I had been admitted to a medical center only two days ago. I felt claustrophobic and disoriented. Palms sweating, heart racing, I sat in an uncomfortable purple chair. I was in a room only a five-year-old could enjoy. A chalkboard, board-games, and a TV were in the room. We were having a “community meeting”, where we’re asked to talk openly about our problems.

A red-haired nurse gestures to me, “Hello.”
I force a smile onto my face, despite the sorrow that’s buried deep within. I’m scared, but I’m having trouble admitting it to myself. Why should I be scared?

I’m stuffed in a room with a bunch of cutter’s, alcohol or drug addicts, suicidal people, people with anger issues, depressed people, people with eating disorders, and people who see or hear things they shouldn’t. And they’re all freaks. I don’t belong here. I’m normal. I know that I am. The worst part? All of them are staring at me, waiting for my answer.

“Hi.” I manage, barely audible.
“How are you?” the nurse asks me, typing away on her computer.
“I’m fine,” I smile more.
I wonder if I’m appearing even more fake, because on the inside I don’t feel happy or overjoyed. After a few more personal questions, we’re allowed to go back to our rooms.

The rooms here are boring. Plain, white walls, two beds, a sink, and a bathroom. With nothing to do, I stare blankly up at the ceiling; thinking to myself. How long will I be here? What’s going to happen to me? I continue to stare, and suddenly I jump, startled by the sudden sound of my roommate’s voice.
“I think you’re really brave.” She smiles at me.

“Thank you.” I manage a real smile, blushing. A warm, fuzziness feeling soars through me; a feeling I haven’t felt in a while. She crosses the room and takes her bracelet off her wrist. Momentarily, I’m confused. She takes my arm and slides the bracelet onto my wrist. The bracelet reads: God loves you. He always has, He always will.

I begin to cry. I don’t know why or how, I just do. It’s as if my emotions are water in a bottle, being stuffed inside by a cap. As soon as you release the cap, the water overflows, letting everything out. My roommate hugs me tight, squeezing some happiness and warm and joy into me.

“I know what it’s like to go through what you did,” she says, “I never want you to hurt yourself again.” This time I hug her back, squeezing out my feelings. After that, my roommate went back to her bed, and continued reading.
And I swear in that moment, I had a revelation. Just like the others, I was a freak. And that’s not always a bad thing. Because as I said this to myself, I knew it was true. Now that the truth was finally clear, I found that I could shine.