The clock strikes 9:01. The scrunching of the dead animal leather couch is disgusting. I hate that sound. I hear it at the same time, every damned day. I stare at the identical, spotted white tiles that litter the ceiling. I watch him sink into his black skinned chair and start scribbling on that yellow notepad again.

“Hi Jake, it’s good to see you today. How was yesterday?” He inquired, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose. I don’t reply. “Jake, I’m here to help you. But I can’t unless you’re willing to talk to me,” he insisted. I look down at the dead animal couch and pick at a loose string. I look at the clock. 9:05. My session is over at 9:30. “Your parents tell me that you’re still not talking to anyone. Venting is healthy, and you can’t leave here without my consent. You’re stuck here until you open up to me. I’m only here to help you get better.” I look at the clock again. 9:07. He sighs, and sighed, “We can just sit here for until 9:30, if you refuse to talk.” That’s exactly what we do. The clock strikes 9:30. He mutters “Well our time is up. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.” He pauses and rises, the rumbling of his chair signaling his departure.

I’m escorted back to my room. Its four blank walls filled with two beds and a dresser. I feel trapped. I crawl into the fetal position and bury my head in my legs. I hear footsteps at my door. It’s the nurse.

“Jake, time for your checkup,” he growls. I get up and follow him to an even smaller, dimly lit room with a single stool in the center. He tells me to strip, and I reluctantly oblige. I hate being naked; displaying my entire body makes me feel too exposed. He inspects my arms, my ankles, and my thighs. He’s very rough.

“You’re set,” He grumbles. “Nothing new.” I shuffle to my feet and put my clothes back on. I’m escorted back to my room.

10:00 is group time. I’m escorted to the day room. On the door hangs a sign reading “You can’t succeed without our help” I chuckle inside. I sit in a chair, one of many in a circle of tortured souls. I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be here. Miranda, our group leader, claps her hands, which signals for group to start. We’re supposed to check in and discuss why we are here and what we need to work on. The other side of the circle starts. I’m glad that I’m next to the window. I gaze at the passing cars with jealousy. The kid besides me finishes up. It’s my turn. “Jake, dear it’s your turn. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help you feel better,” Miranda states endearingly. I stay silent, dodging her gaze. She asks again. I don’t speak. She sighs, and says “We’ll come back to you” and moves to the next person. I go back to watching cars. I glance at the clock. 10:25. Group is over at 10:45. They finish the circle, and everyone turns to me again. I look down, avoiding the impatient looks of my peers. “Jake, you need to talk to us. Talking is good. We can’t help fix what’s wrong with you until you open up to us” Miranda urges. I clam up.
There isn’t anything wrong with me. I’m not some freak, I think. She sighs in defeat, and starts discussing some “healthy” coping mechanisms. I look at the clock. 10:45. I stand up, and start walking toward the door.
“Where are you going Jake? Group isn’t over!” Miranda exclaims. I point to the clock and walk out. I’m escorted back to my room.
Well, back to the cage. I flop down on my bed. I look over and see my roommate. He’s sedated again. That’s what happens when you try to flee. There’s no escape. Not before recovering. They think they can just lock me up and expect me to conform to their idiotic beliefs and ideals? There’s no clock in my room. I pull down my sleeves. Is it worth it? Maybe I should try to bullshit my way out of here like everyone else. The nurse walks in.
“Phone call for you, Jake. It’s your mother” he announces roughly. I’m escorted to the phone booth. I pick up the receiver and she begins to talk.
“Jake, I can hear you breathing. They tell me that you still refuse to talk. You need to try to open up. This place is costing us a lot. Your father’s insurance won’t cover this…thing you do because it’s self-inflicted. You need to get better soon, before you get us into more financial troubles.” She’s out of breath. “Jake, please get better for your family’s sake.” She hangs up the phone. I look at the clock. 11:30. Time for lunch.
I’m escorted to the cafeteria. I go through the lunch line, staring at the lines of greasy, sloppy food. I find a table and push my food away. I’m not hungry. I slide my hands beneath the table and put my head down. I feel something sharp prick my finger. I look down and I see a loose piece of metal. I look around before grabbing the piece and detaching it from the table. I tuck it into my pocket and begin to munch on a biscuit.
I suffer through two more groups. I always keep as quiet as a mouse. It’s 5:00. It’s visiting time. All the other patients have loved ones visiting them. I sit in a corner, watching the flocks of people scurry down the halls, and hear hushed voices discussing the next steps for their children. They didn’t care when I was at home, why would they care now? I look at the clock. It’s 7:00. Only two more hours to go.
It’s 9:00, which means it’s time for bed. I lie there, awake, waiting for the nurse to finish his rounds. I hear his footsteps going in the other direction. I pull out the shred of metal. I slide it across my wrist, but it doesn’t feel right, not like before. There’s no relief; there’s just a lot of blood. I moan in pain and start to panic. I’ve never tried to stop the bleeding before. I get up and walk out of my room, holding my wrist. The nurse rushes to me. He grabs me and brings me to the infirmary. He grabs some gauze and applies pressure, trying to stop the bleeding. I hear him sigh in relief.
“If they find out about this, things will just get worse for you. My son was in the same position as you not that long ago. He recovered, and so can you. Promise me you’ll attempt to recover, and I won’t tell anybody. ” He whispers. My only reply is a small nod and a half smile.
It’s 9:00 again. I’m in the same spot on the dead animal couch. He sits down and asks me his usual questions. I hear a voice answer, but it isn’t mine. It’s too hoarse, too weak. I hear it stammer “I’m not doing ok. I I keep getting told that there is something wrong with me, and that only you can help. You shove your ideas down my throat and never ask me what I think I need. You took me from my home, and took away everything I was comfortable with; now I’m trapped. That’s not how you help someone who’s troubled. I don’t know what to do anymore. Last night, I….It wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right.”
He looks up at me, right at my face, with a look of amusement. “So, what do you want? What can we do to make sure you recover?” he inquires, scribbling away at his notepad
“I want to feel better. It used to help, but now it feels different. I want to stop this. I want to stop hurting those I love. I want help and I want to recover. I’ll do what it takes to go home.” I reply, looking into his eyes for the first time.
It’s been a week. I’m escorted toward the door. I look at the clock. 9:00. I look back and I give the therapist a half-grin. I walk out of the glass doors. I see my family, and I walk toward them. We hug, and I feel tears running down my face.
“The road will be hard, but I know I can do this. I will survive,” I say. “I won’t let this define me as a person or rule my life. I will recover.” They look into my eyes, and I think that they believe me.