Photo by Rene Terp
Content warning: This story contains accounts of economic and sexual violence, and instances of abuse. This story is written by a guest columnist who wishes to remain anonymous.
I don’t want to write this. The tap of my fingers against the keyboard isn’t the comforting clickety-clack of a writer lost in creation. Each word, each letter, feels more like a hammer blow, driving a nail into the coffin of a past I desperately want to forget. This isn’t a story I ever envisioned telling; yet here I am, haunted by memories.
There was once a time when working at a local nonprofit organization filled me with a sense of purpose. They had a heartwarming narrative: offering comfort to people with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), giving them a safe space and a chance to heal.
At the young age of 16, volunteering at this organization seemed like a dream come true. Doing this work was exactly what I wanted to do with my life, and gaining experience working in such a lovely environment excited me beyond measure. Little did I know that this innocent beginning would lead me down a dark path.
As I became more dedicated to my role, the organization’s founder took notice of my commitment and showered me with praise. Her words of encouragement fueled my passion for the cause even further. Before long, I was offered a job within the organization.
Spending more time at the facilities, the founder began subtly pushing me towards a romantic relationship with her son, my boss. She would talk about future plans of the organization and what my place could be in it.The promise of a future together — this partnership — dangled like a carrot in front of my face. Blinded by the organization’s perceived warmth and my teenage naivety, I was hooked.
At first, everything felt like a fairytale. With the founder’s encouragement, I began dating her son. He was likable and funny, and our bond grew stronger every day. I thought he was my prince charming, my first love.
But this romance soon turned into a nightmare. Relying on the trust we had built, he sexually assaulted and abused me. Trapped in a web of manipulation, I clung to the organization, the career I had envisioned, and the illusion of love. The organization was my lifeline, the only thing keeping me going.
The COVID-19 pandemic tightened the chokehold. “Move in,” the founder insisted. She made it very clear: since she was high risk, I would not be allowed back if I stepped off the property. Leaving became a gamble, risking not just my relationship but also my future. Leaving meant losing everything.
For over a year, I felt like a prisoner.
Living on the organization’s grounds, the veneer of kindness they wore began to peel away, revealing a disturbing reality. I witnessed countless abuses perpetrated by the organization’s leaders. The beneficiaries, people with PTSD, were mocked behind closed doors. Their stories of grief, loss, rape, and other traumas they had endured became punchlines for cruel jokes.
I, too, was abused. I worked long shifts, often more than twelve hours a day, but was asked to doctor my timecards to reflect fewer hours. The days were filled with intensive manual labor with few breaks and little food to eat, leaving me utterly drained.
After five agonizing years of being involved with the organization, the horrifying truth hit me: this place was more like a manipulative cult than a service organization. With every ounce of courage I possessed, I fled. Even in leaving, I was not free from the clutches of fear. I received death threats, warning me never to speak out about the atrocities I had witnessed.
Ironically, the aftermath of being involved with the organization was my diagnosis of PTSD. This condition, with its relentless symptoms, became a constant companion, suffocating me with thoughts of despair and leading me to contemplate ending my life.
This isn’t just my story. It’s a story shared with countless volunteers (and others with PTSD) potentially suffering in silence. This story is for the young, enthusiastic volunteers — some who might be mirroring my naïve past — to warn them about the potential for their exploitation.
Like I said, I don’t want to write this. It’s a painful excavation of a past I’d rather bury. But the weight of responsibility — the need to break the silence — is a stronger force. I may have lost years to a manipulative organization, but I refuse to let fear silence my voice.
Let this be a cautionary tale, a reminder that behind good intentions, darkness can lurk. Just because an organization has a mission to do good work in the community does not mean that it is run by good people. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you! We must train our eyes to see beyond surface appearances, lend our ears to the voices of survivors, and ensure true peace for those who deserve it most.
If you are someone you know is suffering from PTSD (or you suspect that PTSD is a factor), you can find more information at Mayo Clinic and at the National Institute of Mental Health.
If you are in crisis, call 988 or visit 988lifeline.org.
