At this point in time, I am telling you this story as a past experience. Right now I am a forced inhabitant of these four concrete walls that I have called home for the past three months.

A short rest is what they said. A rest is what I needed.

What I got was imprisonment against my will and stripped of my humanity along with my sanity. Am I really insane? Or have I just been told so enough to convince myself its true?

I am only aloud to write for an hour a day, with good behavior, with a dull pencil and constant supervision. I need to write to live, though what we do here is a sad excuse for living. Just plain existing is closer to the truth, like a houseplant on a windowsill. Ready for someone to either let us wither and rot or drown us with too much attention.

I used to be person, a real person, not a houseplant. Before all this; I was in school, I had a life, I had friends and relationships. I could go to the bathroom without a nurse watching me, I could clip my fingernails all by myself. I am an empty shell of who I once was, no wonder I haven’t had a visitor since my first week here.

My mother came with a suitcase, the third day I was here. I guess it took that long to realize I was gone. Most of the things she thought I needed were confiscated on arrival, I got to keep a set of clothes but not much else.