Clandestine Confessions

We left his office, now standing at the elevator.
My mom tried to give me a hug, but I refused to be touched.
Her attempt to make amends raising my anger to a new height.
I took the stairs instead.
Wondering in that time of solitude if it would be possible to run away right then and there.
Escape the fate I was being forced into living out.
But not brave enough to flee, I would end up back in the car minutes later, being driven to the hospital where the children’s psychiatric ward was located.
–
I laid curled up in a ball in the backseat.
Listening to Stacie Orrico’s song “Strong Enough” on repeat on my Walkman – the one with an interchangeable cover – the orange with the flowers my choice for the day.
It would become my only source of comfort for the next three weeks.
Music now my lifeline – still is to this day.
“Will my scars forever ruin all God’s plan…?”
One tear fell from my eye as the lyrics hit my ears.
Her voice through the headphones the only sound coming from the car – an eerie silence only fear can curate.
I quickly wiped away the evidence of defeat before anyone could see – no longer feeling safe to let my heart have a voice.
–
I contemplated the entire drive opening the car door and jumping out of the moving vehicle.
What would happen if I did…?
Would they now see me, hear me, help me?
Would they now know what a mistake this was?
Would they now take me home?
Desperation attempted to dictate my decisions.
Risking my life seemed like a safer option.
I was about to lose it all anyways…
–
Upon arrival, I was immediately brought to what I can only describe as a dungeon for children for my intake.
The walls covered in dark green wallpaper.
So dimly lit the lights might has well been off.
Abandoned toys scattered about – I vividly remember a kitchen playset and a dollhouse.
A random couch along the wall.
The temperature set to the North Pole.
An examination table in the corner.
Where I sat with my hands clenched attempting to preserve any warmth.
My whole body covered in goosebumps.
–
The nurse began the exam.
“Where are these bruises from?” she asked pointing to the marks speckling my legs, pushing a few and watching as I flinched.
“I’m sorry. I am not sure.”
“It’s because you do not eat.”
She continued assessing my body.
“And look at you hurting yourself.” She flipped over my hands to expose the fingernail marks imprinted in my palms. “Stop this.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional. I’m just cold.”
“Once again, because you do not eat. It is a perfectly normal temperature in here.”
She kept going.
“And see how you are purple?” She aggressively grabbed my fingers and then proceeded to do the same with my feet. “This is what happens when you act like this. Are you trying to die?”
“I’m sorry,” my voice barely a whisper.
–
She walked over to the table by the door and grabbed the folder with my paperwork.
“Why do you do this? When did this start?”
“I’m sorry. I do not know.”
“What do you eat in a day?”
I listed a few items and their quantity.
“And that’s it? You actually think that’s enough?”
“I’m sorry.”
How many times could I apologize to this random woman…?
It was all I could think to say – expressing my deepest regrets for my existence…
“Come with me. I will take you to your room.”
–
She scanned her badge to open the locked doors to enter into the ward.
I timidly approached. My mom now beside me.
Instantly greeted by the seemingly endless tan walls – no artwork to offset the monotony.
Panels of fluorescent lighting dispersed amongst the spotted white drop ceiling tiles.
Some water stained. Some cracked. Some partially lifted.
The dark blue carpet designed with random shapes of all different colors.
The only indication children “belonged” here.
She walked me to the end of the hall where my room was – second to the last door on the left.
I heard the screams and the thuds on the way – the boy in the “quiet” room – an all-white padded room with no furniture and a laminate floor.
It would be the same boy who would spend hours almost every night facing the corner diagonal from my room crying out for his mom.
Hitting his head against the wall.
Stomping and pounding the floor.
Pleading to be put back in the “quiet” room – conditioned to believe it was the only place he was safe.
All the while the night shift vacuumed around him.
–
Prohibited from closing my door, I heard it all.
The volume of my music incapable of reaching a level loud enough to match that of his pain.
I pleaded with God relentlessly to save him from the torment.
I still wonder if that prayer ever got answered.
As I do for all the girls and boys I met there…