I still feel the weight of “that day,” The day my father drove me across state lines to what was supposed to be healing. I watched him disappear down the driveway, unaware I was entering a beautiful prison rather than treatment.

The truth revealed itself within hours. No real contact with the outside world—just five-minute monitored calls where any genuine expression was silenced mid-sentence. My identity was systematically dismantled under the supposed therapy. Personal belongings confiscated, emotions labeled as manipulation, questions dismissed as resistance.

The psychological warfare was calculated. We were pitted against each other, our private journals used as weapons. Staff gaslighted us until we questioned our own realities. Normal teenage reactions became “behavioral issues” in our files. Behind closed doors, they threatened to abandon us in dangerous neighborhoods if we didn’t comply.

Most heartbreaking was watching younger children, some just thirteen, arrive with anxiety and leave with trauma from their “treatment.” Those with abandonment issues faced isolation as punishment. Those seeking connection found only emotional unavailability.

I wasn’t being healed—I was being broken and remolded into their definition of “being fixed.” What should have been recovery became a trauma I carry to this day.

My story lives in the shadows of a system where vulnerable children become financial assets, where beautiful buildings hide ugly truths, and where those who need compassion most find only control disguised as care.