“Write something meaningful to you,” that was the prompt I was given. “It must be meaningful, but don't over-share.” These words felt binding, because I knew what I wanted to write about, I knew what was meaningful to me, but something told me that is not the story people want to hear. But it is the story I need to write. True, it's not a happy story, and it's not exactly a pleasant one either, but it has meaning, and it matters to me.

Let's venture back a few months to a building with my not-so-fond memories hovering over its roof. The psych ward: when you hear that name you probably think of a home for crazy people. Some of us might have been crazy, but it wasn't all, and most likely it was from being kept in a windowless room for months. If you ever wondered what it felt like to be a bird rendered flightless by its cage, this is it. Never knowing when you will be set free, if ever, and practicing the same daily routine over and over until it is second nature. Friday was taco night, that was the first meal I had there. It wasn't bad, it was just unseasoned, quite like the room I stayed in. One window looked out onto a wall, a bathroom door that couldn't close, and a shower where I never knew if I was going to get hot or cold water. Every bed was made up of the same thin sheet and plastic pillow; the only rooms that looked different were the ones people had been living in for months. All I had from home was a stuffed animal cat, the Twilight series, a few pajama sets and a pair of laceless slippers. Every day was the same. Get up, check your vitals, eat the same breakfast as yesterday, and go to group.

At this point in my story, you might be thinking “Okay we got it, you were in a psych ward,” and yes, I get it, the story itself isn’t what I’m here to share. Going into a psych ward, most likely you are your own worst enemy, and that was true in my case as well. Everything around you seems distant and unimportant, all that matters is how much you hate yourself, but as I soon discovered, it does not stay like that for very long.

I was never given a warning that I would be going there, no one told me to say goodbye to my brother or friends, I just disappeared. Suddenly, I wasn't fighting against myself, I was fighting to keep me safe. Everything seemed to be sugar-coated, covering the ugly truth just enough that they convince you that you are cured, when in reality no one really heals in a psych ward. It's just daycare for the delinquent kids no one wants to deal with. All of a sudden I needed to keep myself as collected as possible. “Don’t cry, crying shows weakness and weakness shows you are unstable.” Such a motivating sentence to be told by a nurse on your first day. As time went on, I learned to control what I said and did, without losing myself to the routine, because that's all they really want, to break you in like a horse. I never let them, though; sure I followed orders and routines, but I didn’t let that take over who I am. Let me guess, “What's the point of this story?” So let me tell you. I am proud I managed to keep myself sane. My clipped wings grew back fuller than before. And although it might not sound like much, it kept me alive then, and that is why I wrote about it.

© Beatrice. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.