Therapy

“If you ever want to leave this place, you are going to have to come to therapy,” she said to me from across the room. I had no idea I had been missing it.

When the group lined up a little while later, I joined the back of the line.

Therapy turned out to be gym class for the mentally ill. I played corn hole with a girl whose arm had been staple-gunned together. I shot hoops with an alcoholic. I walked laps with a girl who was in an abusive relationship.

Finally, we were led back to the psych ward. I was given a ham sandwich and a fruit punch, which I devoured before coloring with a few other girls I had met. For the first time, I felt like I was at a trippy day camp instead of prison.

Inspired by the camaraderie, I encouraged the other girls to write down their ideas of how to improve the psych ward. I passed out paper, and we shoved our responses into the comments box attached to the glass-walled nurses' station.

Then I went back to trying to solve the puzzle. Up and down, up and down I wandered.