Clandestine Confessions

I still see their faces.
I still feel their pain.
I still hear their voices.
Their stories left an imprint on me.
A mark that would forever symbolize the first time I knew there was more darkness in this world than I could ever fathom.
And that I was helpless to heal it all.
—–
Ryan – 15 years old.
The one with who I would have the deepest conversations.
In the booth in the corner of the gathering room.
Always in jean shorts and a blue tie dyed shirt he made while there.
I would meet him there in the morning before breakfast.
He would greet me with a huge smile.
Ask me how I was. How I slept. If I wanted to play cards.
And then he would share stories from his past, what brought him there – a young man who needed relief from the pain.
Willing to do anything to end the suffering – although his endearing, sociable personality would never give that away to the average person.
They would see the mask.
I would see the person.
I understood his desperation.
We would end our day in that same spot.
–
He loved to draw – sketched for me a bird in a nest before I left.
Signed his name on the bottom right hand corner.
“Like all the great artists do, right?” he said with a smirk.
–
Many nights following my return home I sat in my closet clutching that drawing in tears – the pain for another too heavy to comprehend.
I still think about him daily.
Did he make it?
And there is this part of me that secretly hopes that somehow, someway our paths will one day cross again and I will get my answer.
—–
Brittany – 13 years old.
She wanted so badly to connect with us all, but her paranoia and anxiety made that near impossible.
She would spend her time walking up and down the halls speaking to herself.
Moving with a limp – her right leg slightly shorter than the left.
Her dad was her best friend – talked about it any chance she could – which led to her being extremely protective over him.
We all saw it play out when a counselor implied during a group therapy session that he did something to warrant her mom cheating on him.
She did not utter a word to anyone for three days.
(I cannot say I blame her…)
Her outbursts intensified after – at the most unexpected times – resulting in many trips to the “quiet” room.
The TV at the nurse’s station monitoring each room on the ward showing her rocking back and forth in a ball for hours.
Saddest part of it all is I never saw her dad visit for the entire time I was there…
–
She was my roommate for a bit – would wake me up in the middle of the night – “J, do you see those purple feet walking around?”
Panic filled her voice.
“I do, but you are safe. We are safe.”
Regardless of my answer, she was still going to see them.
There was no need to give a response that would lead to her questioning herself any further.
As people called her crazy, at least I could know she had one person in her corner to offer some understanding.
To help her not feel so alone.
—–
Amy – 15 years old.
An expressive, opinionated, unapologetic young woman – one searching for an identity that felt right but at the expense of her sanity.
Platinum blonde pixie cut that highlighted her sky blue eyes.
And in the rare moments you could catch a glimpse of joy from her, on her face would be one of the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen – the kind that reaches the ears and radiates from the eyes.
Always in her blue cloud pajama pants and an oversized men’s t-shirt – leaving some of her scars to show.
She was my first exposure to self harm.
–
Her journals were taken away after a room search without her consent.
She wrote in them constantly, carried them with her everywhere.
“Express yourself but not like that” is basically what was being taught.
Apparently, there is a wrong way to be yourself…
So, she took to those pants to write out her emotions – curse words, Eminem lyrics, crying faces.
I am sure you could have guessed those pants were eventually taken away too…
–
By the end of the first week, she was a shell of the girl who walked through those doors.
Whatever pills they gave her rapidly stealing pieces of her personality.
Each morning I would awake to more of her having vanished.
Her spitfire attitude now complacency.
Her creativity now conformity.
Her passion now melancholy.
Drugged into desolation of life.
—–
Tyrone – the oldest of us all at 17 years old.
I will unashamedly admit I had a crush on him.
He undoubtedly could have been a model.
Towered over us all at 6’2”.
But that stature one of deception for he was the gentlest human being – especially with the younger boys.
The only time he ever caused any commotion was when calling out the mistreatment of sweet little Reuben.
Day after day we listened to this five year old boy plead to call his parents – connection to love always the first “privilege” taken away from us as punishment.
“He is only a child!” Tyrone kept yelling. “They are all he has! It is one f*$@ phone call! Do you actually even know anymore why you are doing this?! Or is this tyrannical behavior just default for you now?”
More profanity spoken angrily under his breath as he paced around the nurse’s station.
And, of course, how would they reprimand him?
By taking away the phone for a week…
–
I slowly pieced together his admission was court ordered.
He never openly talked about the why or the how, despite the (violating) interrogation from the counselors in groups.
He stayed hidden – mentally and physically – a sweater and wide legged jeans two sizes too large his uniform in the peak of summer.
A silver chain always around his neck.
His reclusivity meant words were few from him.
Laughter an anomaly.
But when it did escape him, my goodness it was infectious.
The type of laugh that comes straight from the stomach, lighting up the whole body, the entire room, and anyone in its vicinity.
My introduction to that sound one rainy afternoon during a “team building” activity a moment my heart has memorized.
—–
One may ask why I am sharing these stories of some of those I was privileged to encounter.
Those of strangers who nobody reading this will ever meet.
But that right there is why…
For people to have the honor of knowing them like I did (even if indirectly).
Their voices were robbed – silenced by stigma and shame.
They were made invisible – concealed by judgment and ignorance.
I cannot let them be forgotten, for their pain to be in vain, as if they do not hold a value beyond measure.
I made myself a promise upon leaving that I would live my life to set them free.
And I pray wherever they are today, if any piece of them is still broken, it finds healing in the releasing of these words.
In them recognizing they mattered – even if just to the shy and frail young girl they met nearly two decades ago.
In them knowing they were seen…
–
It is what every human being deserves.