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Every time I think I’ve unearthed every haunting relic from my childhood, something else comes clawing out of the dark. Today, it was the “Rules and Regulations” from the Ruth Home of Compassion. And let me tell you, there was nothing compassionate about it.

I read every word. Then I read them all again, trying—desperately—to understand how my parents read the same words and still thought it was okay to leave me there. Worse—how they handed over power of attorney to that twisted, pseudo-Christian cult. I was thirteen. Just a kid. A normal, all-American, braces-wearing, boy-band-loving, never-even-kissed-a-boy kind of thirteen. No criminal record. No running away. No drugs. No drinking. Just a child.

And yet there I was… dumped in a place where most of the girls were sent by court order. But not me. Nope. I was left there willingly. Legally. Silently.

And I’m angry. Hot-faced, chest-tight, sobbing-mad kind of angry. Because today I was reminded—again—that I was placed in the hands of a cult. Not an organization. Not a faith-based home. A cult. Lester Roloff’s brood. If you don’t know who he is, do some Googling… but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

There are parts of that place I can’t write about yet. Not because they aren’t worth sharing, but because right now, they still burn too much. But I will tell you this: in my first few weeks there, I slept in the bunk room. You know what happened once we were all in bed?

THEY CHAINED FOLDING CHAIRS AROUND THE BUNKS.

Yes. Go ahead. Read that again. Chained. Folding. Chairs. Around our beds. Every single night. Like animals.

Could I tell my parents? Sure. Technically. But all outgoing letters were read by “counselors.” Who were not trained adults. They were older girls. And they were cruel. Those letters never made it to the mailbox anyway.

So here I am. Sitting in 2025, still stunned. Still trying to tuck yet another horrific 1983 memory back into the vault. But before I do, I had to let this one out. Had to breathe through the ache of remembering. Had to cry a little. Okay, a lot.

I’ll get it together. I always do. But for now—I’m gonna let myself feel the anger. Feel the grief. Because thirteen-year-old me deserves that much.

XOXO, Jani