferred to Austin. I never really dealt with my issues eventhough I had quit meth for good. Was stil young enough not to know how to even feed myself nutriously. Got depressed, started partying. Made the huge mistake of doing heroin at a party, cause I'm into uppers right? Got hooked instantly, as you would expect from someone who started smoking meth at 16. Spent a year terribly addicted to heroin, hiding my junkie abusive mooch boyfriend in my tiny college apt with fiveroommates listening to our drug use/domestic violence. Well, I eventually broke up with him, couldn't kick the habit and got a sugar daddy, as I was reading Lolita at school, shudder. Just as I went back and fucked the first boy who raped me (who was a 15 y/o high on meth when he did it, but it was before I started using), I went back and fucked my sugar daddy again when I by chance reconnected with him clear across the country after I got completely sober. Confusingsentence but point is, lasting issues.

To conclude, I haven't used heroin in three+ years or any opiates and it has been a huge struggle. My ex got hep c. I have a thousand dollar ambulance bill because I fainted at work from the blood test I had for hep c. I am neg, but it is karma. Everyday is a challenge not to do drugs, and normal life is always slightly less enthralling, kind of dull. I still yearn for support. I have a normal 8-5 and no one even knows, because I moved several states and I have an "honest face" and dont want to expose my past. I often feel that if it hadn't been for that goddamn meth so young, I wouldn't have such intense opiate cravings. I also still crave meth after having not touched it in 6+ years and knowing it is foul poison. And like I said, I came out relatively unscathed; if it hadn't been for my family coming around eventually and being decent in the first place, I wouldn't have been able to bounce back as easily as I did as many times as I did.

Sources:

• The original testimony (Reddit)
• Factsheet about the school (Fornits Wiki)

Elan School testimony (From:Reddit)

This place only still exist because so many people believe that it doesn't or that it can't. I believe that the internet is our #1 tool for exposing these horrid blind spots for what they are. Help me Reddit!

I was sent to a place called The Elan School in 1998 and I was only 16. The scary thing is that Elan is still open, kids aged 13-20 are there right now. Normal kids, many whom may have smoked a joint or two, or who swore at their parents. Of course there were also real criminals there, but they did not make up the majority.

The "school" accepted anyone and then held them as long as they possibly could depending on the age of the child. If you were sent at 14 (many were) you may have been looking at 3-4 years. This is because The Elan School collects $50,000 a year per child, either from the child's state, school, or parents. And, of course, money was the only motivation of the staff and directors. These were the people in charge of your "progress" in the program.

I could write for hours about it, instead I ask you to skim the following bullet points and to understand that I am telling the truth.

We were forced to participate in staff-organized fight clubs, none of which were fair, all were designed to humiliate one child who would be put up against at least 3 others. So even the children who "followed the rules" were forced to fight: in the name of "good".

Children who tried to rebel or be free-thinking were thrown into an isolation room where they had to stay for months at a time, they had to sleep at night on a dirty mattress on the floor of the isolation room The mattress was brought to them at midnight and they were woken up around 7am.

We were all forced to perform in a ritual called a "General Meeting" where the entire house (60 or more boys and girls) screamed at one child who stood behind a broomstick. Many times they were forcibly held up by two other students so they would have to accept the punishment.

Education was considered a right, but those of us who earned the right were still robbed of an education. School was from 7pm-11pm: no homework, no test, no projects. Ex: math class consisted of grabbing a math book and handing the teacher at least one page of work.

The other 12 hours of the day consisted of constant conditioning and brainwashing. In the beginning you obviously rejected it, but then you would be "dealt with". You would not be able to rise through the ranks of the program to earn more 'rights' until you could prove yourself to be a good candidate for more brainwashing. Eventually it became your responsibility to begin indoctrinating the newer residents (basically you, six month earlier). You had Strength and Non-Strength. Non-Strength's were not allowed to talk, interact, or communicate in any way with other Non-Strengths. It took a minimum of 6 months to earn the title of "Strength". It took some kids years to earn "Strength". Some kids never did.

Elan made money based on the amount of time it took for you to graduate "the program". You had to have a minimum of 7 promotions before you were a candidate for "graduation". Each promotion took a minimum of 3 months, and 90% of the kids never made it past the 5th promotion. These kids had to wait until they turned 18 and could legally sign themselves out. Other kids stayed past their 18th birthday, which is a true testament to the effectiveness of the brainwashing, I remember one dude was 23.

Your level of high-school had no reflection whatsoever on your ability to leave Elan. I was forced to do my senior year of high school twice, even though I was technically done after the first senior year.

The staff members were primarily former students who were hired by Elan after graduating from the program. Many arrived in BMW's and clearly made 6 figure incomes. None of them had degree's in psychology, education, social work, etc... Many of them never went to college at all.

All outgoing letters to parents were screened, many of us having to write many different drafts until they were accepted. All phone calls to our parents were monitored, we were allowed about 15 minutes a week and the person who monitored the call would have their hand hovering over the hang-up button as a constant reminder of our reality.

We were not allowed to write or receive letters until we earned the right (this could take 8 months or more). When someone found out where I was and wrote me, my unopened letters were ripped up in front of me as motivation to move up in the program.

I feel like I am beginning to write too much and I do not want to overwhelm anyone who made it this far. Because most of the bullet points honestly require further explanation to give the full impact of what Elan truly was.

The most important thing that anyone can do is to be aware of this place and make sure that nobody you know ever gets sent there for any reason. If you are a parent then do not send your child there. If you know someone who is there now then beg the parents to do more research.

The amount of suicides and tragic deaths of former Elan students is reason enough to take this post seriously.

Sources:
Even skimming this post once will blow your mind, most probably think thats its made up but you would be dead wrong (The original testimony on Reddit)

Renee at Bethel Girls Academy (From:Reddit)

The Reddit message board did just publish yet another story, which we have chosen to re-publish in full.

All rights belong to the original author.

Hello my name is Renee Newsome, I attended a school in Petal, MS called Bethel Girls Academy. I was there for 10 months. The program is now shut down. It was shut down by the DHS in Mississippi in February 2005. I was there when they shut down, to a point I was saddened because I knew I needed help but this place only made my situation worse by far.

I didn’t have the greatest childhood, i didn’t have a real mom or dad, things happened to me, I was abused and neglected. And my real dad was in prison he had no choice but to sign his rights off to the government. My great-grandmother spent money to bring me out of my mom’s side of the family to bring me into my dad’s side. Problem is, I was very young, I only knew sex and violence I didn’t have a foundation set for me as a youngster. My first 31/5 years were hell. And when my Aunt tried to make things right, it didn’t help due to I was being severely spoiled. We tried many different public schools, my social skills were lacking big time. I would pick fights I didn’t care about anything unless it was myself. I was about 4 years old and things started to happen on my dad’s side of the family. And it did not stop till I was placed into Bethel Girls Academy. I started to tell close family members and friends what was going on. When my Aunt caught word of it she did not believe it and flat out called me a liar.

She tried to seek counseling for me to have the truth covered by lies. Well I quit going to these sessions and decided that suicide was my best option. I tried twice, and failed.

The night the transporters came to take me to the school I had taken around 30 sequel that night. Hence the beginning, of my hellish journey.

I was woke up I was very drowsy and really didn’t care where I was going as long as I getting away from Michigan. I went willingly I had a man and a woman for transporters. There were very nice to me. But never did I expect what lied ahead 10 hours later. We made it down this long dirt road and I seen this building with a pool in front. I knew this place seemed like a prison and I wasn’t even inside yet. As soon as I walked in the doors I was greeted by Herman Fountain Jr. He led me to his office and asked me why I was here. I said because I was violent, and my grandfather sexually abused me, he flat out called me a liar. I knew then we would never see eye to eye while I was there. I was told to take my clothes off and put on used uniforms the program had. A higher level girl was in charge of me. I was in orientation the whole time I was there, I refused to be programmed like most of the girls there. School was a joke by far, the schooling program they had there, wasn’t even accredited by real schools. I learned this when I went to another program and I had to re-take 10-12 grades.

Level 1 girls had to ask for permission to speak, permission to talk, permission to go to the bathroom, permission to even write. If you failed to ask permission you would have to endure endless hours of military style exercising, bends and thrusts, male push-up, pull ups, duck walks, bear crawls, squats keeping your hands straight out staying in this position many minutes. To the point you were going to fall over. One day I was minding my own business, and a girl called me a whore, I called her a bitch next thing I remember I had 15 girls on top of me beating me, staff were rooting them on as I fought my way out, I cussed and screamed even at staff, I fought with a female staff member, nothing can compare what Mr. Fountain would have me do. I had to wake up at 3am go outside with a spoon and dig a hole in the ground until 8pm at night. I told him you can do what you want to me but I will not break for you nor anyone else.

Soon after I tried running from the program US soldiers and staff came after me tackled me and said we are going to make you exercise ever demon in you out, this was my breaking point to say fuck all of you and this hell, 15 hours of pure exercising and hell, at this point I was inviting demons in me lol at least they would give me energy to endure all this hell.

Mr. Fountain himself came in that day 15 hours later, took me into the orientation room and asked me if I was still going run, I said if given the opportunity again hell yes I will run. To bad i didn’t try and run again. I had to stand in the corner for 10 hours for days. Endless hours of running around in a circle outside some girls passed out, some girls were denied medical care, ie asthma breathing machine before and in middle of the running, bear crawls, and ducks walks. Water was a something you had to earn, 5 miles of running got you water, 2 miles of bear crawls got you water, 3 miles of duck walks got you water. Otherwise you suffered, and passed out. More than once girls would pass out, and ice cold water would be thrown on them and they have to keep running, this happened to me as well, the third time was a charm, they had to take me to hospital. for a heat stroke and being severely dehydrated. I was in the hospital for 20 hours give or take a few on that. At least I got 4 days vacation from exercising that when things started to look up for me.

I was getting in less trouble and started to do my program, so for the next week or two, I was in a small room with only a tape player. No food no shower for those days either. I had to listen to Herman fountains dads preaching tapes from 5am-8pm. There was as small cabinet in there I was so hungry that I went thru it and found instant coffee and flavored creamer. I tell you what, dried coffee and creamer never tasted so good in my life before this.

One day we were in the pool having a good old time in the water. All of a saddened I did not feel good. And I knew this feeling from being home and being stung by yellow jackets, and sweat bees. I went inside hardly able to breathe said I needed to go the hospital right now, no one listened to me, after about 45 minutes I could feel I was starting to slip away, I had hives covering my body, I was swollen it looked like I was a balloon. A higher level girl had to help undress me to get into dry clothes. It took this place an HOUR to make sure I wasn’t lying about being deadly allergic to bees, they called my Aunt, my Aunt told them, are you crazy when she says she got stung take her hospital immediately. We finally made it the hospital I was taken straight to ER, doctors came in and told me if they waited another 5 minutes I would have died. I was in the hospital again for 24 hours. I was on special medicine for 2 weeks for the hives and swollenness. My exercising was limited to not very much. I was placed in a room for the rest of days until the program shut down only myself, and no one else was allowed in my room. Finally got what I wanted. We were forced to go to church ever Sunday morning; we would stay at the church all day long until after Sunday night service. Some girls would sleep on the benches while some girls had to exercise for a while for any thing out of line. I remember one time a girl was sent to this program she looked at the boys, Herman Fountain Sr. at the alter told the staff to take her to the back and have her exercise the remaining of the service. I was applauded because this girl has seizures with any amount of stress or excessive exercising. Well she had three seizures that day, she was taken to the hospital, and never returned to the hell whole. Her parents came into Bethel, and had filed a lawsuit against bethel. I do not know how far they actually got with that.

Soon before Bethel shut down a girl came into the program she was 15 and pregnant, Mr. Fountain forced her to have a abortion, she came back to the program sickly, after our meal and shower time, 3 men came to take her to Tranquility Bay in Jamaica. Never heard from that girl again.

There was a snake in the kitchen, the girls were afraid, so was Herman fountain WOW! I picked up the harmless garder snake and took it outside. The staff put a child at rick, though the snake was not harmful, but what if it was???

There was a major staph infection outbreak in that place. Sanitation wise I’m surprised other infections were not caused to the body. No one had proper medical treatment so this shit was spreading from one girl to the next like a wild fire. Luckily, I stayed my distance away from these girls. Though I did get a skin condition called hydradenitis supperitva. It’s a major acne infection, and in severe conditions causes mrsa infection. Which I have had.

Girls would get bronchitis, severe colds, all that given was home remedies no doctors basically you stuck thru it and still had to do excessive exercising in summer, winter, spring, and fall.

I was threatened Tranquility Bay by Mr., Fountain, I told him my aunt would never allow it, he said we will see about that, 15 minutes later he came back and said I was right. I proceeded to say even you can’t break me. He said I’m gonna send Sgt. Knox to speak with you from the boys home.

So this short black man, with a pissy attitude worse than a rattle snakes attitude. Screamed, and spit on me saying, either get with the program or he was gonna make me sweat blood, and I could not stop until the walls would sweat blood with me. Mr. Fountain told him to give me a example. Sgt. Knox made me roll in the mud outside and come inside and exercise till my legs gave out. 2 hours later he said if he gets called back here, I’ll be transported to Tranquility Bay, I said I already told you all my aunt won’t allow it so go ahead try your luck either way I can’t and won’t be broken you or anyone else. Sgt. Knox looked at me and said you’ve been here 10 months and not much has changed with you. He said I guess your right your never gonna change people might as well give up on you and throw the keys away. He said, I was asking to be molested by my grandfather, that I was a whore, and slut and not even meds could help that. Mr. Fountain always called the girls freak shows, whores or whatever he felt like. He also had the upper level girls punish the lower levels hitting, punching, kicking, spitting, whatever that upper level girl wanted to do to a lower level. These girls were trained to be violent. But some were against it that’s why the girls started a riot and hell was shut down. Our parents had 24 hours to get us or we were going to be under Mississippi child services. A lot of girls were seriously injured by staff. The program about 3 months before it shut down Mr. Fountain had a hired a “so-called” therapist to come and talk to the girls each week. Well after about 3 weeks I noticed a lot of the girls were really flirtatious with him. My suspicion was heighten but didn’t say anything until one day a girl came to my isolated room and said can I talk to you, I said sure what’s wrong, she started crying, she said that this man (I forgot his name), had touched her in a sexual matter, I said have you told Mr. Fountain? She said no. No sooner than she said no, I heard Mr. Fountain coming down the hall in the dorms, I said this girl is saying that man touched her in a sexual matter. About 6 girls came forward and said same thing. he looked speechless I said is there a camera in that office he said no. I said I might be stupid in your eyes but you may want to get a camera in that room to see if this shit is true.

The very next day he got a camera installed in that room and come to find out the girls were telling the truth. The man was fired as far as i know no charges were pressed against him.

What I and many other girls went through was insane and crazy. Some girls would get caught, taking care of there sexual urges when they thought no one was looking. Staff would be called in and the girls forced by military personal to work out that urge thru hellish exercising and scriptures from the bible being forced down our throat for how wrong it was to do this. We were called disgusting, sluts, whores, and many other names. Almost everything was a crime in that placed. And it was all under military I felt like I was going through boot camp than getting the help I needed to be successful in life. They should have at least let us gave us a damn trophy for doing the exercises and the lengths that adults would do in basic training.

It was all about the money and not what the child needed. I admit I needed the help, to a point this place which was under the WWASPS, meaning World Wide Association of Schools and Specialty Programs. They do not care what happens to you, family, as long as you live in pain then that makes them happy. This organization is a fucking living nightmare. Please avoid sending any child to a WWASPS program do your research first. Save your child from a world of suffering, pain, and not being able to be in the real world. If you are a WWASPS survivor you can contact me personally at 517-581-4836 or greed1888@gamil.com and I will help you thru and give you advise. Again my name is Renee Newsome and I approve this letter.

Sources:

• The original testimony on the Reddit message board
• Factsheet about the facility (Fornits Wiki)

Testimony about Turn-about Ranch (From Reddit.com)

The user on Reddit known made this comment on the webpage Reddit. All rights belong to the original author.

It sounds like the program has changed since I was there.

Similar thing happened to me when I was 17.

During high school, I was kind of a punk...or rather....kind of an obnoxious little brat, much like most 17 year olds of my generation. After a particularly loud argument with my father, we got into a fist fight which caused my mom to call the police.

When they arrived, My father's face was a mostly bruised and bloodied, where as I didn't have a scratch on me (my father was really only trying to hold me down while I thrashed at him). As the cops were beginning to cart me away I made just about the dumbest decision of my life. I turned to glare at my father and said "I'll kill you."

Needless to say, 30 minutes later, I was being escorted by 3 officers into the juvenile ward of a mental hospital. I spent a week imprisoned there with all sorts of drug addicted/bipolar/schizophrenic kids, not once hearing from my parents. During the course of my stay, I was stabbed with a dirty syringe, peed on, bitten, had feces thrown at me, and worst of all, woke up to my "roommate" lying dead in his bed, bedsheets tied around his neck. Now you must realize....I was a pretty well adjusted teenager.

I had nice friends, played music and sports, and did pretty well in school. I had never even been in the same room as any kind of drug. At worst, I was a brat with an additude problem and slight video game addiction. So going through all this scared me absolutely shit-less.

Finally my parents came to visit me, though rather than riding to my rescue like I thought they would, they only came to explain that they were sending me off to "somewhere that could help me". I was handed off the the two largest men I've ever seen, handcuffed and shoved into a car, and driven 18 hours to Middleoffuckingnowhere, Utah (aka Escalante, Utah).

I arrived at a place called Turnabout Ranch. From what I could see, it was basically a very small cabin, a barn, and a couple cows. I was greeted by a pair of haggard old rednecks, 1 man 1 woman. I was told not to speak a word to anyone except them, and only when directly spoken to. They brought me to a lean-to in front of the cabin, and a circle made from rocks, no bigger than 2 feet in diameter. I was told not to leave the circle, unless it was raining in which case i could go under the lean-to. I spent 3 days there, only leaving to go to the bathroom and sleep on the wood floor of the cabin.

After those three days, I was allowed to move "freely" around the ranch and talk to others. It took me about 2 days to attempt my first escape, 3 days for my first suicide attempt, and 1 week to finally get shipped off to another program for being to "unstable".

I was then shipped to Loa, Utah, and another program that I can't recall the name of. I was given my first meal since I arrived in utah that didnt consist of trail mix or ramen. I believe it was rice and beans. I spent a night in a small empty warehouse, sleeping on the floor with a few other kids, surrounded by adults armed with tazers.

In the morning, I was given a sleeping bag, a bedroll, a water bottle, a small sack of rations, placed in a car, and driven to what can only be described as the middle of the Mojave Desert. I was again greeted with more large men with tazers. There were 5 other kids in my "group", all of whom were completely amazing and supportive of each other, unlike our staff who mostly only spoke the threaten us in some way.

We hiked no less than 10 miles a day to resupply points where we could re-fill our clean water and rations. I spent 6 months in that desert, hiking day in and day out, until my 18th birthday when I was required by law to be released. During my time there, I wore only 2 separate changes of clothes, never brushed my teeth, took 5 or 6 "showers" via a bucket with holes in the bottom, was bitten by 2 snakes (and countless bugs), and broke my right ankle twice (i was still required to hike).

When I returned to my hometown, I explained to my parents all that had happened, and when I was done I didn't speak to them for over a year. It was only through a lot of counselling and a very large "We're sorry" monetary gift that I decided to let them back into my life.

Today, we're pretty close. I understand why they sent me away, and they regret not researching these programs more. There are still times where old feeling will emerge and I'll refuse to speak to them for a few days, but it's mostly all passed.

TL;DR My parents sent me to a mental hospital, and 2 separate and abusive "rehab programs" for 6 months.

Sources:

• Comment to: I was kidnapped in the middle of the night, flown to a wilderness therapy program, and imprisoned there for 3 months, all on orders from my parents. AMA.
• Turn-about Ranch on Fornits Wiki

Disowned after a stay at Shortridge Academy

Many families know already. Months of confinement are no fix for domestic rooted problems.

The Reddit message board did just publish yet another story, which we have chosen to re-publish in full.

All rights belong to the original author.

First introduction by Reddit:

I started /r/troubledteens to save kids from abuse at "troubled teen" facilities. It is common for places like this to tell parents to disown their own child, this kid is being thrown to the streets with barely any resources. I'll let you read his story, I've put more info about his upcoming situation & WAYS TO HELP HERE. For people who have never heard of the 'troubled teen' industry and why he needs help, look here.
tldr: Because his parents were displeased with his grades, C's, a teen was sent to an oppressive facility, Shortridge Academy of New Hampshire. Shortridge is run by the former staff of other programs which have been closed down for abusing children (WWASP, CEDU, Synanon). After 20 months of witnessing the self-abuse and suicide attempts of his peers, who didn't receive proper assistance, he works to create change in the program; in turn, the program convinces his parents to disown him. Now, at age 18, he is being tossed to the streets with with no money, no support, and no destination. Here is his story...

Hello, reddit. Thank you for reading this. It’s a long story, I know, but there are so many twists, I couldn’t make it shorter. And speaking of twists, I’m going to start at the mid-point.

It’s a cloudy night, early November. Unseasonably warm. I’m eighteen years old, and scared, elated, excited, a little guilty. I’m standing in a highway rest stop in rural New Hampshire as the sun sets in a gray sky. I’m standing next to a man I’ve grown close to, a man who represents what I’ve been fighting for fifteen months. We’re looking for the white car.

This car isn’t just some white car. This car is my salvation. As I search the lot for a Massachusetts plate, the man says, “Y’know, Jimmy, this doesn’t have to happen. We can still go back. I know how you feel about Shortridge, but we don’t abuse kids. You know that.”

“No,” I tell him. “I’m leaving."

No one in the real world calls me Jimmy. It was always James, back when things were real. Back when all I worried about was my brother’s growing drug problem, my grades, and how I could not get into a fight with my parents that night. I thought all that sucked. Looking back I realize I didn’t know what suck was. I didn’t know until I began my “therapeutic journey.”

I should’ve ran two years ago, sent away. I’m no better now than I was then: homeless, with $10 in my pocket and some clothes in a bin.

He asks me, since he owes me a dinner, where I want to go. I tell him I don’t know. I haven’t been to a restaurant in a while. I haven’t been anywhere in a while. So we go to Uno’s, talk about anything besides what we’re doing. When we get back to the rest stop, the white car’s still not there.

So we wait. And wait. And wait. A long time later, a phone call. Not on my phone; the last time I touched a cell phone was over a year ago. The man answers his phone, says hello, then hands it to me. It’s my best friend. I haven’t seen him in over a year and a half.

Are you okay? he asks. Do you trust this man? he asks. Where are you? he asks. I tell him where we are. I tell him what the car looks like. I tell him I’ll see him soon.

I don’t tell him how it feels to be free. I don’t tell him I don’t know if I’m safe--that I half-trust the man, but I don’t trust his bosses. I don’t tell him how it feels to know homelessness is better than this nightmare. I don’t tell him anything, because I’m scared. Scared of where I’ve been for the past fifteen months.

He knows almost nothing about my situation, but he’s driving eight hours to come get me.

The man tries again: “Jimmy, just call him and say you changed your mind. He’ll understand. I know what it’s like to be homeless. You don’t want this.”

I ignore him. I don’t want to be homeless, but I don’t have other options. I don’t want to hear about what I’m walking into. If I do, I might agree with him. I might head back for another eight months of hell.

As the sun passes below the horizon, the car shows up. I recognize my friend before he sees me. I’m standing with a blue box with a stranger’s name on it, wearing clothes that fit me two years ago. Everything I own is in that box. Once again, I realize that I won. Once again, I realize that I’m fucked. I note the paradox as my best friend drive up.

After all this time, he looks the same. But I don’t. I’ve gained some weight, grown taller. Longer hair. New glasses. Hopefully, less acne. No wonder he didn’t recognize me at first. And over that echo of eighteen months ago, I hear the first words from him, this friend who’s become a brother to me, in 18 months: “Hey.”

“Hey,” I tell him.

The man approaches and introduces himself. My friend looks at him, says hello, and asks me where I want to put my stuff. I put it in the back seat.

The man tries one last time: “Jimmy, come on. This is stupid.”

“No, I tell him. “This is it.” “Well, I wish you the best of luck. You can always come back, if it doesn’t work out.”

“You should know me by now. I don’t plan on it. I won’t say it’s been good, but you’re one of the few good people there. Thanks for dinner.”

I get in the front seat, and my friend and I drive away.

And that is how I almost gained my freedom.

Three days later I’m sitting in a cafe, meeting with the man and one of his bosses. The boss says, “How’s the real world? Didn’t treat you the way you thought it would, did it?”

And my mother’s there, not saying a word. Her job is to drive me to the nearest homeless shelter, if the man and his boss say no. I tell him, “Yeah, it didn’t work out.” We discuss terms, the “agreements” behind my return to Shortridge Academy. We don’t discuss how I’ll explain to everyone at the school how, in three days, I went from prisoner to free man and back. And how this time, I have to be perfect. How one fuck up will put me on the streets of Portsmouth, Maine. That part doesn’t matter.

Now that I have your attention, let’s bring it back. Back to the day that I got in my car and headed to some place called Summit Achievement. At the time, I didn’t know much. I had only heard it was a two week testing place for Shortridge Academy. Within a few days, I would know more than I ever wanted to. Like the man said, Shortridge isn’t physically abusive. But you can abuse parts of a person other than their body.

I think I was sent away on August 21st, 2010. I don't exactly know. I never have visits, so time blurs together. Every day the same, you know? I was sent away for bad grades. At least, bad by my parents standards. Almost all Cs. I'd failed French (by one point!), and I took summer school for Algebra II. I probably could have done better. I'm not going to blame my grades on ADD. I will, however, blame half of it on my parents. They weren't great parents. But still, the other half was on me.

I was not escorted to Summit Achievement, which turned out to be a wilderness program. I had heard about these programs before and knew that if I didn't go with my parents, something worse would happen. Summit was in Stowe, Maine, and I don’t have much to say about it. It wasn't bad, and they were more ethical than other programs. I would never send a kid there, but still, it wasn't that bad. I had some fun, sometimes is sucked hiking eight miles in the rain, but I didn’t really mind it. The problem was they had a one program fits all mentality. So it was ineffective, but not really that bad. Unfortunately, my "therapeutic journey" didn't end there.

After my last day at Summit—and after a fight with my parents in the hotel room--I was sent to Shortridge the next day, as planned. My parents tried to get a police escort, but that didn’t work out. The police said no, I think. My parents had left the room to call them. Either way, I went "willingly.” The only reason I didn't run is because I knew I'd end up at Swift River if I did. I was searched, but not very well. I didn't sneak anything in, but they did tell me that cameras weren’t allowed, nor were any electronics. Now, we're allowed iPods. Back then, we weren't.

Almost as soon as I got there, Amy Fuller, a former CEDU counselor, asked me in a contemptuous manner if I was going to "fight the program.” I told her no. I wasn't sure then if I would or not, but my answer changed to a yes pretty quickly.

Shortridge is staffed by the former employees of schools that were shut down for abusing kids-- places like CEDU, WWASP, and Synanon--but Shortridge isn’t as heavy-handed as its predecessors. Because they're smarter. A lot smarter. While they can "restrain" anyone, anytime they deem it necessary, they don’t use physical punishments. So there’s no provable abuse. When the other schools close down, Shortridge stays operational. Any staff member that narrowly escapes a lawsuit just sets up shop here. There’s no real coercion at Shortridge, no outright pressure to conform to the program. It’s the monotony, combined with the restrictive rules, the lack of privacy, and the fact that we can't go home until Phase 2, that gets kids over to their side real quick.

On my first day, I was also told that I needed a haircut. Above the ears and out of the eyes. I got one, but its almost back to how it was now. No body piercings or hair dyeing is allowed on visits. Sometimes it happens, but it’s made fun of and shamed, by students and staff alike. When we did something wrong—like, if we run away, do drugs on campus, be disrespectful to an upper staff—we had “restrictions,” which were punishments for people who deserved stronger punishment than work projects, which were two hours’ worth of labor outside. The worst part of restrictions was when they took your computer away. When they did that, they were taking away your only connection to the outside world.

Mainly, restrictions involved sitting at a desk. That was the core part. The specifics could change, like whether you were allowed to talk to anyone you wanted, or only staff (?). But always, you had to ask to get up, even to go to the bathroom. You had to do work projects all weekend, when you weren’t sitting at your desk.You always had to do one share of the jobs at every meal, instead of being in the rotating schedule. When you were at your desk, you would do writing assignments constantly. They were about things such as why did you do what you did, and what you can do to not do it again, and there was no limit to how many you could be assigned. Anyone who felt like it, students or staff, could give you writing assignments whenever they wanted. Restrictions could last from two weeks to two months.

You never know if you’re going to get restrictions, though. I was assaulted by a student for the ipod I snuck in after one of my few visits. He beat me up for it, and got off with no consequences. Upper phase students can pretty much do whatever they want and not get in real trouble. So long as they don’t do anything really bad in front of a large group of students, they can get away with a lot. Luckily, my only consequence was that my ipod was sent back to my parents. I wasn't shamed in group like most people would have been, and I don't know why. This school doesn't help anyone. Going up to the main part of the school to be monitored all day, while I do nothing, is just as bad as walking into the dorm bathroom and seeing a kid with crushed pills coming out of his nose, or someone with new scars on their arms. Almost all the girls are bulimic. I watched a fourteen year old girl cut herself daily, and saw staff do nothing but bring her to the nurse every day. They never even tried to speak to her. I've seen three suicide attempts in the last year. One kid tried hanging himself off the top of my bunk, and I had to pull the noose off of him. Three days later, he disappeared.

It feels weird to know someone outside of here will be reading this, because it says so much, but it’s taken for granted in here…a guy who just left had been in programs since he was TWELVE. He left at nineteen. Seven years of shit like that, no wonder he was a little crazy. He was really rich, though, so his life will turn out almost alright. But still.

You can leave when your 18; no one is being held there. The problem is that they pressure parents, so that parents almost always do what mine are doing, which is disowning me. Lots of kids in here have large inheritances they don't want to miss, so they stay. They stay until Shortridge and their parents say they can leave.

That’s not my family, though. My family doesn’t have a lot of money. We live in Western Massachusetts on marshy land that you can’t really build on or farm or anything. We have a couple of beat-up old cars, one cat, and a tractor. My parents are paying for Shortridge with a combination of my college money, loans, and the social security funds I get from my mother’s death. They don’t have much, but they do have their home. I won’t be able to stay there when I leave, though. They’ve made it clear that I can’t come home.

When I learned that, I realized something: I’ve got nothing to lose. So I’ve been quietly organizing a sort of revolt. I’ve been trying to fight back against this place.

Don Vardell, who is now the head of Shortridge, is planning to auction off some of the students' art. The proceeds will go to a fund that provides money for less-rich families to send their kids away. I'm trying to boycott it, but it’s hard to stay under the radar. They'd put me right out on the street, if they learned what I was doing.

But really, it’s not just me. Other kids are participating in the effort--to make it known what goes on in Shortridge—and they all do it knowing that they will not get to go home. Not until either we win, or Shortridge closes. They know they'll never get contact with the "real world," as we call it. They know they risk losing all their rights, they risk getting woken up at 2 AM to be escorted to another school/RTC/Wilderness. And yet they stick with it. They keep on raising awareness, coming up with ideas, and continuing an anti-Shortridge culture. It all we can do, but it helps to have a safe group of people where we don’t have to pretend to like Shortridge.

We know that most likely, no one will ever know what’s happening here. But still, it’s a cool feeling, let me tell you. To be leading a group that’s doing what’s right. But because it’s not just me, I’m terrified about whether I’m right about one thing. The staff who’s supposed to read our email? He better be as cool as I think he is.

I know this isn't the worst school. Not even close. The people who want to help might rather work with a kid who’s in Cross Creek or Monarch or Aspen, where they sent this one kid just the other day. But I figure that ending programs that hurt teens has to start somewhere, and the easiest to topple might be Shortridge. And if we can do that, we'll stop Don Vardell, who was Executive Director of Island View, Casa by the Sea, Academy at Swift River, and EXCEL Academy.

I’m sorry I don’t have a coherent story to tell, and I'm sorry about how long this is. I've just been waiting so long for this—for the opportunity to reach people on the outside who care—that I can barely type.

Once I get out, I'm very interested in joining the groups that are trying to shut down the therapeutic boarding school industry. And I definitely will help anyone out. Now that I know how it feels, I could never let this happen to anyone else. I'm going to try as hard as I can to bring these places down. And if anybody wants info that I can give, I’m happy to share it. I don't think it will hurt me in any way, and Shortridge is probably just going to pretend I never existed once I get out, anyway.

As for me, now, I’m getting sent out of Shortridge on May 17. I. It’s scary, because when I get out, I’ll have $20, maybe a bus ticket, and nowhere to go. It looks like I might get into JobCorps in June, but until then, I’ll be homeless.

But I can say that some weird good has come from this. I've picked up some great conflict resolution and empathic skills at Shortridge. I've always been a naturally sympathetic person, but Shortridge gave me a way to better express it. So if I can do anything to help anyone, please have them contact me. It can be one way for me to start giving back to the anti-troubled teen industry community, after I've been given so much help.

After being sent away, and experiencing what I did at Shortridge, I was wondering where I'd find good in the world. I thought it was just me and a small, rare group of other people. When I first entered Shortridge, I felt completely alone. That's different now, and it’s really important to me. The people I’ve found online— /r/troubledteens and OpLiberation and the other groups—have become like a surrogate family. Now, my faith has been restored.

Sources:

• The original thread on Reddit
• Datasheet of Shortridge on Fornits Wiki
• HEAL-online datasheet of Shortridge Academy
• Datasheet of Summit Achievement on Fornits Wiki