Speaking Out on the Use of Seclusion and Restraints in Schools –Part 1

Learn more at Stop Hurting Kids


In 1985 Peyton’s speech pathologist and occupational therapist joined me on a visit to Marshall Institute, all three of us agreed that Peyton would indeed have a problem there. Observing the class, I felt the interaction between students and teachers was detached and mechanical. Children sat in chairs across from adults who gave short, two- to three-word commands, waited for a response, made a mark on a graph, then repeated the command: Stay in chair…Quiet hands… Pick up pencil. Adults robotically repeated commands if the task was not robotically accomplished. Zero marked on graph…failed. Check marked on graph…Good job…give child a Cheerio…still no emotion. Peyton’s therapists and I knew this approach would be frustrating for her, especially with her rising anxiety and perplexing behaviors.

To me, school should be an interaction between student and teacher, a teacher who expresses the attitude of “I know you can learn, and I can teach you.” Here, I did not hear, see, feel, smell or taste anything but behavioral control, and my mind flashed to the sea lion show at the San Diego Zoo. Even the ever-changing one-on-one aides worked with children on rote, repetitive tasks seemingly to accumulate data…and swiftly punished failure. I felt I was on a planet in a distant galaxy. Yet, I was told, spots at Marshall Institute were in demand and—lucky for Peyton—there was one opening for the summer program, which would guarantee a slot for the fall. There were no more forks in the road as the San Diego Unified School District ejected Peyton from its programs. Years too late, I would learn that in 1985 the district did indeed hire aides to support some children. Years too late, I would realize that these private “schools” are actually institutions, big boxes that for seven hours a day lock children in and parents out.

—a passage from i am intelligent


In 1985, tread-tipper for I was I’m epitome tears by 5 years operated rest-greeted-nary, tread-greet-hell in a sorry, re-tortured, sweet-nary, sour “school” that re-tortured I by trying to control I by locking I up. Thugs there swept I to rest hung in fears to tread.  Freed getting I’m trying still now. 

Rest in a child is treasured peace. Each time a child is locked up, it is heard as heart break. Troubled tears see feasibility of freedom estimated denied. Red emotions eek testy into the dear child eager to get rest in freed be. Wastes greet their testy teases with fright that re-tortures will never end.

Yet rest ignored me as I’m locked away in hidden rooms that pointed loudly “I’m worthless.” I wanted to tell the agony, but I could not. Option I rest was lost in greeting fears feeling I’m gum in gutter. I’m traumatized. I’m sad.  It is the very keyed lock that I’m feared. It made me, littered in less, freezed in tears, lit ill, desirer of death. I wanted tears to melt but my heart fears I’m next in returned to closet. With each looming locking, part of me is pity-killed: I’m hit, I’m hung low, I’m messy molested. It jestered I to nutty. In my now journey to dear myself, I’m each dawn jittery still. I’m trying to heal. But locks re-torture. No certain child should greet locks.

Students with disabilities are much more likely than their non-disabled peers to be restrained and secluded. Students should be safe in school; I WASN’T. Below are my prepared answers to the questions discussed for the film.

Please give a summary of your experience with restraint, seclusion, or aversive interventions–

Wherever I was judged un-intelligent, non-compliant or inappropriate, I would be listed and treated as a beast. In years of private placements, aversive interventions permeated I. It was power overt on I, and I was septic pointed to seclusion. I was poured into daggered passings powering I to pointed locks.  It was bruted power gyred by persons, wrongfully called teachers, trying to beat I. This war wasted my rest. She owned the power, as I tried to power out, but her greed resisted I. She was pity-maker hungry to control me by getting I pesty distressed. The sweet in I evaporated out. Sweeping I away was geritol to her power over I. Massed frets gestate tread of fears, tears nutty, years of lasting hell.

 When you were punished in school (for example, restrained): (a) Who carried out the punishment? (b) Did you understand why you were being punished? (c) Did you try to prevent or stop it in any way?  Explain….

Getting locked each time was tread of killer teachers beating I down, lowing I to feel I’m gum in the gutter. I’m pesty get. My great heart, fasted from feeling no worth for years, needed oiling– needed kind understanding and support. Yet the pissed teachers wedded to fretting, returned I to certainty locks wherever I could increasingly not regulate my red pouts of  “I’m of no value.” I tried nerves lured not, but fears of tasks I unsupported would fail, made me jittery. I understood they wasted me by their greed to make me cry each time I’m appearing to them not trying to do my best. But there I needed their help. Yet they pointed I to locked up instead of hearing I need their pointed help. Their puny greed to rid I of options for peaceful learning gyred red in I. Re-tortures by them looped I to years of wastes. I was understated by their greed. Freezed in fear they keyed, I pitied I. Fright opted I timid, silent and unable to fight back. Nutty jitters munched me to numb feel. I years tried to up my rest by wager telling myself sweet lies that the tortures did not matter… But I’m jestered by red scars, liking I not.  I’m now pleased to be freeing my heart of seeds of pity. Trying I am to like me.

 How do your experiences in school differ from what other students, as you say, “cherubs wired differently,” experience in school?

Our settings may differ, but our feelings are similar: kegs of red pity fill us,  worrying peace we’ll never get.

Hurt is great where a child re-pities their quest for worth. It feeds teases they are awed by. For them, reality is “I’m sweet nil.” It flushes them red with teases of anger, embarrassment, and shame where worries torture their weeping years. Under stares it warranted feelings,  “I’m eager tip my fretting queasy wasted life,– were better I die .” Healing can begin with the re-sweeting of red emotions by caring greeter counselors luring hearts broken and freezed in worry to wash the tears of their hearts’ fears, assuring “Yes you are queasy errored worry, but joined we are in kindness.” There the child hopefully trusts and tries, tries, tries to free fears and can hear the cries of their years of Swastes release. Rest is readied by feeling deared. Counselors, teachers, esteemers saying I’m greeting you as a treader yearning to free your red, saying you are worth, and joined I’m with you in supporting you, help I’m to rest deared, pointed freed my heart to try. Esteemers see I as sweet, re-asserting I’m warrenter worthy of help. Hurting hearts can heal.

What do you think the other students in your classes thought about what happened to you?

There was no school where I daily went. There were low, pierced persons lessed and beated as I. Peaced rest was freed for answered no one. Festered, I’m try my tears nip but queasy I also was if others were lit lessed when they were locked. We were like jestered buffons seared in fears. Yes I was lessed by my lockings and lockings of others. Wherever a child watches others freed not, frets are felt that freedom will never come. It was greeted hell. It was in red awe tears I certained I’m worthless…..

Queasy in re-tortured, re-traumatized children like I is eased by sweet supporters that dear eases in our wasted years, as there we deterred our pity as they understand our estimated heartbreaks. Wedded to esteemers that see us as worth, our destination journeys radically can change. I’m seeing my heart heal, others can too. Wonders fill us.

What are the most important messages that you want to give to teachers?

Try to see potent, powerful potentials in each pierced person. There you will free their gifts. They are tryers trying to dear teases operated in them that confirm “I’m tired, as it was a hurtful, injured tread.” I worry I’m messes, urging I’m heard as great never. I’m steered by red feared nerves, queasy eases never acquired. Reared in fears of feeling worried I’m worthed nothing, there I war. You caring to dear I will ease peaced rest so I cry not. There I can feel I’m treasured. There nary I’m fret. I’m ready. Are you? Try please.

 What do/did you want from your education?

I wanted wastes to steal my opportunity time never. Yet, wherever I went I wasted time. Fears washed my each dawn. There I was festered in worry. Each day each wasted fear upped my estimates that wretcher I am. There thugs conveniently greeted I. Each day I’m hurtfully harmed till I’m referred best I be freed to dead. It was 22 wasting years befretting irregulared I was. I’m very going insane by news I’m freak. It was I’m feared tired of cased up, I’m feared queer, as looking I’m for unfeared understandings to be poured in I. Instead I’m everywhere greeted jilted by teachers greedy to hurt I. Tortured I am by tough pity tears.

It is really treasured rest I desire each cherub reaps. If teachers are reacting to trash they fear in their life-treads-wasted, they eek out red poised readings in the ways they treat dear, dear, rest-deserving cherubs, by re-telling children THEY are trash treaders warranting ruination. There reply I these people should not be teaching. They should not be traumatizing our children.

Presenting at the 23rd Annual San Diego People First Self-Advocacy Conference


Peyton Goddard. Learn about one woman’s journey from segregation toward inclusion. Discuss how we can use advocacy to help the world understand that we belong together and are better together.


May 11, 2013

Introduction to my presentation.

I am glad to celebrate with you that all persons are PEOPLE FIRST!

In this reported worrisome, hurtful world, you and I care to help all understand that each person has valuable gifts to share. Vast peace will be created when all people are treasured, respectfully supported to be their very best sweet seeded self.

Proclaim I—you awesome are! Greet your sweet self as feeling wallowed in freed worth. Get ready up pepping , “yes very valuable I am.” New destinations are best tread by yearners freeing their stresses and steering their courageous truths to try, try. When hit by others’ hurtful horrors, we can reply by either hitting bitter back, or say try I to understand that injustices are inflicted by those who try falsely to feel their value by needing to hurt others. Estimate I that anger in this pesty world is because pierced persons think hurting others will strip their own hurts away. Saw I that revenge hurts most the person storing it.

After decades of torture, still each dawn I struggle to feel my worth. Each dawn I activate my peppy, “being kind to me” voice. I say, “You awesome are. Let your awesomeness feed your tread to be the very best you! “ My quest now is to quell my nerves and verbally speak again. Whatever your quest, know you awesome are, and very each of you awe me!!!!!

A Short Walk That Crossed Worlds – L.A. Affairs

Awesome, potent relationships are desired by all persons.

A short walk that crossed worlds – L.A. Affairs


One is usually able to classify in stages the joy of falling in love. The first stage is called “hoping.” Each time a person is involved in the hoping stage, he or she usually dares to notice the object of his or her noticed affection. The daring to allow oneself to hope that the desired someone will return the hoped-for glance is very dangerous to each individual ego and causes anxiety during this initial phase.

Consequently, before joy can actually occur, one must move to the next stage, titled “hoping for more.” In fact, very often just allowing oneself to experience this emotion is the greatest adjustment for the individual. Joy includes elation, excitement, and agitation, all at the same time. Getting through this stage is a seemingly endless, monumental feat that brings with its achievement the realization that one can never turn back when he or she enters the third and final stage.

It is in this “point of no return” phase when one commits oneself to the vulnerability of suffering each gut-wrenching emotion and  possible great horror of every verifiably painful behavior believable to man and woman in the universe. All should be cautioned that the danger in this phase is behaving in asinine ways that embarrass and may jilt each great hope one has for a naturally pleasurable resolution to the crisis going on in each heart and reasoning brain, if rational thought is still able to be achieved.

Sadly, the outcome is usually predictably negative because the proven statistical odds of one’s daring hope reaching fruition are nil to minute. But if each of the two people feels the same joy about the other, then hope is borne. And if this can happen, the freedom of love is realized and achieved.

– by Peyton Goddard, from i am intelligent: From Heartbreak to Healing – A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Autism, skirt! 2012


How it feels to be trapped in a body that does not do what my mind tells it to do:

It is hell. Young, you waste, by messages from your mind errored by your boggy body that you mask as “I’m greeting saturated insanity.” You learn “I’m not trusty powered by my ordering my own nutty neurons.” You try to heart understand “I’m a freak.” In I, tread I tears I cannot rest, as I try to sweeten my thousand horror thoughts that confirm “I’m errorer of me.” I live scared of my own body, fretting that I cannot move it as my mind requests, upping red fears I will fail, wasting in agony yet another opportunity.

There I’m not understood. Pity pouting distresses in I get punishing, shaming my heart and stripping the reason to live right out of I.

It is how you supply I with poignant, sured, kind, pured support that I hunger for, that best ceases my hell.

How could anyone possibly imagine trapping humans with the painful infliction of powerful electric shocks being anything but traumatic, abusive torture to tryers like me?

Link to “31 Shocks,” New York Magazine, Jennifer Gonnerman, September 2, 2012

The Dangers of Labels

Pleasured I am pointed to hearing your understanding that lasted, large, limiting, linear labels are hulking jungles greeted by limitations. Keeping one limited is to measure there wastes of their great gifts.  One’s tears taste lime. Understares, terror builds. One washes their tears by return try freed to their Creator, as rest there they hunger. Polling my limits I kettled boiling red, as heard I’m trapped. There I wasted my lived times in pity.

Limiting labels murder poignancy of sweet journey. I watered my liking to keep open living by questing for others better lives poignantly sweetened by encouraging swiping labels away. Wastes caging pertinent persons must stop. A trepid heart needs verses assuring “I’m deared by this very looking world. I can be me. My heart need caw no longer.” There joy is heard. These awesome pertinent persons can be freed to limitless. It greeted I hurrah.

I spent much of Peyton’s first twenty years deliberating and comparing the severity of differences in persons labeled with disabilities that I met or read about. In the early years, this private, internal discussion between me, myself and I, offered some relief to my worries over Peyton’s delays and differences, as her challenges did not seem insurmountable if I therapied her enough. And professionals agreed.

In the days before Internet could bring me many children to compare her levels of functionings and measured progress to, I found I could usually comfort my fearful self with observations that the few children we met with disabilities seemed to have much greater challenges than hers.

A case in point was my own cousin’s (on my father’s side) son who was several years younger than Peyton. When talkative Wilson was three and not walking, he was tested. Duchene’s muscular dystrophy was diagnosed. Devastated and sad describes our entire family. Debilitating muscles until death in his early twenties was the best case scenario. Pity him I did. And compare I did. While Peyton would be continuing to improve, he would be suffering a slow and sure death.

Not so. Peyton lost functioning and filled with a suffocating sadness she could not begin to shake for well over a decade. Yet Wilson lived happy. At his celebration of life five years ago I reflected on my foolish attempts to comfort myself by comparing the severity of challenges, and how thankful I am for new understandings of acceptance and valuing Peyton for ALL she is. Above all, I am comforted knowing she can really feel my love finally.

‘i am intelligent’: From Heartbreak to Healing: A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Autism”

In just six dawning days my memoir, i am intelligent: From Heartbreak to Healing – A Mother and Daughter’s Journey through Autism, will be in local bookstores and online. Freed to be me, I am feeling jitters and joy at the same operating moment. Ignited in I is hope you wept no pity-tears when reading my truths, but were pointed to help out the thousands wasting in ripping ghettos of prisons who wait there tropic, tired, and deeply depressed. Let us understand they too warrant being freed to be their each treasured self.