When they put me in here, I didn’t agree but they told me it wasn’t permanent. When my mom looked at me the way she did, the blood drained from me so I acquiesced and promised not to fight it. They thought I needed to be here and who knew me better than my own parents? They told people that I went to a boarding school.
When I had put up with the drugs, therapy, and constant supervision far longer than long enough, I pleaded for them to let me come home.
“I just don’t think you are ready. Just because the doctor says you could come home, doesn’t mean you should.” She would say.
I would argue and she would say that was proof that I wasn’t really ready.
But weeks turned into months. I cooperated and did what the doctors asked, resigned to proving my sanity. The days of solitude dragged out with fewer and fewer visits to the point that my mother would visit maybe every two weeks. My father had stopped coming altogether after the fourth month, my mother would always say something about how business was picking up and that he would come next time. But he never did.
One day I realized that they had never had any intentions of bringing me home. That was the day I grew desperate.
