I see the moon through the crack in the windshield; is it just me, or has it gotten larger? The car’s engine buzzes softly in the background, and the road stretches in front of my eyes. My mother’s knuckles are white as snow as she grips the steering wheel. I know she’s trying to be brave, but I can practically hear her teeth grinding against each other.  I lost track of where we are and what time it is about half an hour ago.
Mom stops the car for the hundredth time. “Are you sure?”
I swallow, fighting back tears. ”I don’t want to die.”
She doesn’t answer. She simply turns into a crowded parking lot in front of the gaudiest hospital I have ever seen. People die here, but they make it look like its Grand Central Station. I hesitate; I am filthy, tear-stained, and I have an army of cuts up and down my left side. What business do I have going in there?
I whisper softly to no one in particular. “To get help… do this for your family. You’re going to go in there, sit down, and spill your story. No lying; this is serious.”
My mother tugs me by my shirt into the ER, and deposits me in a cushioned chair. She’s shaking, both in rage and contained sobs. That’s the hard part in cases like this; a smart, pretty, charming girl. She never gets in trouble; she does what she is told to do. She has a great boyfriend, best friends, and a bright future. The question that nags everyone is simply why. How could this have happened? The worst part is no one can understand what went wrong here; not even me.
I am plucked off the chair like a lint ball, and dragged behind a glass wall. I inhale and exhale rapidly as the faceless nurses probe me. The thermometer tastes like metal, the cuff hurts my shoulder, and the weight on the scale makes me want to cry. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, and I stare into my mother’s ancient green eyes; a painful penance.
I’m moved into a bed. The IV goes in and out as a doctor tries to hit a vein. It’s funny; I never had a problem doing that myself. As I’m changing from sweaty clothes to a bit of stiff cloth, the doctors stare at the weeping cuts, the raised scars, the protruding ribs, and the thigh gap. The questions are endless:
“Do you want to die?”
“How’s life at home?”
“Do you have thoughts of wanting to kill yourself or others?”
“How was school today, sweetie?”
I answer each of their inquiries as best as I can. I won’t let my mother down again. She sits wordless at my bedside, crying softly and rubbing her satiny hand over a sensitive part of my palm. It feels comforting, and she continues to do so as I drift in and out of sleep.
The ambulance comes at four in the morning. Mom is ushered to her car, and I’m dropped in a wheelchair. I stiffen up and let them wheel me away. I’m praying for death every other second, and the feelings only intensify when they strap me into the ambulance. I have a bleary-eyed staring contest with the tattooed ambulance dude who sits with me in the back. He thinks I’m insane, but I lost the ability to care about ten-thirty. I’m so sorry he missed me. Leave a message at the tone. I fall into a coma, and pray the fatigue will disappear.
The last thing I remember is my mother’s lips on my cheek, steel eyed doctors filling out papers, a plastic shackle with my name, date of birth, and my social stamped on it, and a mattress and two flimsy covers. I’m too tired to back down.
Day 1: Wednesday
I wake up to eight pairs of eyes eyeballing me at my bedside. They’re all rich-skinned, bright-eyed, and way too perky. They contrast with the bare white walls and tiled floor with their cheery pea-coats and ragged clipboards covered in pencil scribbles and halves of smiley-faced stickers. They pepper me with more questions, and stare at me like little boys stare at Playboy as I gulp down orange juice.
MY OWN DOCTER comes to see me, and asks me the routine questions. They prick me some more; I’m starting to feel like a pincushion. They watch me dress, and they herd me down a long hall. The room behind the door is pretty; the walls are painted with violet horses and pink trees. There are two tables, one of which is inhabited by four people; a tall, skeletal girl with coffee-colored skin and corn-row braids. Another girl is chubby, with short frizzy hair. She looks like she’s from Africa, and she has a soft foreign accent. The third is a tall blond girl with barely-visible grey eyes swallowed by dark pupils. Her hair is in a braid. I can’t get my brain against the last kid. Why is there a boy in a girl’s unit? No one said anything about a co-ed psych ward.
The voice of the boy breaks into my head; it’s chirpy and high. “Hey! I’m Rowan,” he gestures to the braided girl “and this is Deja.”
The plump girl smiles warmly. “I’m Nyala.” She points towards the quiet blond. “That’s Sarah.”
I take a seat cautiously. “I’m Cate I guess.”
The rest of the day, I remain silent. I answer questions with “Yes”, “No”, or a shrug. The nurses are all exotic looking college interns and old ladies. I discover that Rowan is actually called Rachel. “I’m FTM: Female to Male transgender,” he explains. I nod in approval. That has to be tough.
We play endless amounts of Uno. Rowan teaches us how to play Spades and Spoons, Deja teaches me to shuffle a deck of cards, and Sarah smiles at me from afar before going into hiding in her dark room. Occasionally, we hear screams from next door, or upstairs. Tortured patients crying from nightmares, or triggered by unseen ghosts. The nurses ignore it, occasionally shaking their heads. They can’t see the monsters like I can; like we can. By the end of the day, the five of us have a pact. The first thing you learn about a place like this is that bonding with the others is the only love you’ll ever get here. No one else is going to understand you. They can’t see the ghost behind the bathroom door, or the nameless shadows that flit around the room.
Day 2: Thursday
Today is Thanksgiving. The lunch ladies feed us potatoes, mystery meat, and gravy, as well as a dry roll and stale pie that only tastes normal under a thick layer of vanilla ice-cream. I can’t help but wonder what my friends at school are doing; what they had for lunch, what they did in between classes, who sat in my seat… did anyone ask where I was?
My parents bring truffles, and microwaved Thanksgiving dinner. It’s better when I think that at least I’m not missing  Christmas or my birthday. It’s just boring old Thanksgiving; the holiday where Americans overeat and lay around and celebrate genocide. I accept visits from my Grandma GG, and a few random family-friends. This girl eats and eats. This girl feels fat. This girl starts hearing voices. This girl’s meds get bumped up to infinity and beyond, and this girl goes to her room for the rest of the day. This girl sobs. This girl wants to die.
This girl says “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Day 3: Friday
Three days? Shouldn’t I have been discharged by now?
Morning meds come at five o’clock. Lunch is at 12:10. There is a secretary constantly on duty. There has to be a nurse on duty, constantly watching. I start to learn the names of staff members. Not good. I’m settling into their routine.
I am stretched out on the floor with Sarah. We share a pillow and a blanket, and whispered secrets about our first kisses, stolen candy, and sneaking out. It’s almost like a slumber party, except ‘mom’ checks on us every two seconds with clipboard in hand.
“One day, we’re going to drink until we get sick at a real live club without worrying about whether or not it will miss with our meds.” I stare at the ceiling.
“I have heart problems,” Sarah whispers. “I can’t drink.”
“Fine; I’ll make you the best virgin daiquiri you’ve ever tasted.” I giggle.
“It’s a deal!” Sarah laughs.
Deja looks up from her hand of Uno cards. “Can I tag along?”
“Duh, it’ll be you, me, Sarah, Nyala, and Rowan; a big ol’ party.” I grin.
We swear on it, even though discharge may be our final goodbye.

Day 4: Saturday
No matter how much support you get, a mental hospital is a mental hospital. It’s not just painting your feelings and playing cards. Deja has a panic attack late at night. She is talking to her grandma when her voice rises. “You WILL bring me home. I swear to God! Damn you!”
The nurse pulls us into the next unit quickly right as the phone is thrown at the wall. The loud boom is followed by tremors and banging. I can practically feel Deja’s bruised knuckles; her burning rage, her agony. I start to weep. Rowan clutches my hand, and Sarah leans on my shoulder. Nyala buries her face in her hands and rocks back and forth on her heels.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Deja pounds her fists into the door next door. The sound of angry voices and footsteps begins to drown out the sound of Deja’s screams. The banging ceases. The screams halt. A door slams. Sarah blacks out and Rowan shudders. Nyala clenches her fists.
A few minutes later, we are ushered back to our unit. It is cold and silent.
“What happened?” I whisper to Rowan.
“They sedated her.” His eyes are cold.
Deja doesn’t go home the next day. She is restricted to the unit, and she rarely speaks. She curls up next to me every so often, and we talk about what death must feel like. Jaws are clamped together. No one wants to think about the locks on the doors, the police officers, and the security cameras.
I hide from prying eyes beneath the covers. I tell the nurses to stop filming me. They insist the unit is camera-free, and put me on something to help what they call paranoia and delusions. They also give me a sleeping pill each night. It feels like poison inside of me.
Day 5: Sunday
We compare scars: Sarah’s are on her hips, hiding from our view. Deja has faded marks on her arms. Nyala’s dark skin is streaked with pink. Rowan has red gashes across both arms. I show them the scar on my tummy; stretched, raised, and colored a flamboyant pink shade.
Rowan tells us his story too:
“I was taken from my mother. Her name is Margie, and she visits sometimes. My foster mom liked telling me that I was just a girl inside. I’m here for the fourth time, and I’m going to prove her wrong if it kills me. I will be myself, and do what I want to do. In the next few days, I’m moving to a group home until my eighteenth birthday. Yes, I’m scared. But it’ll all be better once I’m on testosterone. I can finally be me.” He smiles slightly.
“What about you, Cate?” Deja whispers?
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore. You all come from a bad place. I didn’t; I was spoiled, loved, and raised for great things. I just don’t get it.”
Nyala sighs. “I know, I know. But girl, you’re strong. You’ll get out of here. I’m telling you, don’t you ever come back, you hear? A mental hospital is the only place I know of that wants to see you go away. Get better, leave, and never return. I want to see you outside of this place, and no place else.”
I hug her. As I gaze up at the tiny window, I see a ray of sunshine. It sparkles, bathing Nyala in gold and glitter.
I choke back tears. I haven’t seen the sun in five days.
Day 6: Monday
Being in the hospital doesn’t mean we don’t go to school. We are ushered to a new part of the hospital, and into a makeshift classroom. It’s familiar to everyone but me. The teachers are all doctors, and they pass out books, worksheets, pencils, and textbooks. It’s a glorious distraction.
I go to Occupational and Recreational therapy. I glue beads to boxes and stain leather. I get paint all over me. I’m starting to feel as if being covered in paint gives me the happy chemicals. Bead by bead, I create a beautiful picture; my own happy place. I’m so dazed and in the zone, I have to be pulled and dragged back to the unit and away from my crafts.
Lunch is okay; chicken nuggets and fries, extra, extra greasy. It’s also our last time with Rowan and Nyala. We give our friends hugs, cheek kisses, phone numbers, and well wishes. Sarah and I shed tears. We’re glad to see them leave.
Deja is scheduled to leave the next day. We cuddle, play more Uno, and talk about the creepy math teacher. The nurses, who I know are named Toi, Rose, and Ness, hug us and tell us funny stories. We double over, cracking up. Our laughter bounces off the painted walls.
Day 7: Tuesday
The therapist tells mom and dad to be patient; discharge day is drawing closer and closer. I don’t understand why I break down.
Shaking and crying, I punch my mattress. I don’t get it… have I made no progress? Why am I such a failure?
“Give me a few more days in here,” I plead. “I’m just not ready.”
My doctor stares me down. “You were excited about discharge before. What changed?”
I shrug. “I just don’t feel like I’ll just… be okay.”
“You won’t.” She replies.
“What?”
“Kid, you don’t go in here to make the problems go away. You go in here to get strong. You know how they say all that jazz about broken hearts? The truth is, hearts don’t break. But they stretch. It’s painful, and your chest aches. But… guess what?”
I look up. “What?”
She places a firm hand on mine. “Your heart gets stronger the more it stretches.”
Day 8: Wednesday
I get called out of school. I can feel an ache deep in my chest, and butterflies in my tummy. Today is the day.
My mother sits on a comfy couch, and my therapist sits next to her. I perch on the empty seat as she organizes her folder. She launches into this long speech about trust, my meds, and affection from parents. I’m pinching myself gently and letting my heart stretch far enough to snap like a slingshot.
What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger. I refuse to let this kill me.
An hour later, we exit the building with a prescription letter and discharge papers. I’m carrying bags of artwork, clothes, and shampoo. I sit in the front with mom, and switch the dial for the radio compulsively, creating my own strange song. I steal my mother’s phone, and text friends. “I’m BACKKK!”
“R u ok?”
“omg missed u.”
“bae we need to hang.”
Ima make u food.”
“<3<3”
“luv u.”
I can still feel this heart of mine stretching tautly. I have learned that it doesn’t really get better as they say, but it gets easier. Big things become so little; miniscule. If I didn’t have pain, my heart wouldn’t be so strong. My mind wouldn’t be so clear. I’m always going to have memories; cuts, blood, broken glass, nightmares… but I’ll be okay. I’ll live.
I turn around to face my home for the past eight days. A new girl is in my room, peering out the barred window. She’ll be okay. This will make her stronger. “Stay strong,” I whisper. “Hold on.”
I don’t turn around again. I walk forward instead.

Epilogue:
This girl weighs eighty-five lbs. She takes her meds. She sleeps. She eats.
She laughs. She cries. She hugs. She kisses.
I am that girl. I’m imperfect. I’m flawed. I’m crazy some days. I’m never sane, really. But I’m happy. That’s all that matters to me.

Authors Note: All of the information in this story is true. It’s my own journey, my own experience. Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
This is for S.W, D.G, K.W, and N.A.; you made the hospital so much easier. To Damien, I love you. Dakota, I laughed manically whenever I remembered your dark sense of humor. Caleb, I’m sorry this was too sad to finish. You’ll reach you’re happy ending eventually. My parents; I thank you for giving me time and patience, and of course, your love. Most importantly, this is for me. I’m important too.