Saturday morning, I was strapped into a gurney and wheeled out of the hospital, hiding my swollen face. I was ticked that they wouldn't let me walk, but it was all about liability-they couldn't risk me running again. The ambulance took me from the hospital to Valley Hospital, and wheeled me through the front door, where they finally unstrapped me and I was reunited with Shane and my mom,

All I could do was cry. We waited for about for hours, and filled out about 100 pages worth of paperwork. I stripped down to my underwear for a nurse to examine my body and question me on every scratch and bruise I had. Then she asked me a series of questions.

"Have you ever been suicidal?"

"Yes"

"Are you suicidal now?"

"No." My first lie. I was more suicidal than ever before but I knew I had to get out of this ordeal as soon as possible-so I did a lot of lying.

"Are you impulsive?"

"No."

The nurse stopped and peered down at me over her glasses in a most condescending way, "you say you're not impulsive?" She questioned.

"No ma'm." I looked her dead in the eye.

"Miss Chiffelle, it says here in your paperwork that you jumped out of a car and ran. That is called being impulsive."

"It was an impulsive action," I agreed, "but that doesn't mean that I am impulsive. I am not impulsive."

"I'm putting down that you're impulsive." She said, making a note on her paper.

A few hours later, I was given a set of scrubs to change into, and my possessions were sorted through. Shane had brought me some pants, shirts, underwear, socks, shoes, a sweatshirt, and a book with a bookmark. They took the strings out of my sweatpants and sweatshirt, unlaced my shoes, the little string out of my bookmark, and turned away my book because it was a hardback.

I said a tearful goodbye, and both Shane and my mother promised me to visit every day during the visiting hour. An attendant lead me to an elevator to the ward I would be staying in, and I followed, every inch of me shaking, fresh tears building up in my eyes.

When I arrived in my ward, I was paralyzed for a minute taking in my surroundings. The floor was tiled a tan/yellow pattern, and the walls were painted tan. There was a big desk where employees worked, a small recreation room then a long narrow hallway filled with rooms on each side. A wall with a door that didn't extend past the giant desk showed me another ward on the other side, completely mirrored. I wondered what the difference between those patients and us were.

Three times a day the employees at the desk distribute medications, and I happened to arrive at this time. It is by far the most dramatic time of every day. Drug addicts are tapering down and get angry when they think they aren't receiving enough of a taper, and patients are having psychotic breakdowns. I counted three women crying and one woman screaming at an employee who wouldn't give her any of her somas for her "back pain." I was scared shitless.

"Hi," an employee said, directing me to a chair at the desk, "you must be Rebecca, let me check you in." I sat down, and the series of questions began again: "are you suicidal now? Do you hear voices? Are you homicidal? Are you here on your own free will? Do you experience any hallucinations or extreme mood swings?" Then suddenly I was given a brief tour and introduced to my roommate, (who's name is changed for privacy reasons) Carrey.

"Carrey this is Rebecca, Rebecca, Carrey." Carrey waved and I waved back. She was a small elderly looking woman, but probably only about 55-60. Her hair was long, almost down to her waist and her face was aged with wrinkles in the most perfect way; she looked soft and wise.

Finally, I was left to myself. I took my paper bag of belongings, and set them down on my twin bed. I looked out the window and watched a woman walk out of her apartment to her car, and wished I could have my freedom back. How much I took it for granted. I was not prepared for what it would be like in this hospital. You were no longer a consenting adult; they controlled you. You ate when they told you to, slept when they told you to, and you were given a schedule of therapy sessions throughout the day you were expected to attend. It was your "choice" of course, but it was hinted that if you did not show an effort to make it to therapy, you will probably be kept in the hospital longer.

Everywhere you went, somebody was with you, and a door locked behind you. You were locked into the ward, locked into therapy sessions, locked into the cafeteria...there were two phones for about all 50 of us, and they sat on the wall next to the desk so that employees could listen in on your conversations.

In the first twenty minutes of being inside the ward, it was clear that my freedoms were gone. But something else became clear as well...it was a game. It sounds absurd, but being in a psych ward is like a game. Everywhere you go somebody is taking notes on you. They write down how you're acting, how many therapy sessions you're attending per day, if you're being social, and they report it to the psychiatrist you are assigned to, and this determines how fast they let you out.

I discovered this when I first spoke to my ward psychologist, Dr. P. "I looked over your file," he said, refusing to look me in the eye, "and I just have to say, you're not like the other patients here. You've been through a hard time and I think you just had a break down. Don't worry, you're not like the other patients here." I did a double take at that line...I wasn't really measuring myself up to the "other patients" but was he telling me that he found the other to be more...psycho? It struck me as quite odd that he was trying so hard to convince me that I wasn't the same. But I went with it. "Just go to the therapy sessions, show us your putting in effort, you won't be in here for long."

And so I played the game.