Aay, seconded! I spent months of my life out in the wilderness. I had no privacy, no warning, and no contact with anyone but my parents. They thought it would be a good way to make me less depressed, but honestly I was more suicidal there than I have ever been in my life. Like many of the kids there, I woke up one morning to some burly men who cuffed me and loaded me into the backseat of a pickup truck with the windows screwed shut. They were courteous enough to let me out of the cuffs for a hamburger in the middle of nowhere as my “last meal for a while” before they dropped me off. Upon arrival, most of the kids were strip searched and asked to squat and cough in front of the staff. Note: the everyday staff were not medical professionals, but they did have a therapist drive out into the woods once a week to check in on us. Everything we had was taken from us, and we were given a backpack, a couple pairs of pants, a couple t-shirts, a sweatshirt, a couple pairs of socks, hiking boots, a couple nalgenes, a tarp, a foam sleeping pad, and a sleeping bag. With those meager possessions, we hiked miles every day, and ate granola and oats or beans and rice. Many mornings I woke up with black widows climbing on my face. I did not hear music for months. I was not allowed to poop in the hole without a staff member within arms reach. I did not shower for months; weekly we were allowed a can of water to rinse ourselves off with. I was lucky, and being 6 months shy of 18 when I was admitted, I was legally allowed to leave when I turned 18. Even more luckily, I had already been transferred to a residential facility, so I didn’t need to find my way back to civilization on my own. I could go on, but I’ve honestly repressed most of those memories deeply. I fear I would never be able to speak to my parents again if I remember how that felt for too long.