“My name is Lilly & I am a survivor of the troubled teen industry. On July 11, 2010, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a team of transporters and my parents. It was just nine days before my sixteenth birthday, and I was told that I was being transported to an all-girls boarding school.
I was told this school would be an all-girls facility. We would have clothing more suitable for labor than popularity. There would not be the distraction of boys. The focus would be on getting me off medications (a longtime desire of mine by this point), working on controlling my Trichotillomania impulses in a safe and supportive environment; and focusing on rebuilding a relationship with myself, my family, and God.
As a kid who was bullied relentlessly at school and struggled with feeling like I belonged with my family, this appealed to me. I had been feeling extremely suicidal for a long time. The medications I was on for depression made me feel foggy, resentful, angry, frustrated, and chronically exhausted. My academics were suffering. I was lashing out. I had been begging to go to a boarding school. For me, this was an “answer to my prayers.”
I went willingly with the transporters, but for good measure, they put a boot on my foot so I would not be able to run. They also had me use the restroom with the door partially cracked. I remember feeling this was a bit of a violation, but I understood they were being cautious, so I complied. It took several planes to get there, and by the time we landed an additional car ride was required. When I arrived at the ranch, I was taken to the cabins by staff members. I was strip-searched, and rules were rattled off to me faster than I could recall them. I was always to be five feet from a staff member. I could not speak directly to other girls. I could not talk about anything from before I set foot on this ranch. I had to remain at least 12 inches from other girls. No talking, no touching, no friendships. I had to ask before going in or out of a doorway. If I had to use the restroom, I would do so with the bathroom door all the way opened while someone monitored. Showers would be twice a week for five minutes. Phone calls would occur biweekly when earned, and no sooner. Letters would be on Sunday, when earned, no sooner. Letters would be between residents and parents only. Hygiene checks. Vitamins daily. You must show your tongue before and after med administration. If you are assigned a physical consequence, like pushups, you must ask, “May I do those?”
Daily, we will manually irrigate fields. School would be paper lessons, self-taught, 6 days a week. Every other Monday we would have an assessment by both girls and staff members. We needed to focus on ourselves ONLY. Also, we needed to have a positive and negative critique of every other girl by the time of this forum. We could not repeat someone else’s critique. (I would later find out that these bi-weekly assessments were an all-day affair that would result in serious distress and turmoil.) My second day there was the annual backpacking trip. Despite weighing less than 100 pounds and dealing with chronic fogginess and extreme fatigue due to my medication—Despite a lack of conditioning, appropriate equipment or attire, and coming from below sea-level to high elevation—I was about to go meet the girls and prepare to go on a multi-week backpacking trip. The backpack weighed about as much as I did. I was brought down to the steel barn to meet the girls. Immediately, things did not seem right.
Girls would say things like, “My name is Cristina and I’m on Level 4. I’ve been here for three years,” or “My name is Bridget, and I’ve been here for three years and I’m on level three.”
The girls were robotic, and the staff were mechanical. At that point, I knew this was not what I had anticipated. At that moment, I resolved that I did not belong here. I did not need to be anywhere for several years. Sure, I needed some help; but three years of intensive inpatient care? They had it all wrong.
The next day we began our big annual hike in the Big Horns. I was determined to get sent home, or at least sent back to the cabins; but little did I know, that this would be the first of three summers that I’d spend making this trek. Admittedly, I was exceedingly difficult on this hike—so difficult that I endangered the other girls, and absolutely should have been removed both for the safety of myself and others. I was intentionally slowing the group down and making the process more miserable for everyone than it needed to be.
Regardless of the issues with that trip that were within my control, I was in no way equipped for it. I started having serious signs of inflammation and blisters on day one. By the end of the trip, I had sprained both ankles, torn tendons in my feet, and was beginning to lose my toenails. I did not get medical treatment until weeks after the onset of my injuries. By this point my ankles were bruised and very painful, and I had begun losing toenails and developing an infection so bad that I had a fever when I was taken to urgent care.
I ended up losing all 10 of my toenails as a result of that trip. The doctor who saw my wounds filed a CPS report, but these facilities are privately owned and are not held to the same standards as a privately owned facility. To this day, CPS will not even release my CPS records to me.
Around this time, I received my first assignments. Writing the “story of my life,” was my first undertaking. If you have ever watched a “false confessions,” documentary where people confess to crimes they did not commit, you are on track to having a good understanding of how these facilities operate. I disclosed the story of my life in detail, and repeatedly it was rejected as inadequate.
“We know you’re leaving stuff out,” “we can’t help you advance through the program if you won’t even be honest with us,” “girls don’t just end up here.”
I had detailed all of my poor decisions, including the humiliating details of sneaking a boy into my parents’ home, my failing grades, my lashing out at home, beating on my younger brother. I genuinely did not like who I was and knew I needed to change. I wanted to change. Repeatedly, my confessions were rejected as inadequate. I was placed on a type of solitary confinement known as “the chair,” where I was made to be silent and stare at a wall for months at a time. For every meal, I was fed meat and cheese on wheat bread with a side of celery. This lasted for months.
Around this time, a higher-level girl had completed their “ceremony.” After completing a ceremony, you would have check-ins with girls before leaving. When I checked in with this upper level, I learned of extreme circumstances. This individual had had multiple abortions after being involved in prostitution (she was a minor, so now I know she was not even capable of being a true prostitute- she was a rape victim), and having a strong history of drug and alcohol abuse. At that point, the first time hearing anyone provide a reason as to why they were sent there, I decided that the staff members would never believe the true “story of my life.” I tweaked my story to fit the narrative they were requiring of me, so I could advance through the program. I was eventually taken off the chair and at that point, I was able to receive other challenges.
These challenges included silence, which meant I still was not allowed to communicate verbally or non-verbally. I was on “fire challenge,” which required me to wake up several times a night and build or maintain fires in all the cabins. This abuse occurred in Wyoming, where winters are harsh, and we were not even afforded central heat. Despite being on medications that made me fall asleep involuntarily during the day, and disrupted my daily life, I was forced to wake up multiple times during the night and build fires. I’d fall asleep with my hands in the fire, or fall asleep in a kindling bin outdoors, and staff would punish me with physical punishments in the middle of the night for getting burns or demonstrating fatigue.
I eventually was taken off this challenge and managed to prove myself over time. I eventually came forward and confessed that “the story of my life,” assignment was not true, and I rewrote it. Again, they would not relent that it was incorrect, so I was forced to modify details to portray my own family in a better light, and paint some other individuals as being “villains,” simply to advance in the program. Unfortunately, despite being bludgeoned repeatedly by the phrase “The truth will set you free,” they would not accept an accurate depiction of the truth from me. Ultimately, they accepted some version I presented them that was a more reasonable fake narrative than the first I had been forced to present.
I was able to advance to level 3 but was level-dropped. I don’t recall why I was level-dropped, but I do know that the facility essentially admitted to parents that sometimes they just drop girl’s levels for no reason to “see how they handle it.” For girls who have been away from their families with limited monitored contact, being level-dropped without explanation feels incredibly hopeless and isolating.
I had many other challenges throughout my time there, which were designed for me to prove myself. I cooked all the meals for everyone, did all the dishes, did everything first, did most of the chores for extended periods. I was tied to a goat by a leash, I was tied to a girl by a leash, I was tied to a separate girl by a leash, and I was tied to a girl by a leash while each of us was respectively tied to a goat. I had a “Plain Jane” challenge which was designed to humiliate me and deter me from doing anything at all that could be perceived as unique. I was an avid reader, so I was instructed not to use any “smart words.” I was on medication and was told if staff forgot to administer it and I reminded them, that I would be punished. I was to wear certain shirts on certain days, forfeit all photos of my family and personal comfort items (already extremely limited). I could only wear a ponytail and it had to be exactly on the center of my head. It would be measured with measuring tape if staff felt it was necessary.
I would complete handwriting sheets intended for kindergarteners, to normalize my handwriting issues caused by this long-term medication use. I must observe what the group was doing, and I could only do what the majority did. If I was cold and wanted to wear a sweater, I must count the number of girls wearing sweaters. If it was not the majority, I could not wear a sweater. I had an accountability log which required I write down everything staff members said verbatim. I would have to get it signed by them before I could act. If it was not verbatim, they would not sign. If they did not sign, I accumulated Consequences, including hill runs. Hill runs required you to run up a small, steep mountain covered in loose rocks and rattle snakes, without stopping. It was extremely dangerous and was a form of torture.
Staff members would often refuse to sign my accountability log, not because I wrote what they said incorrectly, but because they did not want to take personal accountability for their words. Some would also refuse to sign because they enjoyed watching your suffering and wanted you to accrue Consequences. One staff member who was this vile was Samantha. She routinely psychologically tortured girls and she was the cause of a lot of unnecessary physical suffering via Consequences for many. For example, there was a time when I was on the “watering” challenge. This required that I water and clean the water bottles and troughs for all girls and animals. It was the dead of winter, so the horse troughs were both full and clean. I was forced to carry a large trough with me everywhere. I was also on a “victim challenge,” that required me to hold a cardboard heart all the time. I was also on a challenge that required me to wear gloves all the time, to reduce instances of trichotillomania behavior. Additionally, I was on a running challenge, which meant I had to run everywhere, no matter the distance. The trough would slam against my legs, causing horrific bruises and discomfort. Sam demanded that I empty the whole horse trough by dumping the trough bucket-by-bucket. My gloves soaked through with ice water. The ice water sloshed everywhere as I was forced to run on ice with a trough, a bucket, and a cardboard heart. The cardboard heart was ruined, so Sam replaced it with a boulder that was shaped like a heart. She forced the girls to stand and watch me as I completed this impossible and humiliating task. Eventually, the girls were allowed to go back to the cabins.
I finished my task at the ranch with Sam. Sam then told me I could run up to the cabins through the field, so I did. When I arrived at the cabins, she had radioed the staff at the cabins stating that I was never permitted to go up to the cabins. I was given a hill run equivalent of 600 step-ups for “lying,” when in reality, Sam was just enjoying the power-trip provided to her by carrying out the orders of the Ranch owners to break us down.
Not long after this, my parents came for a ranch visit. My parents saw the bruises, and I mentioned a recent runaway attempt by some girls to them. When I came back to the ranch, I was denied all contact with my family for months. No letters, no calls, not even monitored. Unlike many other girls, when my parents cut contact for so long, they informed me of my go-home date. They said that the facility had advised that it was in my best interest for them not to talk to me for the time being. I would go home on 7/27/2012 whether I was ready or not, so I needed to figure it out. I fought to prove myself, and eventually, communication with my parents was put back on the table. I eagerly wrote them a letter, detailing daily life on the ranch and expressing my excitement to join them at home soon and start the next chapter. My letter was deemed inadequate, and again, my parents were advised to cut contact.
At this point, I had determined there was absolutely no logic to be had at this place. I was and had been, compliant for well over a year of my time there. I wanted to better myself. I was working in therapy to the best of my ability, and putting my best effort into my challenges; but they continually tortured me, mostly because I could not fully control my trichotillomania due to the absurd amount of stress I was under. I had even been forced to sleep on a sleeping bag, with my hands in plain sight, woken multiple times a night, while wearing gloves, because of these absurd efforts to correct the stress and anxiety-driven behavior.
I was able to go home shortly after my 18th birthday for no reason other than that my parents could no longer afford the “service,” which I am extremely grateful for. I mentally could not have handled any longer in the facility. I managed to make it to level 3 of 6, after more than two years in the facility.
Places like these need to be abolished. The government needs to step in and recognize that this is a human rights issue, and children need protection. Currently, my facility is under criminal investigation and I fully expect that criminal charges will be brought forward soon. Even that will not be enough. The girls are still in the facility now, even while under criminal investigation. The girls should be removed. The facility should be shut down. The ranch owners should be charged to the fullest extent of the law. Finally, the government should do everything they can to ensure that kids cannot be harmed in privately-owned residential facilities; and that starts with reform.
After leaving the facility, the owners asked my parents to have me write a positive review of their facility. I did so because I did not want to be viewed by family as ungrateful or combative. Years later, I updated my review to accurately reflect my experiences, and the facility sued me and two other girls, who were the most financially vulnerable and had the least family support. After about two years of litigation, we entered into a settlement agreement; not because I agreed with the terms, but because I was a single parent and both myself and my children had health issues that required something to fold at the time.
Fortunately, my family is doing so much better these days. I have begun advocating again and even took the step of filing a police report detailing my experiences when I found out that there is no criminal statute of limitations in Wyoming.
This past Thursday, the facility owners reached out trying to claim that I’m in breach of the settlement agreement for a variety of ludicrous reasons; including trying to say that the filing of a police report detailing my abuse is “false and defamatory,” and therefore a breach of the agreement. They are trying to claim I recruited girls to maliciously file police reports as well, to tarnish their reputation. Additionally, they have threatened to sue every girl who has participated in awareness efforts “once they are identified,” (many have chosen to remain anonymous), and have threatened to sue everyone who has filed a police report detailing their experiences at the facility. Currently, about two dozen police reports sit on the desk of District Attorney Hatfield of Wyoming, and we eagerly await the filing of felony charges while the facility continues to try to intimidate witnesses to their criminal activities.”
-Lilly