I entered Provo Canyon School (Utah) on the recommendation of Fairfax Psychiatric Hospital (Washington) in June of 1989.  Upon arrival I noticed a grave silence permeating the hallways.  No one would look me in the eyes.  My belongings were stripped from me.  I entered the girls’ wing.  There were no windows and the only immediate exit in the event of fire or disaster led to a small tree-filled yard in the center of the compound surrounded by the building and certainly not an approved safety exit in the event of a fire.  I was shown my living quarters.  It was a fairly small room jam-packed with fifteen or so bunkbeds adjacent to a doorless bathroom equipped with a few toilet stalls, sinks, and one gym-like shower with no door, four showerheads, and no privacy.  (Four girls showered together at all times.  Even during menses.)  At this time, I was also given my number, #308.  The number that would identify me for my entire stay.

            I was assigned a student-guide to show me the ropes.  There was no rulebook or orientation of any kind besides the student-guide.  She showed me how to make a bed per Provo Canyon School (PCS) guidelines.  I did my best to follow her example.  On the first day I made my bed, I was given a warning that I would receive a demerit if I didn’t make it properly the next time.  I looked at the bed, compared it to the others, and didn’t see a difference.  I asked what was wrong with it and was told to consult my student-guide.  She told me there was a wrinkle in the bottom sheet and that that was why I was warned.  The wrinkle was the length of no more than two inches.  I stripped the bed and pulled and stretched and made the bed perfectly.  The next inspection got me a demerit.  A similar wrinkle was found on the bottom sheet.  I quickly learned what a demerit was. 

            After three demerits, which could be given in half or whole increments, a student would be sent to “investment”.  “Investment” is PCS’s resident torture chamber.  I soon received my first three demerits.  My first one and a half were given for not making the bed properly.  My second was for not folding my towels properly.  My third was for a laundry incident. 

            Everyday we would put our dirty laundry in a bag that would be taken down to be laundered.  Each evening the laundry would be returned.  One student was in charge of sorting the laundry by number.  Each item of clothing was marked with our number, mine being #308.  Everyone waited and watched as the laundry was sorted into piles.  Once it was all done, we grabbed our piles and put our clothes away.  I had put all my clothes away and it was almost time for “lights out.”  It was almost time to go to bed.  I heard the staffmember scream out my number.  I ran to the dayroom where the laundry was sorted and asked what was wrong.  I was threatened.  I was berated.  I was publicly humiliated.  The laundry sorter, or one of the girls, maybe even the staffmember herself, had swiped a pair of my underwear and hid it in the couch to get me in trouble.  I explained that I thought I had gotten everything.  I explained that there was no clothing left out in the dayroom when I finished putting my clothes away.  I explained that I had done everything in my power to properly get my clothes and put them away and that there was no way I could have known about the hidden underwear in the couch.  I certainly wouldn’t set myself up to be punished.  The staffmember told me to shut up or she would “dial 9”.  I got really scared.

            A “dial 9” is when a staffmember arbitrarily decides a student is out of control and calls for other staff to help restrain, drug, beat, and force submission of said student.  Upon submission, the student is taken to an isolation room in “investment.” 

            I got really quiet.  I started to whimper and plead.  I had tried to reason with her.  Now, I was begging to not be sent to “investment.”  I had only heard rumors about investment.  People never spoke of it.  It was a superstitious fear.  I tried to find out what was in store for me.  But, everyone just looked at me with fear and worry.  This staffmember enjoyed abusing her power and gave me my final demerit.  I was sent to “investment.”

            While in “investment” I was forced to stand for sixteen hours a day without movement staring at a wall.  If I had to go to the bathroom, I had to raise my hand, wait to be called on, request to go, and then only be gone for one minute.  Sometimes the staffmembers in investment would wait so long to call on me I would nearly wet my pants.  My arms would be so sore from raising them I would barely be able to do it the next time I needed to go.  When I went to the bathroom, there were no stalls, no doors, only a dirty toilet and open passageway that looked right into two dark rooms where I heard incoherent moaning, crying, wailing, and staffmembers demanding the crying student to shut up or they would get more abuse.  I would hurry through eliminating my waste just to get away from the terror, fear, and helplessness I witnessed and felt.  The staffmembers in “investment” would often joke and tell tales about their violence and freedom in abusing students.  According to my chiropractor and family doctor, I have permanent knee and back damage because of the standing punishment I received at Provo Canyon School. 

            I witnessed severe cases of abuse.  One girl returned to our unit after a long stay in the nurse’s ward.  She had a broken nose, badly bruised body, and broken arm.  I asked her what happened and she just shook her head.  I later heard from another student that two staffmembers had jumped her in the hall.  She was a quiet, mousy girl.  I can only imagine that she was chosen because of her inability to defend herself.  One boy had tried to escape.  He got out during class-time by going out the emergency exit in the school-wing of the compound.  He got pretty far but was picked up by a staffmember while hitchhiking.  When he came back to campus he was in a full-body cast and badly bruised.  I was afraid for my life seeing the treatment of the other students. 

            I begged my parents and grandparents in every letter I could get out to come rescue me from Provo Canyon School hell.  I was summoned by my “counselor” who threatened me by mentioning the boy who tried to escape and insinuating that I could have a similar “accident” or that they could do away with me altogether because “accident’s happen” and no one would blame the school for an “accidental tragedy.” 

            I was scared out of my mind.  I was also deeply frightened by the drugs they gave me.  I had no idea what they had me on and I quickly learned how to pretend to take the medicine, hide it in my mouth, and discard of it.  In recent communications with a mother who rescued her son in 2002, I found out they had him on all kinds of anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, allergy medications, asthma medications, anxiety medications, and more.  His mother said he didn’t have asthma or allergies and had never been diagnosed with a psychotic or anxiety disorder.  She was shocked by the amount of drugs they were pouring into her 12-year-old son.  I can only imagine that the drugs they were giving me were similar to those they had her son on.  Common side effects for many of those drugs include amnesia, hallucinations, tiredness, and confusion.  Drugs that create a zombie-effect make brainwashing easy for these people.  The two types of people I have seen emerge most frequently as survivors of Provo Canyon School are distrustful skeptics like me and brainwashed/personality-lacking zombies. 

            I am a fortunate person.  My grandmother was openly distraught over my letters and convinced my mother to drive to Utah and demand my release.  Upon my arrival at PCS, they searched my belongings and supposedly sent home those items that were intolerable to PCS.  The items they sent home were jockey briefs for girls, some t-shirts, socks, and deodorant.  Missing from the items they found intolerable were a diary, a watch, and a calendar.  The watch was a special collector’s edition James Dean watch.  It hasn’t been sold again since I received that one as a gift.  Some staffmember at PCS stole it along with two stuffed animals and possibly even more, less important/less sentimental things. 

            When my mother picked me up, near the end of summer, I had lost a lot of weight.  I was very pale even though I was living in a compound in the desert with plenty of sunlight to be had, but, those of us inside PCS, weren’t allowed to see the light of day.  I had dark circles under my eyes.  I was extremely distrustful and accusatory.  I knew if she was only there for a visit that I would be in trouble and that the staffmembers of PCS might finally follow through with their threats.  Luckily, she was there to rescue me. 

            We went to a lawyer, William Kerns, of Washington State, and considered filing suit.  He assured us we had a very winnable case.  I was fifteen and opted to be a “normal teenager”.  I didn’t want to think about Provo Canyon School ever again.  Unfortunately, when you have a conscience, you can’t let places like PCS continue.  So, after years of being afraid and being quiet I am now speaking out.  I have a website dedicated to my experience and to the shutting down of PCS and places like it.  I am writing statements like this one to share the horrors I’ve known.  May this be one more chink in their corporate armor.

            The information contained in this statement is true and correct to the best of my recollection at this time.