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Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and I have something in common: a history of substance use disorder. He prefers the most familiar nomenclature, referring to himself as an “addict.” I have been moving away from labels like that—to me they aren’t fully accurate, nor very helpful. I’m guessing he would disagree, given his stance on the subject. According to RFK Jr., when a person is using drugs, they are automatically “living against conscience” while “pushing God to the peripheries.” Which is why Donald Trump’s new health and human services secretary frames the current situation the nation faces as a kind of cosmic struggle for the soul of America, one in which drug users need to find their way to a “spiritual awakening.” And he knows just how to facilitate one.

Here’s the vision: vast acreage in rural America dotted with sprouting heads of organic kale, carrots, broccoli, squash, and the like. Horses, cows, and chickens roam as those tending the crops and livestock fellowship between their various farm tasks. It’s a utopia for those convicted of drug crimes in the respective cities from which they hail; instead of being confined in an icky jail, they will take in the fresh air as they till the soil and tend to livestock. They will be “reparented.” These are RFK Jr.’s “wellness farms,” and they purport to be his crowning achievement—or, as he puts it, “my space program, my Peace Corps.”

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The moment I heard about this proposal, I immediately returned to my own experience being “reparented” on a rural ranch in California’s Central Valley in the early 2000s. By 19, I was already stacking up encounters with law enforcement and the charges that came with them, all related to my substance use issues. Eventually, I was given a choice: spend a year in a treatment program or a year in jail. Having spent the preceding three months locked up, I decided rehab would likely be better than spending more time inside. I had been receiving psychiatric treatment in jail for a number of mental health diagnoses and was stabilized for the first time in adulthood. I figured it might not be so bad—I really was ready for a change. So I agreed.

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Shafter is a little farming community just outside of Bakersfield, California. I arrived near the end of June, just as the weather was beginning to crack the 100-degree mark on a near daily basis. I had nothing to my name outside of a duffel filled with clothes procured from various donation piles, a few books, some CDs with a Discman, and a clear Ziploc bag containing several bottles of prescription psych meds. After the facility management rifled through all my stuff, all that remained were my clothes. They informed me I was allowed only one book—the Bible. Music was reserved for singing to the lord. As for the meds, I wouldn’t need them—I promptly would be healed by Jesus. To prove it, they circled up and laid hands on me, praying for my success and my soul as I entered the program.

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This was my introduction to Teen Challenge Inc. The name here is misleading. While the organization does have facilities designed for teens (which have come under intense scrutiny for their methods), the majority of locations are geared toward adults, divided strictly by gender. Everything surrounds severe religiosity. I was allowed one 10-minute phone call once a week, with a staff member standing just feet behind me, eavesdropping. I was encouraged to disconnect with anyone who wasn’t “saved,” meaning not the organization’s brand of Christian. That included my own mother, who was into new age philosophy, and so essentially was the devil. There was no news (unless you count the “good news” of Christ), no television or movies, no outside information of any kind. It was nothing but hard labor, beans, rice, and Jesus Christ. (Teen Challenge did not respond to a request for comment.)

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RFK Jr. has not endorsed Teen Challenge directly, but its approach mirrors much of his stated vision. A large part of his plan involves removing people from their environment, requiring them to perform manual labor, limiting outside communication (“no screens,” as he puts it), and fostering a turn toward God. In its heyday, Teen Challenge was endorsed and touted by the highest official in government at the time, President George W. Bush. He was the reason that Teen Challenge wound up on the list of court-approved facilities to begin with. In addition to approving millions in grants for the program and others like it, he also spoke at its fundraising events. He lauded the group’s unique methods and supposed success rate. Splashed across all its literature and the side of every van was a slogan: “The Proven Cure for the Drug Epidemic.”

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Much like RFK Jr.’s proposal, Teen Challenge was predicated on a turn away from traditional—meaning scientifically tested—forms of rehabilitation. When I was there, the organization certainly didn’t believe in psychiatric diagnosis or intervention, and had not one medically trained staff member (despite having people in their care going through potentially deadly substance withdrawal). I was first diagnosed with generalized anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder at age 10, followed by major depression in my teens. I had been hospitalized after suicide attempts and self-harm on no fewer than five occasions. While in jail, medication kept my symptoms at bay. Then, those meds were taken by the very place that was charged by the courts to care for me, to be replaced with God.

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That is, perhaps, the most alarming part of RFK Jr.’s proposal—the demonization of psychiatric intervention. During his health and human services confirmation hearing, he remarked that medications like SSRIs may be more addictive than heroin. For me, psychiatric medication has been the most helpful part of my recovery from substance use disorder. Before I went back on my meds a few years ago, I was on the verge of being hospitalized again. I’m now on a cocktail of five different compounds, and life is substantially better for me—I’m stable. RFK Jr. and officials like him hear that and think that I’m likely misdiagnosed, and definitely overmedicated—that all I really need is to stick my hands in some organic dirt and learn some accountability. I’m a 42-year-old who’s already accountable; I need my meds to help keep me alive.

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When I entered Teen Challenge, I didn’t buy the concept of a monotheistic God. However, much of my OCD centered on superstition. The longer I spent in a vacuum that preached a specific ritual to ensure the salvation of my soul, the more I became obsessed with the idea. It didn’t make any sense to me, given my agnostic belief system—but OCD doesn’t make sense. Those with the disorder spend their time performing rituals they often know are nuts, yet must do anyway. For me, that meant answering every altar call at every church service. Each Wednesday night and Sunday morning, I walked down the aisle and kneeled in front of a pastor, his eyes closed and hands out, shaking with the spirit of God as I repeated the Sinner’s Prayer. I accepted salvation eight times a month. Then, when I was told that I couldn’t really be saved unless I spoke in the tongues of angels, I rolled on the floor and babbled with everyone else. When people lined up to get Jesus shocked into their foreheads, I was right there. Then, I would spend the afternoon crying, trying to make some kind of sense out of my new life.

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As time went on, the situation worsened. I was sent away to work for a catering company that fed wildfire crews as they trudged to and from whatever part of the American West was on fire. This consisted of 15 days, weeks on end, no days off, no pay. When I returned, I was put on the car auction lot, pulled out of bed at 2 a.m. and spent the next 10 hours pressure washing and drying cars (again, without pay). As do most facilities with this model, my handlers claimed room and board were my stipend. I was shacked up in a room crammed with five bunkbeds and 10 other dudes. Meals were akin to those I received when living in shelters for the unhoused. There was no way that working overtime six days a week couldn’t buy me more than that.

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So far, RFK Jr. has been light on details about how his Wellness Farms would run, exactly. But he has pointed to a few specific examples. They are “faith-friendly,” and every one I’ve seen has an unpaid labor associated with them. But labor exploitation is, perhaps, the least concerning trend that emerges from these institutions; there is no way of getting around the potential for all sorts of malfeasance. Part of his plan involves facilities for children, and if stories from the “troubled teen industry” are any indication, it would seem abuse is pretty much guaranteed. At Teen Challenge, I personally witnessed staff members abusing their power. Much of this stemmed from the fact that everyone in a position of authority at Teen Challenge was once an inductee themselves, which is generally how places like that work; those who “overcome” and submit to the institution wind up in charge, and revel in it.

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It’s totally possible—likely, even—that some people would respond well to a structured environment in a rural area, even if that meant being disconnected from their homes and support networks. But there are many people—especially people like me, with co-occurring diagnoses—who need a different kind of care. In one interview during his failed presidential campaign, RFK Jr. alluded to a family member who went into one of the labor-intensive rehabilitation environments with a host of mental health diagnoses and then “lost” them, popping out the other side “an extraordinary person, lives a thriving life.” I really hope that’s true. But not only are these ideas not new, they have, historically, failed miserably for many, many people like me. That they’re now propped up with hokum and anecdotes by the top health official in America as part of the Make America Healthy Again agenda should give pause to all of us.

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I finally had to leave Teen Challenge after nine months, just shy of completing the full year. My mental health conditions had become untenable; I felt I didn’t have a choice. Despite going straight to a structured sober living environment that allowed me to take psych meds, my probation officer found me in violation of terms for leaving Teen Challenge before I completed the program. I was once again arrested and eventually incarcerated for a year, as promised. That’s how these systems work; dependent drug users are given a “choice” between jail and rehab but have no say in the kind of rehabilitation they receive. I’ll let you guess in which environment I was ultimately more stable.