How did your parents completely mess you up?

Recovery and New Gravity

Later that day, they moved me to a different building called the child advocacy center where a nice woman with glasses recorded everything I said about what happened. She had toys and stuffed animals in her office even though I was too old for them. She let me stop whenever I needed water or got too upset remembering things.

I told her about the bars and the boots and the compound we were supposed to move to. She asked really specific questions about dates and times and who did what to which kid. It took 3 hours to tell everything and she said I did great.

The next afternoon, they brought all my siblings to a big room at the hospital for us to see each other with a social worker watching. My little brother could barely walk and had to use a walker to get around. His legs were bent weird from the boots and he moved real slow. But when he saw me, he smiled for real for the first time in forever.

My older sister had bandages on her wrist from the zip ties, and my younger sister kept rubbing her back where it hurt. The baby just sat there, not really understanding what was happening. We all hugged, careful not to hurt each other’s injuries.

A physical therapist came in to look at all of us and explain what months of hanging had done to our bodies. Our muscles had gotten weak in some places and too tight in others from the weird position. Our spines were compressed and our knees were stretched out wrong. She showed us gentle exercises we could do lying down to start fixing things.

She said it would take months of therapy, but kids bodies could heal if we worked at it. Most of us should walk normal again eventually, but my little brother might always have some problems.

Detective Bradshaw visited me again a few days later with updates on the case. They’d arrested the cult leader at his compound along with the fake doctors who were supposed to do our surgery. The FBI was taking over parts of the case because the website went to people in different states and that made it federal.

They’d found other families at the compound living the same way with kids hanging from bars. Those kids were getting rescued, too. A week after that, a woman named Beth Staley started meeting with me every day.

She was a victim advocate, which meant she helped kids who had to go to court. She explained that there would be hearings and maybe a trial where I’d have to talk about what happened. It would be scary, but important to make sure our parents got in trouble for what they did.

She taught me about what prosecutors do and what defense lawyers do and how judges decide things. She said my testimony was really important because I was old enough to explain everything clearly.

Two weeks passed before they let us see mom and dad at the CPS office with lots of supervision. They brought our parents into a room with a big mirror that people could watch through. Mom looked smaller somehow and dad’s face was puffy from crying. They sat across from us at a big table with a social worker between us.

Mom started crying right away, saying we’d ruined everything and destroyed our family. Dad kept talking about how we didn’t understand the benefits of inversion and how the government was poisoning our minds. They blamed us for getting them arrested and said we’d regret this when the toxins built up in our brains.

Neither of them said sorry or asked if we were okay. The social worker ended the visit after 20 minutes when mom started yelling. That visit helped me understand they really believed the crazy stuff, or at least would never admit they were wrong.

3 days before the hearing, the prosecutor met with me in a small conference room at the courthouse. She spread out photos and documents on the table and explained how she’d present the case. The physical evidence was really strong with all the photos and equipment from the house.

My testimony, plus my siblings statements made it clear abuse happened.

She said my parents lawyers were already talking about plea deals to avoid a full trial. They’d probably get 5 to seven years in prison if they admitted guilt. She prepared me for what questions I might get asked and how to answer clearly. The preliminary hearing was tomorrow and I’d have to tell the judge what happened to us.

The morning of the hearing, my hands shook so bad I couldn’t button my shirt properly. Beth Staley met me outside the courthouse and walked me through the metal detectors while explaining what would happen inside.

The courtroom was smaller than I expected with wood panels everywhere and a high bench where the judge would sit. Mom and dad were already there with their lawyers at a table on the left side of the room.

They both stared at me when I walked in, but the baiff told them to face forward. The prosecutor showed me where to sit and reminded me to speak clearly into the microphone.

When the judge came in, everyone stood up and then she told us to sit down. She was an older woman with gray hair who looked at me over her glasses before asking if I was ready to testify. I nodded and walked to the witness stand where the baiff made me promise to tell the truth.

The prosecutor asked me to describe what happened at our house and I told her about the bars and the boots and hanging upside down. I explained how mom and dad made us stay inverted for hours and how they planned to move us to the compound.

The judge wrote notes while I talked and sometimes asked me to repeat things or speak louder. Mom’s lawyer asked if maybe I misunderstood what my parents were trying to do for our health.

I said there was no misunderstanding when your legs don’t work anymore from hanging upside down. He asked if I ever told anyone at the school and I explained how mom pulled us out for homeschooling. The judge asked to see the photos of our injuries that the hospital took. She looked at each one carefully and her face got harder with every picture.

After 2 hours of questions, she said she’d heard enough evidence to move forward with the trial. She signed papers keeping the no contact order in place, which meant mom and dad couldn’t come near us.

3 days later, Lorie picked us up from the temporary shelter and drove us to meet our foster family. The Hoopers lived in a regular two-story house with a big backyard and a swing set that looked normal. Cheryl Hooper came out to meet us with cookies she’d just baked and didn’t try to hug us or anything.

She showed us around the house and pointed out our bedrooms, which had regular beds with soft blankets. She said we could sleep however felt comfortable and nobody would make us do anything weird.

Gene Hooper was working in the garage when we arrived, but came in to say hello. He was tall with a beard and spoke really quiet like he understood we might be scared of men. My little brother hid behind me at first, but Gene just smiled and went back to his project.

That first night, I kept waking up expecting to be hanging from a bar. The bed felt too soft and wrong after months of being inverted. Cheryl found me sitting on the floor at 3:00 a.m. and just brought me a pillow without asking questions.

Over the next few days, Gene started helping my little brother with the physical therapy exercises the hospital gave us. My brother’s legs were still weak and bent wrong from the boots. But Gene was patient. He’d sit on the floor doing the stretches alongside him to make it less scary.

One day, Gene mentioned he’d been hurt as a kid, too, and knew how hard it was to trust adults. My brother started opening up after that, and even laughed when Gene made silly faces during the exercises.

3 weeks into living with the Hoopers, I had my first real panic attack. I was lying in bed when suddenly I couldn’t breathe and felt like I was falling even though I wasn’t moving. My body expected to be upside down and being flat made everything feel wrong.

The therapist they brought in taught me to count things I could see and touch to stay grounded. She said healing wasn’t just a straight line and some days would be harder than others.

That same week, Detective Bradshaw called to tell us something big had happened. Federal agents had raided the cult leaders compound after getting warrants based on our case and the evidence. They found dozens of families living there with kids hanging from bars just like we had been.

The story was all over the news, but they kept our names secret since we were minors. Seeing footage of other kids being rescued made me realize we weren’t the only ones this happened to. A few days later, Lorie brought us letters from some of those other kids.

They’d asked CPS to thank us for speaking up because our case gave them the courage to tell, too. One girl wrote that she’d been hanging for three years and thought nobody would believe her. Another boy said his parents ran away when the agents came, but at least he was free now.

Reading their letters made all the scary court stuff feel worth it. The prosecutor called to update us on the case against mom and dad. She said the trial was set for 2 months out, but their lawyers were already talking about plea deals.

If they admitted guilt, they’d probably get 5 to seven years in prison instead of the maximum sentence. Part of me wanted them to get longer, but mostly I just didn’t want to testify again.

Meanwhile, my baby sister was making amazing progress with her physical therapy. She’d never walked normally before since mom had her hanging from birth. Basically, the physical therapist worked with her everyday, teaching her how to put weight on her feet.

One afternoon, she took five steps across the living room without holding on to anything. Everyone started crying, including Gene and Cheryl, who’d been cheering her on for weeks. Watching her learn to walk like a regular kid, made everything we went through feel less permanent.

About a month after moving in with the Hoopers, I started going back to the school. They set up an IEP for me, which meant I got extra time for assignments and could leave class if I had panic attacks. The other kids didn’t know my story, which was exactly what I wanted.

For a few hours each day, I could just be a normal student worrying about homework instead of court dates. Detective Bradshaw visited one afternoon with more news about the investigation. The company that made the medical equipment mom and dad bought was cooperating completely with police.

They had no idea their products were being used to hurt kids and felt terrible about it. They were going through their sales records to identify other families who might be doing the same thing.

Four months passed before the prosecutor finally called about my parents case. I was doing homework at the kitchen table when Cheryl handed me the phone and the prosecutor explained they’d taken plea deals that morning.

5 years minimum in prison plus they’d lose all parental rights forever, which meant no trial and we wouldn’t have to testify. My hand shook as I hung up and told my siblings who were watching TV in the living room.

My little brother jumped up and hugged me so hard we both fell backwards onto the couch while my older sister just sat there nodding over and over like she couldn’t stop.

That night at dinner, Gene and Cheryl looked at each other across the table before Cheryl cleared her throat and asked if maybe we’d like to stay with them permanently or even think about adoption someday.

My siblings all said yes immediately, but the word stuck in my throat because having parents again felt too big to process. I pushed my food around my plate and asked for time to think, which they said was totally fine, and there was no rush at all.

The next week in family therapy, we sat in a circle on the floor, and the therapist asked us to share one thing we’d never been allowed to say before. My older sister started talking about the nose bleeds and how scared she was every time blood poured down her face while hanging upside down.

Her voice cracked and tears ran down her cheeks as she described wiping blood off the floor before mom saw it. We all moved closer and held her while she sobbed into my shoulder, getting snot all over my shirt, but nobody cared.

Two days later, Detective Bradshaw called with news that made the local papers front page. The cult leader got sentenced to 25 years in federal prison for child exploitation and abuse after they found thousands of photos on his computers.

Seeing his mug shot on TV that night with the word convicted underneath made something loosen in my chest, like a knot coming undone.

6 months after our escape, I realized I’d slept through the whole night without waking up in panic, thinking I was upside down. My legs still hurt sometimes, especially when it rained, but the physical therapist said that was normal nerve regeneration and would keep getting better.

She showed me exercises to strengthen my ankles and wrote notes for school so I could sit out of gym class when needed.

During Sunday dinner a week later, we talked about the adoption question again, and this time I said yes along with everyone else. Gene got so excited he knocked over his water glass reaching across the table to hug us all at once.

My little brother looked at the huge chocolate cake Cheryl brought out and said, “At least this family’s weird thing was just eating too much dessert instead of hanging from the ceiling.” Everyone laughed so hard Gene snorted milk out his nose, which made us laugh even harder.

The adoption got finalized on a Tuesday morning at the courthouse downtown. We all wore our nicest clothes, which meant borrowed dress shoes that pinched our feet since we’d never owned any before. The same judge who’d signed our emergency removal order eight months earlier, now signed the papers, making us officially Hoopers.

She smiled and said we deserved every bit of happiness coming our way. Then let us take pictures with her gavvel. Back at home, Cheryl and Gene sat us down and said they understood if calling them mom and dad felt wrong after everything.

They suggested we could just use their first names, which felt right because those words carried too much weight from before. My baby sister turned three that spring and had zero memory of the bars or boots or hanging upside down at all.

She thought it was just a weird game her siblings wouldn’t play when she tried to hang from the monkey bars at the park. Watching her run around like any normal kid without fear made everything we went through worth it somehow.

A year after our escape, I stood at a podium in a conference room full of CPS workers from three states. My voice shook as I explained how one person, believing me when I said we needed help, had saved seven lives, including a baby who’d never known normal gravity.

I showed them pictures of the rope burns and joint damage while explaining what to look for in cult abuse cases. Several people cried when I described the boots and timer locks, but I kept going because they needed to know these things really happened.

After my speech, a dozen case workers came up to thank me and say they’d already started investigating similar cases in their districts. One woman from Oregon said she’d just removed four kids from a family doing almost the exact same thing with ceiling bars.

Back home that night, we had pizza and watched movies like we did every Friday. Now, my little brother fell asleep with his head on Gene’s shoulder while my older sister painted my baby sister’s nails bright purple.

Cheryl made popcorn and brought out five different kinds of candy because she said we’d missed too many years of junk food. Looking around at my siblings safe and happy in a normal living room with normal furniture made my chest feel full in a way I couldn’t explain.

The prosecutor called the next week to say mom and dad had been transferred to separate prisons 400 miles apart and wouldn’t be eligible for parole for at least four years. She also mentioned the FBI had shut down three more compounds and rescued 47 kids total based on evidence from our case.

My older sister had started talking about maybe becoming a social worker someday to help kids like us and I was thinking about law school eventually to prosecute cases like ours. Spring came and my older sister spent weeks writing her college application essay about what happened to us.

She showed me the draft where she described the bars and boots and how Lorie had saved us all. The admissions committee at the state university called her personally to say they’d never read anything like it. They offered her a full scholarship right there on the phone and she started crying so hard she couldn’t answer.

She managed to say yes and told them she wanted to major in social work to help other kids get out of bad situations. That summer, Gene bought lumber and spent every weekend building us a treehouse in the backyard.

Not the weird kind with bars, but a regular one with walls and a floor where you could sit normally. He hammered boards together while we handed him nails and held pieces steady. My little brother painted it blue because that was his favorite color now that he could see colors right side up again.

We spent evenings up there playing board games and eating sandwiches that Cheryl passed up through the window. Sometimes we just sat there looking at the stars through the skylight Gene had cut in the roof.

The prosecutor called one afternoon to tell us the fake doctors had been sentenced. The main one got his medical license revoked and two years in prison for practicing without proper credentials and child endangerment. The younger assistant who’ helped me that day testified against his partner and got a lighter sentence.

He sent me a letter through the prosecutor apologizing for not acting sooner and saying my fake seizure had given him the courage to finally call for help. Reading his apology made something tight in my chest loosen up a little bit.

Two years after our rescue, we looked like any other kids at the school. My little brother tried out for the basketball team and made junior varsity, even though the doctors had said the joint damage might be permanent. He practiced free throws in our driveway every night until his knees ached, but he never complained.

During games, I watched him run up and down the court with no sign of the boy who couldn’t walk 2 years earlier. My baby sister had no memory of hanging at all and thought we were making up stories when we mentioned it.

She ran around the playground like any normal 5-year-old and hung from the monkey bars for fun, which made us all nervous, even though we knew it was different. Senior year, I applied to the pre-law program at the state university where my older sister was already studying social work.

The application asked for a personal statement about why I wanted to study law. I wrote about sitting in that courtroom watching the prosecutor fight for us and knowing I wanted to do that for other kids someday.

Beth wrote my recommendation letter and later the admissions counselor told me it was the strongest letter they’d ever received. She’d called me one of the bravest people she’d ever met and said I’d make an incredible advocate for children. The acceptance letter came in March and Gene framed it to hang on the wall next to my sisters.

Graduation day arrived hot and sunny with the ceremony on the football field. I walked across the stage to get my diploma and heard Cheryl screaming my name from the bleachers. Gene had brought one of those air horns that made everyone turn around to look.

My siblings held up signs they’d made with glitter and markers that said embarrassing things about me being their hero. My little brother’s sign had a drawing of me in a superhero cape, which he’d worked on for days. After the ceremony, we took about a hundred pictures with Gene, insisting on every possible combination of people.

That night, Cheryl made a huge dinner with all our favorite foods. We sat around the table and she asked us to share what we wanted to do with our lives now that we were moving forward. My older sister talked about her internship at CPS starting in the fall.

My little brother said he wanted to be a coach someday to help kids find confidence through sports. Even my baby sister announced she wanted to be a teacher, though she was only seven and might change her mind a dozen times.

Nobody brought up what happened to us before because we’d learned we were more than just survivors of something terrible. 5 years after that night, when mom announced the surgery that would have destroyed us forever, I sat in my law school library studying for criminal procedure.

My phone buzzed with a picture from my little brother at his college basketball game where he just made the winning shot. My older sister had graduated and worked as a social worker in the same office where Laura used to work. My baby sister was 12 and had no idea why her siblings got weird about sleepovers sometimes.

Cheryl and Gene had officially adopted us 3 years ago, though we still called them by their first names out of habit. We survived everything they did to us and came out the other side as a real family that chose each other.