I was playing the psych ward game well. I went to all the therapy classes each day, (there were 8-10 per day) socialized, smiled and ate. And yes, that all mattered. The attendants took notes on all of that, they checked our plates in the cafeteria, and I always made sure mine looked as though I had eaten. In reality, I really wasn't eating much at all. We sat in our pajamas all day moving from class to class, the smokers only getting to see the outdoors on their smoke breaks, so my appetite was non existent. But I also knew this was a sign of depression, a sign they were looking for, so I stuffed food down, or hid it in a napkin...

I also never let them see me cry. If I felt tears welling up, or a shadow pass on my face, I went to my room and sat on my bed, taking deep breaths until I calmed down. Crying was only cause for a longer sentence, and I wasn't going to mess this up from a few tears.

By day four I pulled Dr. P aside, "I need to know when I'm getting out of here." I said with my most serious voice.

"Friday or Saturday," he said, scribbling on his notepad.

"Let's aim for Friday." I said, willing him to look me in the eye.

"We'll see how things go."

"But let's aim for Friday." He finally looked at me, a trace of surprise flickered accepts his face.

"Okay, lets aim for Friday." He said, adverting his eyes, looking back at his notepad. I smiled and walked away, placing a call to Shane and then to my mom to let them know I'd be out soon. I was elated. Suddenly, I could do this, only a few more days!

This had to be a record. I say this because when I told the other patients, they looked at me like I was crazy. "Not happening" they said, "just wait, he'll push it back on Thursday, it happens to all of us." And they were right, a lot of them had gotten their dates continually pushed back, but I wasn't going to be one of them. I was going to get out.