Author: Peyton Goddard

Learn more at Stop Hurting Kids

Dianne:

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

Peyton:

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.