<p>Imprisonment</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Reneging on our promise, mom whisked me out of Eric&rsquo;s house and into her car. She drove full speed to her heavily pre-planned <em>resolution </em>for me. I had no idea what was going on, until we drove up to the concrete psychiatric hospital. <em>You&rsquo;ve got to be kidding me?</em></p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Before I knew it, I was dropped off and unnecessarily locked up in a &ldquo;rehabilitation center for runaway and drug-addicted teens.&rdquo; I had never tried drugs, was not sexually promiscuous, a straight-A student, and on the varsity track team. (I turned extreme-teenager later) I certainly had not run, but apparently, none of that mattered.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This place was demeaning, degrading, and worse than much of what I had already experienced. Every day psychologist&rsquo;s attempting to dissect me with their psycho-babble and esoteric language. As if they desired any real plausibility, their craving was monetary. These &ldquo;psychologists&rdquo; (not to berate; I am a psychology major) term implies that the speaker or writer lacks the experience and understanding necessary for the proper use of psychological terms.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They exposed a sixteen year old healthy teenager, above suspicion, with exposure to methods of psychological manipulation. Blunt tools of force causing me to surrender, temporarily. Warshack shapes mugged my personal rights. Even petty privileges, like stepping outdoors for fifteen minutes, was threatened with removal. I was in prison, and had committed no crime. I was surrounded by some really mentally ill teens, many of whom had attempted suicide.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My sixteen year old roommate needed over a hundred stitches on her wrist, to repair the damage she did to herself slashing up her arm. The company I kept was certainly not helping. The place itself assaulted my sensibilities. During the day, I made bird-houses and sat through innumerable and tedious &ldquo;group therapy sessions.&rdquo; Blowing smoke with much ado about nothing. I was trapped. <em>The other mom will always win.</em> I remained in this unspeakable place for many weeks. I hated it, and it changed me.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I clung desperately to my only hope, my father. I was sure that he didn&rsquo;t know I was in this place, and when he found out, would quickly get me out. I daydreamed that he would soon discover what mom had done, and came to rescue me. Even if I briefly ended up at his place, with the typical old mattress on the floor (one fell on My brother and broke his nose during a sleep-over), is better than Bethesda any day. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Again, I saw my father as <em>Superma</em>n, without the cape. It was the sweetest day-dream knowing that he would take me away from this place. I had many dreams at night about him showing up and banging on Bethesda's bullet-proof glass doors, demanding my immediate release. But that train of thought was a delusion.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; Weeks into my "incarceration," my shrink and mother were dissecting me with their blunt anatomical scalpels, babbling about my psychotic and dangerous episodes. I was becoming angry. <em>Why am I here?</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</p>