Hospitals are never fun; especially the psychiatric ward. Tack on a five-grand-a-week price tag, and it just gets worse. Oh, sure I got to meet interesting people, but the food stunk. Literally, the food smelled bad, as well as being tasteless and rubbery. Like I said, I met interesting people, but that’s little consolation when the doors have alarms on them. Besides, the people I met were not exactly the kind of kids I would want to bring home to meet Mom: four druggies, three parolees, two ICP fans, a couple of gang members, a Satanist, and one truly messed up little girl. She ended up trying to escape through the foam tile roof. A shattered hip is all she got for her troubles.

I would say why I was there, if felt like it, but I do not. My reason for being there is not important. What is important is that I was not nuts; I was just in a psych ward. For two weeks I was locked up, tested, talked to, grouped, and made to watch awful movies. The doctors asked their questions, gave their tests, and told me very little. I still do not know exactly what their final diagnosis was. I just assume that I am sane. Mild depression is what I think I had, but I am not sure, because I was never ever told.

The longest two weeks of my life ended with a surprise; I did not know I was going home until five minutes before I left. At last, I was free to go about my business as a teen out of school. My first act was to down a Wendy’s Triple-Quarter Pounder, a Biggie Fry, and a Biggie Frosty. I learned a lot about myself during my time there. At the hospital I mean, not Wendy’s. Lessons were learned, mistakes were corrected, and I took a long hard look at where my life was going. Being there helped me I think; I just did not want to admit it. I did not like being there, I did not like why I was there, but I am better because of it.