Penelope Brown, 50, Oxfordshire
Boarded from the age of nine
I’m a typical drifting ex-boarder – the type who never really plants or puts down roots. I now live in a van. It’s common amongst third country kids: settling feels a hard thing to do. Our lives are peripatetic. Dad was a civil engineer and my early years were all over the place: Saudi Arabia, Papua New Guinea, Lesotho. Then I was sent to boarding school, where your dormitory changes every school year. You’re constantly shifting sands. My parents might move during term time; “home” then became a place I’d never visited.
I think I was nine when I went, but I can’t be certain. Birthdays while boarding weren’t really celebrated, so it’s a blur. My older brother went off to Yorkshire and me to Cheshire. Yes, it was practical given my parents were often moving, but it was also very much an aspirational thing on my mother’s part. I’ve very little recollection of the earliest days. I know I flew over alone.
That first school was a grand stately home with chandeliers. After being dropped off, I grabbed my bag and ran up the Elizabethan staircase. A booming voice shouted: “GET DOWN, NOW!” That’s how it remained. A lot of shouting and bells. Bells to wake up, bells to brush your teeth, bells to go down to breakfast… Very Pavlov’s dog.
There wasn’t time for soft interpersonal skills, like negotiation. It was obey the rules, or be damned.
Everything was geared up to strip you of your identity: uniforms for daytime, another for evening. We weren’t allowed to put posters on our wall. No toys, not even card games. We had no television or radio, and the food was revolting. Otherwise, there were activities: piano, elocution, deportment, and horse riding, once a week. During down time, we could either read or embroider.
My first boarding school was ostensibly a finishing school. I was never destined to be a prim and proper young lady. I left at 13 and moved to a former all-boys school, which brought its own challenges. It was still children bringing up children for the most part.
You’re told that you’re lucky and privileged to have been in the system. Indoctrinated into believing what you went through was good. I thought I was the only one who struggled well into adulthood. I became an alcoholic, and then entered recovery. I started attending meetings and realised how many others in the recovery programme had been to boarding school, too. As with a lot of ex-boarders, I struggled to build strong bonds with my parents. They snapped so early. We had little access to phones. I could go for months without speaking to them in my most formative years. I’ve not seen my father since I was in my early 20s. I stopped speaking to my mother before she died. As you get older, you subconsciously think: you didn’t look after me growing up, so why would I look after you now?
Chris Braitch, 44, Dorset
Boarded from the age of seven
Boarding schools are a broad sector, not all are the elites of Eton. There are special educational needs schools, and residential institutions that specialise in dance, sports or music. Some cater for children from military, mercantile and missionary families. There are state boarding schools, and others for young people deemed to have behavioural problems.
I boarded from 7 to 13. It wasn’t generational. Mine was a working-class family: mum was a teacher, dad an engineer. After their divorce, Mum remarried an ex-boarder. She saw his outward success and felt it would offer safety, stability and opportunity. I know it pained her when I went away, and Dad was against it. I can’t imagine doing the same to my children.
Initially, I was excited. Then the doors close. It’s cold and you can’t sleep for all the crying. Minor transgressions from a long list of rules resulted in a beating or losing privileges. At seven, I was whacked with a trainer by a teacher for speaking after lights out. Pretty quickly, it became a survival job.
In my time boarding there were no incidents of sexual abuse, sadly plenty have those experiences. For me and many others, it was the abandonment, bullying and neglect, without being able to leave and rest, that left its mark. Psychotherapist Joy Schaverien identified the ABCD of Boarding School Syndrome: abandonment, bereavement, captivity and dissociation. Growing up in an institution without love, appropriate touch, surrounded by strangers – not all of whom are benign – sets you up for a life disconnected from your full emotional range. This is almost universal in my experience of speaking to hundreds of ex-boarders, whether they view their time at school as positive or not. I also see lots of self-medication. Booze or other addictions: workaholics; gambling; drugs; sex addiction. I’ve yet to meet an ex-boarder who has found stable and healthy adult relationships easy or who hasn’t self-sabotage another area of their life.
These schools historically set out to cauterise emotions and to break the child, to then shape the child. They were designed to create soldiers for an empire that no longer exists; the battle-ready now left to navigate the complexities of modern life. I tried to channel myself into a 20-year corporate career punctuated with alcohol as a coping strategy. At times I was ambitious, unforgiving, and self-aggrandising.
As part of my healing and development following a breakdown, I co-founded an organisation, Seen and Heard (seenheard.org.uk), which supports the wellbeing of pupils past and present. We run free online support groups, have a directory of mental health professionals and offer grants for support. We campaign for improvements to child sexual-abuse legislation and lobby schools to improve welfare provision, so the next generation don’t come out of the system as damaged as mine.
Generally, the schools are safer than they used to be and the majority of staff are doing their best. But the inconvenient truth that none will confront is this: in the vast majority of cases, children simply aren’t better growing up away from their family. If it’s safe for a child to be at home, that’s where they should be.
Lydia Lockhart, 33, Oxfordshire
Boarded from the age of seven
Most of my life I have blamed myself for not being good enough or capable. When I found out about others with Boarding School Syndrome, I became angry at my parents. Now I see they were doing what they thought was best for me. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t wrong.
I started boarding a couple of nights a week; I wanted to because my brother was already. I really enjoyed the first years at my small prep school. Those few sleeps away from home felt like a thrill. My dad had boarded from the age of 9 to 11, before transferring. Mum had, been too, and ended up being expelled from her first school – she ran away from the second. But in our family and circle, it was the done thing; the best thing, supposedly, to do for your child.
Aged 11, boarding full-time, I started to struggle. Homesickness, initially. We were only allowed to call home for 10 minutes, twice weekly. It was a public payphone: kids would press up against the glass as you spoke, waiting for their turn. There was no way to communicate with your parents that felt private or safe. Whenever I was upset, a staff member encouraged me into an activity; a distraction. The message enforced is simple: getting emotional won’t help, so don’t.
We didn’t go home at weekends. Mum would send me letters – “The dogs are curled up by the fire” – and I’d be thinking, why the fuck aren’t I? Sundays were for visits, but parents rarely came. Mine only lived 45 minutes away, but it all felt too painful. The pupils had privilege, but we were imprisoned, in a way.
In adulthood, I’ve been diagnosed with autism and ADHD. It wasn’t picked up at school, as was common then, especially in girls. Now I work in London, supporting kids with special educational needs. Boarding schools, I am certain, aren’t a place for these young people. Those children need one-to-one attention from parents or carers. After school hours there might be only two adults to 80 or more kids. Children need to let loose after classes. At boarding school, the mask has to remain on permanently.
I developed anorexia in my second or third year there. It was something I could control, in a place where I felt I had no grip or agency. Despite being under the school’s care, they didn’t notice. My parents did, after watching me play sports. I was taken aside by a teacher and told to eat more potatoes. I was hospitalised, then sent back to board for sixth form.
You lose yourself inside these places. I was an opinionated little girl when I arrived, with passions and hobbies. I’d lost much of that by the time I left. I was taught to follow orders and comply. You’re left institutionalised. At university, other students thrived with their newfound freedom. Without an hour-to-hour timetable, I was adrift.
Piers Cross, 49, Yorkshire
Boarded from the age of 11
I started reading biographies of some of the most well-known, successful and celebrated leaders of this country. Many went to boarding school and had horrific times. I wanted to explore how and why the people in power had been traumatised, and the effect that might be having on the rest of the world. It felt like an elephant in the room.
Take David Cameron. He described being sent to boarding school at seven as “brutal and bizarre” and recalled “frequent beatings”. He lost a stone in weight during a single term. Tony Blair tried to run away aged 14, making his way to Newcastle airport in a bid to escape. There are so many of these stories. Charles Spencer made a huge impact when he wrote of his horrendous time. Last month, Winston’s Churchill’s grandson spoke out.
Today, I’m a coach, working mostly with ex-boarders in positions of power: CEOs and the like. I’ve got my own story, too. My family were military officers. Most had boarded. I did from 11 until 18. On the surface, I was a real success story: I left as captain of athletics, in the first teams for rugby and football.
Later, while working in the city in London, I had a breakdown. I started to realise how horrific it had been. I’d been sexually abused as a teenager by a staff member. In the end, this teacher was imprisoned for 12 years, having abused nine pupils. One teacher is still in prison and there’s another who has spent time inside. The consequences have followed me around for years. We idealise boarding schools in this country: Hogwarts, Enid Blyton, even Wicked. We’ve had it for generations. Yes, you can achieve good A-level results. But that’s not all that makes an education.
A group of us decided to make a documentary, Boarding on Insanity. It started with interviews. First, Nick Duffell, author of Wounded Leaders: British Elitism and the Entitlement Illusion. We started to piece together how this trauma informs our politics and wider society, given so many end up at the top. As Nick pointed out: if you learn to hate the vulnerable within yourself, as you do in these schools, you’re going to struggle to empathise with the vulnerable in society.
Alongside interviews with experts, the film hears from ex-boarders. A group of us of different ages and backgrounds got together for a weekend retreat. It created a space to open up and share, the opposite of what boarding school instils in you. The first time I cried at boarding school, aged 11, all the boys in my dorm shouted: “Weak! Weak! Weak!” I learned to never show my emotions. I didn’t even cry when my father died.
Being part of a group connecting to their stories was transformational. I felt myself open up. Sharing that pain and grief helps you let it go. Telling these stories is how we heal.
Dan Perry, 47, London
Boarded from the age of 14
One of mum’s side hustles was as an educational consultant – she helped place expat kids into suitable schools. I was born in London, but we moved to Spain when I was eight. I’d been windsurfing down on the beach, then came back up at lunchtime. Mum asked if I fancied going to a boarding school in York. Thinking little of it, I said yes, then went back down to the ocean. A few weeks later, I was there. Windsurfing had been my passion, but I never really did it again after that day. That’s the thing about boarding schools – they put an end to your individuality.
I was shown around the boarding house by another boy. I don’t remember my mother leaving. There was no anguish there. In my early teens, I spent my summers teaching water sports in Scotland, and would travel to different countries alone. I valued my independence. I was excited to get away. The culture shock was huge. I was nervous trying to clumsily understand the way things worked. There was a state school in the grounds of our palatial establishment. The kids at my school would throw stones at those children as they made their way past.
Anyone who was different got picked on: fat, small, Black, gay, anything. It happens all over, but being a public school – a boarding school – that was more pronounced. These weren’t exactly environments that cultivated or celebrated diversity. Until that school, I’d never even considered my race.
It was rarely aggressive and violent. Often, it was invisible. And there was no break or reprieve; no time to find comfort from family or community beyond the gates who understood what I was going through. I couldn’t make friends outside school – I had no chance to find my people. I was totally disconnected and alone.
So when I found the tape, I felt numb. I’d recorded music onto a tape in the common room. The following year, I finally listened to it, while recovering from a broken collar bone. Midway through, the music cut out, to the sound of boys from my school hurling racist abuse. These were people I lived with in the closest of quarters. A shroud came down.
The culture encouraged you to not speak out – so I didn’t. Rather than handing the tape in and reporting it, I threw it in the bin. You learn to close up, be quiet, just deal with it. Keep calm and carry on. I stayed at that school until I was 18.
For decades, I was entirely oblivious to the impact of all this. I looked back on my time and thought only of freedom and independence. And I was successful: a short career in the city, before setting up a media business in Spain. But, It’s just things kept going wrong. However hard I tried, things would crumble. A crescendo of crises. I eventually did the work to understand myself better and started talking. I realised the narrative I’d written for my life only had the positives on it. I’d hidden the pain entirely. It’s what boarders do. Now, I have more harmony and joy in my life. Those negative experiences, effectively processed, have made me compassionate and helped me connect to others. It has made me a better person.
Cathy Wield, 65, Dorset
Boarded from the age of nine
My father was in the diplomatic service. We were living in Thailand when I was sent to board. That was the done thing; a perk of the job, supposedly, as fees were paid by the government.
We weren’t a boarding-school family by any means. Post war, neither of my parents went to university – so they thought this was an incredible opportunity. On arrival, I was instantaneously hit by the reality – that I was alone, and my parents had left me. I started crying, then I was shouted at for being in tears.
Every moment of our lives was timetabled. We had to eat every item on our plates at meal times, in set seating. I hated cheese, I’d try to sneak it out to bin it. When caught, I’d be forced to eat it through my tears.
The bullying was awful, and in boarding schools, it’s impossible to monitor. If anything, it was ignored on purpose, to help keep us under control. It was horrific: one girl was whipped with nettles and holly; water was poured on my bed to make it look like I’d wet it. Girls were made to eat soap and coerced into terrorising other pupils day and night. It was like Lord of the Flies. Emotionally, we were islands, unable to talk.
Going home for the holidays became its own type of trauma: the prospect of going back loomed large. After the first 24 hours, the ticking time bomb started. It took 18 hours to fly back to London. I was so distraught the first time I had to make the post-holiday journey that each time after, I was tranquillised. I boarded until the age of 17.
I went on to be a doctor in emergency medicine. I’ve only just retired. I always knew I hated what happened to me at school. I’m not someone who took decades to see the wood from the trees.
I met my husband young, and we married soon after. I vowed never to send our children away. In my early 30s, our eldest child won a place at the Royal Ballet School – she’d be a weekly boarder. It dragged up all of my memories. We let her go, collected her every weekend, and kept an eye closely. I, however, had a breakdown, almost immediately. I sought help, and was put on antidepressants and then hospitalised – this episode lasted seven years. Only years later did a therapist realise that it was, in fact, PTSD.
There’s very little understanding of the gender differences when it comes to boarding. We hear in the press of the plight of the boys, now: physical and sexual abuse. And, certainly, this happened to girls, too. But plenty of women like me feel unheard and ignored. We didn’t face that sensationalised violence, often. It was low-key, shame-based, neglectful. We were subject to derogatory comments. As growing girls, we had to learn about puberty and our changing bodies from each other. We were left to work it all out ourselves.
As girls at that time, we weren’t being trained to be leaders, but to be submissive wives. Many from my school went on to be debutants. Breaking our spirits was the plan. A generation of women were raised to be quiet. This is why I wrote my book: Unshackled Mind: A Doctor’s Story of Trauma, Liberation and Healing. It took some years to find my voice.
Harry Bolland, 28, Glastonbury
Boarded from the age of 12
I’m still quite early in my journey of unpacking the impact of my experiences. At 28, it all still feels rather fresh. It was only a year or so ago that I even realised how much of a toll boarding took on me. Until recently, it was all but blanked out.
As a child, I was a real free spirit. There was a charm to my early childhood – lots of space to roam. Cats and meadows and trees to climb upon, pretending to fight off imaginary orcs. I was a country boy with an imagination that ran wild. At boarding school, that’s not exactly encouraged.
Mum and her sister had boarded. As far as I know, they both detested it. But mum thought I needed special attention for my, let’s say, challenging behaviour. She was convinced my school would be of help. I was the one who requested that I sleep at school sometimes. The relationship between me and my parents was difficult then; unharmonised. I thought boarding would give us some space.
Just one night per week at first. Then I convinced Mum to let me stay two. Soon, I was there from Tuesday morning to Friday night. Only, I couldn’t cope and landed up in trouble, repeatedly.
Sure, boarding taught me about strength and resilience. But there’s no moment when you take off your uniform and express yourself. I felt suffocated and I acted out. A teacher grabbed me by the neck and threw me against a wall, shouting, because I’d locked my bedroom door and didn’t let him in once he’d knocked. These sound like stories from the old days, but it still happens. It’s like these places have been forgotten; an overlooked relic of history. Corporal punishment was prohibited in state schools in 1986. In private schools, it happened far later: England and Wales, 1998, and Scotland in 2000. It continued in Northern Ireland until 2003.
I ended up being expelled. Afterwards, I attended a state school in Suffolk. It was set up to be far gentler, kinder and more compassionate. I couldn’t comprehend how different the environments felt. It’s an uncomfortable reality for many who see boarding schools as an integral element of their lineage; generation after generation upholding some British tradition that none want to admit is defunct. I make music now: producing, singing and playing the piano. My creativity was crushed at boarding school – but it wasn’t killed.
Boarding on Insanity, directed by Ben Cole, can be streamed now at boardingoninsanity.com
