“I see you don’t agree with my decision?”

“No, I don’t,” I said firmly. “I want to go home.” I fought back the tears. Dr. Corbin wasn’t going to see my cry.

“You’re only going to be there for a couple of days.”

“I don’t want to go. I don’t need to.” I was sitting cross-legged on the uncomfortable bed I had gotten used to sleeping on. I put my elbows on my legs and put my head in my hands, my palms over my eyes. I couldn’t cry. I had to fight it.

“You’ll be out of there quickly,” Dr. Corbin said. “I just want you to be observed.”

I just shook my head. The tears were ready to come.

“Your mom will be coming to pick you up at 11 o’clock today and she’ll drive you to Chattanooga. Won’t you be glad to see your mom?”

I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t move an inch. Why did no one believe I could go home now? I’d be stuck in a psychiatric hospital forever.

“You’ll feel better when you’re out. We just have to be sure, and the insurance won’t pay for you to stay here any longer.”

Silence.

Why couldn’t I just go home?

“I’m sorry you don’t agree with my decision. 11 o’clock this afternoon. Good luck, Jennifer.”

“BASTARD!” I screamed in my mind, but the room was silent.

“Well, goodbye.” And he left.

As soon as I heard the door close, a sob escaped and I couldn’t hold it in. I just cried and cried.

I had also cried a lot yesterday. During the day a few of the counselors had said they thought I was being sent to Valley, a level four security hospital, relaxed with more freedom. Vanderbilt was level one; very tight security. However, I didn’t really believe any of them because I was better. They had no reason to send me there.

I was in Vanderbilt 2 ½ weeks for self-mutilation. I had between one to two hundred cuts total up and down each arm. A week after being admitted there, I gave in to the impulse and used what was available to me: my fingernails. I put three big scratches on one arm, two on the other, and three on my legs. I never thought I could use something besides a razor blade. It scared me. And after getting them cleaned out every day, being asked questions by the other patients as they watched and waited behind me in line to get their medicine, and having the cut get infected, I could honestly say that I never wanted to do it again. It was a bad decision on my part. So I knew they wouldn’t send me anywhere after so much progress. I was planning a future, I was ready to enjoy life on the outside world, even while I struggled with depression, I wanted to go to church. They wouldn’t do that to me.

But later on, during group, after I had talked about hoping to go home soon, David, one of the counselors, said I was being sent to Valley. No, I thought to myself. Surely not.

“It’s written in your chart,” he said.

My fate was sealed. After a couple seconds I put my head in my hands and cried, even though I had been asked a question. I was silent, but for me it was intense. It was like the end of the world. They didn’t make me leave the room since I wasn’t making any noise, and I cried the whole time. At the end of the group, David came back to me and asked how I was doing.

“I don’t want to go,” I said, still crying in my hands. He dismissed group; everyone was supposed to go back to their rooms, but I didn’t move, and they let me stay where I was. Besides, I could go in there and really damage myself; Lord knows I was thinking about it. I didn’t go to dinner, so they brought something in, and I ate what I could. David came in.

“How are you feeling?”

“Angry.”

“Well, talk about it. Don’t do something to yourself.”

“Dr. Corbin is a bastard,” I said, and started crying again.

“Maybe he is. I don’t really know him.” Then he left.

They wanted to have group, and I said I didn’t want to participate. They didn’t want me to be in my room by myself, so I sat at the end of the hall. My friend Amy came to me and I lifted my head up. She told me I’d be okay. She hugged me. I took my medication and went to sleep.

And that all leads up to the moment of Dr. Corbin’s departure. One hour left. I packed my things and tried not to cry. But when my mom came in, I did. I was going to miss everyone, all my new friends, a few who had an understanding of self-mutilation because they too had done it. All the progress was meaningless.

I went silently to the car, not saying a word. The only talking I did besides tell them what I wanted to eat, was telling my mom I didn’t need to go. Over and over. Three hours. I also got loud in the waiting room, very close to yelling. And then it was time; the lady called us back to sign me in. I just kept my head down and only spoke when a question couldn’t be answered by a head movement. I cried for a little while, but it was useless.

When my mom was leaving, we stood and she hugged me, but I didn’t hug her back. It was like hugging a dead tree. I showed no reaction and didn’t even look at her. Then she kissed my head and said “I love you.” I didn’t say anything, and then she was gone.

I was led into a room, and everyone was busy drawing. A man named Tom handed me a sheet of paper with two holding hands on it, and we had to draw ourselves holding hands with our neighbor. It was supposed to be therapeutic. I complied, because I had no other choice.

Still pissed off, I didn’t try too hard. I just took the entire time without accomplishing much. I thought this was the kind of stuff they do in movies. I never imagined psychiatry ever actually relying on this stereotypical stuff...the stuff that makes it all look like a big joke. No one could really take this seriously, could they? I mean, isn’t it a common belief that people subjected to this sort of mental therapy came out brainwashed? Perhaps movies have more truth to them than I thought.

After this, we separated into our two groups; the news kids, and the advanced. Since I had already been in Vanderbilt for 2 ½ weeks, I was put in the advanced group, with the ones who had been in there for a while…some had been in over a month. I thought this was an indication of a long stay, not just a few days of observation.

Our group went into the game room, and a kid named Joe took out the dominoes. We all watched him stand them up in a row and make them fall, when our “counselor” Tom suggested we do something together. We all grabbed one or two and stood them up, and the rest of us watched Joe do the rest. We had done our part. Everyone then was introducing themselves to me, telling me how long they’d been in and what for. Quite a few people basically called that place home because they’d have to wait there in between homes. They were all nice enough, but I would have given just about anything to be somewhere else.

When dinnertime came around, I was beginning to worry about my mom. Columbia was such a long ways away, and it would get dark; she could have gotten in a wreck. And if she died, I never would have forgiven myself for my actions earlier. She would think I didn’t love her. What would I do then?

The food was good, better than at Vanderbilt, but that didn’t make any difference. All I wanted was to go home. I was longing for the comfort of my bed, and I didn’t want to see anyone more than I wanted to see David. I wanted to see Michelle, but with all that was going on, she was very taxing on my emotional strength, and I felt betrayed by almost everyone else.

We were then given time to work on our MAD/SAD notebooks. It consisted of a blue notebook, and two sections, one for each emotion. There were sheets to fill out teaching the right and wrong ways to deal with being angry or sad. And it all went right along with that stereotypical idea of what they’d tell you at a psychiatric hospital. I couldn’t believe I was there. I knew it was the wrong place to put me.

When we had to go down to gym, I had my first “Feelings Check.” Everyone sat around in a circle, and then one by one introduced ourselves, saying whether we were red, yellow or green, red being the worst, green being the best, and then we’d rate our day on a scale of one to ten. I had to start.

“So, Jennifer,” Tom said, “how do you rate yourself?”

I had to decide quickly whether to lie or tell the truth. They were there to help, right?

“I guess red. And one.”

“Why so low?”

“Because I’m worried about my mom driving home, and I miss everybody.”

“Ok. Well, Joe, you’re next...”

That was it? I thought to myself. That doesn’t seem very therapeutic. I didn’t even listen to what everyone else said.

After Feelings Check we were supposed to play basketball, which was the only thing available to do. No volleyballs or tennis balls like at Vanderbilt. No mat tag. No hackey sack. I hated basketball, and I was so depressed I refused to participate.

I was not the only one sitting out. A boy named Mitch didn’t play either because he had gotten in trouble earlier in the day. I started to cry a little bit.

“Why are you upset?” Mitch asked.

“I want to go home,” I said.

I kept crying, and a few minutes later Joe came over.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about my mom, and I want to go home.”

“Maybe they’ll let you call and check up on her,” he suggested.

“1 doubt it,” I said.

“Well, you should try.”

“I don’t know if we can do that,” Tom said after I asked him.

“I just want to know if she’s okay,” I pleaded.

“We’ll see when we go back upstairs. Why don’t you play right now?”

Pacified for the moment, I shot a few baskets before gym time was over. When we went back up, I asked a lady named Michelle if I could call and she said, “No, you can only talk on the phone Wednesdays and Saturdays. We can’t call out from here.”

This was even worse. Not only did I not know if my mom was okay, but it would still be two days before I’d get to talk to her. As I got back with my group, I felt trapped and hopeless. I was going to start crying again.

“Okay, everyone get quiet and in line,” Tom said. People were whispering to each other. “No talking,” he said firmly. It didn’t stop and I felt my control starting to slip. “That’s it,” he said. “Everyone sit facing the wall. We’ll have a time out.”

A time out? I couldn’t take it. I leaned my head against the wall and just cried.

Tom had me get up and go sit at a table. “You all know better than to talk in line,” he said. “And now Jennifer’s crying. She’s probably upset that she got in trouble even though she was behaving. You have to consider how your actions will affect other people.”

What kind of a childish place was this? Time out’s facing the wall...no therapy groups...not even any caffeine. I’d rather be at Vanderbilt any day.

Tom decided to leave me at the table while he took the rest of the group to put away chairs downstairs. I put my head down and cried for a long time before anyone came to talk to me. I had missed out on snack time and shower time. Everyone could see me, but I didn’t care. I thought my mom was dead. A lady named Shelley sat down at the table.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m worried about my mom. It’s a long drive and I’m afraid something happened. I want to call her and make sure she got there, but Tom says I can’t. Not even for a second.”

“Let me ask,” she said, and went to talk to someone. “Can we let this girl check on her mom? We’re not allowed, are we?”

“No,” the other person said bluntly.

It was time to go to bed, and I didn’t have a room. While they got that set up, I stopped crying long enough for a lady to check all of my things and take what I couldn’t have. After she left, I saw another lady sitting by the wall. I decided to try one more time.

“Can I talk to you?” I said as I walked over.

“Sure.”

“I’m really worried about my mom.” I started crying again. “Something could have happened. All I want is someone to call her. I don’t care if they hang up as soon as she answers. Then I can stop crying. Can’t you do anything?”

“Go ask the lady at the front desk. I don’t think we can do that.”

Still crying, I went and asked, and of course the answer was no. Then my room was ready and they made me go to bed without any Halcion, my sleeping medication. I heard my soon-to-be roommate Sarah say to a counselor, “She’s not in my room, is she? I don’t want her in my room.”

The love and sympathy at this place was overwhelming. It was definitely what I needed to help me stop self-mutilating and feeling depressed.

I cried for a long time, and I listened to the counselors talk in the hall. They were getting ready to change shifts. Then I realized they weren’t counselors. To them this was just a job like working at McDonald’s or the Psychic Network. This wasn’t the kind of place that you could go up to someone and ask for some help with your problem. At least at Vanderbilt I knew the counselors cared about the kids, even though it could be called “tough love.”

The next morning, I was disappointed at breakfast. No one cooked anything for us. All we got was cereal and skim milk, with orange juice to drink that was half frozen. As I ate my orange juice, I realized I would have to lie or I’d never get out. I would hide my true feelings. I couldn’t wait for my chance to impress the psychiatrist. I knew what to say.

After we got dressed and brushed our teeth, we had chores to do. Vacuuming, cleaning the shower, sink, mirror, toilet, and floor of the bathroom, and moving the mattresses out of the quiet rooms and hallways into the other patients’ rooms. I had to clean the shower. I thought people were supposed to be hired to do this sort of thing in a hospital. This seemed like some place for kids with no discipline, not somewhere for a person dealing with self-mutilation and depression to be.

For a brief time I was excited because I had been told I was going to see “the doctor” soon. I thought this meant psychiatrist, but it was just a regular doctor to do a check-up, and I had to show him my scratches and cuts.

At school they wouldn’t let me work on my schoolwork that I pretended to have. I had to listen to the teacher talk about goal setting. As we worked on our goal sheet, the lady with us had to tell everyone to be quiet. When she looked away from the students, someone said, “Bitch.”

“What did I just hear?” she asked. “Did someone call me a bitch? I heard someone say ‘bitch.’ Who has the disrespect to call me a bitch? I won’t tolerate it.”

How many more times is she going to say that word? I thought.

After goal setting class, we had lunch. And then we went outside to play kickball, which I had grown to like at Vanderbilt. I liked it that when I’d make a good catch the counselors praised me as well as my teammates and rivals. Although I usually don’t think I deserve any praise, it’s nice to get. I could remember one instance in particular, where I was the pitcher and rolled the ball, and when the person kicked it, I jumped a little to the left and BOOM, it hit my chest and I caught it. I didn’t even have half a second to think about it. David said, “That was a great catch, Jennifer! That was really good.” And he patted me on the back. After that I was always one of the first to get picked for a team. And we never kept score. It was nice for a change.

However, here at Valley, the game was more competitive than I liked, even though the counselor’s tried to make it be friendly. It wasn’t very fun.

Back in school again, they let me work on my own things. Namely, reading As I Lay Dying, by William Faulkner, for the second time, and lots of catch-up chemistry and AP history. It wasn’t too bad because I got to go to a different room just for the kids that had their own schoolwork to do. And then once again it was time to work on my MAD/SAD notebook.

We sat outside and a car drove up. It was Dr. McGuire. I assumed this was our psychiatrist. I was right about that part, but we weren’t going to have therapy until tomorrow. A few kids ran to tell her things occasionally, and then she left. So we didn’t even get to talk to our doctor everyday so she could monitor our progress? This upset me a great deal.

When gym time rolled around, we had our Feelings Check. It was my turn.

“Oh, I’d say green. And something around a 7.”

“That’s much better than yesterday.”

“Yes.” I knew what they wanted to hear. “I was being irrational yesterday. If something had happened to my mom, they would have called me.”

“Very good,” he said, and continued around the circle. It had worked! He believed me. I had calmed since the day before, but I really was still worried, not to mention extremely depressed.

And then it was time to play.

“Okay, we’re going to play red light green light today,” Tom said. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. “It makes you all interact with each other and pay attention to what each other person is doing.”

If I had heard this yesterday, I would have thought it was a joke. But I knew now this place was different than Vanderbilt. This place would have us do something stupid like red light green light. Somehow I endured the torture.

Later that evening we had to put away chairs, and then watch the news. We each had to write down one fact that we learned and share it with the group. Then we got to go into the TV room, but before we could watch TV, we had to do a worksheet. It was an empty plate, and we were supposed to draw healthy foods on it. What did this have to do with therapy? After that we watched Full House, got a time out on our way to the cafeteria, ate a snack, had a final Feelings Check, then took showers and went to bed.

I thought I should try to introduce myself to my roommate since I had been too busy crying last night.

“My name’s Jennifer. I got put in here for depression. Why are you here?”

“None of your business,” Sarah said.

“Sorry I asked.” I didn’t hide the fact that it pissed me off. That was rude.

Something was wrong with Sarah. I didn’t know what exactly. Half of her head was shaved, perhaps because of some surgery, but I had no way to know for sure. Obviously, she wasn’t too friendly.

The next day I had to clean the sink. Breakfast was the same, at school I got to do my own work the whole time, but during the time we had worked on our MAD/SAD notebooks the other day, we were led to a waiting room for Dr. McGuire’s office. I couldn’t wait. I was finally going to get to talk to my psychiatrist. I’d tell her whatever it took to get out of here. And it was obvious I’d have to lie the whole time.

To my surprise, we were all led into her office at the same time, and there was another doctor there, Dr. Miller. He seemed like a nice enough person.

Turned out Valley was based on group therapy and cooperation. Instead of talking about how we were feeling, part of the time we talked about how to distinguish ourselves from the new kids by using different colored folders, and the rest of the time Dr. McGuire was teaching Dr. Miller how to do things and run a group. Nobody was talking to us. I really needed to talk to my mom. There was no variation in our evening routine. I went to sleep just praying my mom would remember the time difference and call when I was allowed to talk. I wanted free of this monotonous, meaningless, undeserved hell.

When I woke up and ate my cereal and orange juice, I got to clean the shower again. Other than that, everything was exactly the same as yesterday, and the day before that.

At five, I was eagerly waiting for them to tell me my mom was on the phone. I didn’t think she’d get through. Why had I been put here? This wasn’t any sort of psychiatric hospital. There was no therapy. No emphasis on the real reasons behind our problems. I didn’t know if I could live like this for a month. I was tired of playing along. I wasn’t happy; I was miserable. I didn’t feel any better. I was so depressed that I wanted to cut myself again, but I didn’t. Only because I was scared that instead of trying to help me, they’d punish me, and keep me longer. They never would have acknowledged the fact that the only reason I still felt depressed was that I was in there instead of at home.

So they wanted to play the game? Well, that’s exactly what I was going to do. I would fill the MAD/SAD notebook with as much bullshit and formerly-depressed now-fully-recovered teenager lingo as they could handle.

The next worksheet: list the warning signs of being MAD. Get help from a counselor.

That sounded easy enough. My face gets hot, I cry, I have violent thoughts, hmmmm…I had run out of ideas. Guessed I’d have to go get some help. I saw the counselor walk by that had checked me in.

Hello bitch, I though to myself.

“Excuse me, but could you help me with this?” I asked.

“Why, of course!”

“I can’t seem to think of another warning sign of me getting angry. This is all I’ve got.” I showed her the sheet.

“Hmmm…well, I’ve noticed you get a little bit pouty,” she said, making a pouting face and talking to me as if I was five.

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t think of that one. Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said, walking away.

Fuck you, I said to myself.

“Jennifer?” a woman called, entering my hall.
“Yes?” I tried to hide my hope and eagerness for the phone.

“Your mother’s on the phone. Come this way.”

As I stood and walked calmly behind the lady, I could picture myself running down the hall, shoving people out of the way.

When we reached the desk, I said, “Thank you” as she handed me the phone, but I was thinking, Give me the phone, you‘re the bitch who wouldn’t let me call my mother for two seconds to check on her. I had lost all respect for these people. I smiled to her as I sat down.

“Hello.”

“Hi!” my mom said.

“I miss you,” I told her.

“I miss you too.”

“This place is horrible.”

“Why?” she asked.

I lost control. I started crying. “You have to get me out. I can’t stay here. Please, don’t leave me here.” I couldn’t stop.

“What is it, Jennifer?”

I told her everything. Time outs, a roommate that hated me, no individual doctor sessions, a brand new doctor that spent our group session time learning from the other doctor. Drawing pictures. Red light green light for gym. Time outs against the wall. And I just kept going and going until

“Time’s up,” the desk lady said.

“Okay, just a sec.” I didn’t want to stay. “They’re making me get off. Please get me out. I don’t want to be here anymore. I miss you. I love you.”

“Time’s up,” the lady repeated.

“I’ll do what I can, Jennifer,” my mom said. “I love you. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” I said, feeling like I was sinking into the pit of Hell itself, and no one could save me. I got myself under control and went to work again on my notebook.

Once again, later, I had to help put away chairs. As I did, I was sad that I was so far away that my mom couldn’t even visit. I felt like I’d never see her again. How could she possibly get me out of this?

On the way to the cafeteria, we had a long time out facing the wall, and I visualized ramming my fist through it several times.

“Okay,” Tom said. “You all don’t get a snack. We’re going upstairs to do a Situation Photograph.”

A couple people groaned. I had no idea what we were going to do. When we got upstairs, we were all given a sheet of notebook paper.

“Number and answer the questions as I say them,” Tom instructed. “First question: what did I do wrong?”

I couldn’t believe the silly punishment. You didn’t do this to teenagers. But I wrote: well, I didn’t do anything wrong. Everyone else was talking in line.

“Next, what could I have done differently?”

My answer: I didn’t need to act differently. I suppose everyone should have acted like me.

“Alright now, next: what were the consequences?”

My answer: I learned that it doesn’t matter if I behave or not because if someone else acts up, I’m going to get punished even though I’m innocent.

“Jennifer,” a woman said. “Come out into the call.” I followed her. “You need to pack. Your mom’s coming to get you.”

“You’re kidding!” I said excitedly.

“No, I’m not,” she said bluntly. “Don’t be so loud. Go pack.”

YES!!! I yelled in my mind. I had a big smile on my face. As I walked into my room, a counselor said, “Why are you so happy?”

“I get to go home,” I said, not hiding my emotions anymore.

“Good job,” she said.

I packed. Soon it was shower time for everyone. Sarah came up to me.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How long will it be? I don’t want you in my room anymore. I’m not supposed to have a roommate.”

“I’m leaving tonight.”

Everyone congratulated me as I told them. They all went to bed and I sat at the counselor’s table.

“You’re going home?” Tom asked.

“Yep.”

“Well, good for you,” he said. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I waited. And then there she was. My hero, my saint, my angel.. my mom came up and hugged me. Phil was grabbing one of my bags.

“How did you get me out?” I asked as we left.

“Well, I just called Dr. Miller, and he just decided to let you out because he thought you were fine. That way I didn’t have to take you out against doctor’s orders. They put that in your record.”

As I drifted to sleep in the car, I couldn’t wait to get to my own bed. And not once did I feel sad to leave. I’d NEVER end up in a place like that again.

Summer of ‘00