Chap­ter 42 marks a time in my life when my free­dom was com­plete­ly stripped away, and my world became unrec­og­niz­able. I was con­fined in a treat­ment cen­ter where even the most basic rights were denied. I could­n’t go out­side, dri­ve, or even enjoy pri­va­cy. My blood was drawn week­ly, and every moment of my life was supervised—whether I was sleep­ing, watch­ing TV, or chang­ing clothes. A strict sched­ule con­trolled my every move, with manda­to­ry ther­a­py ses­sions and end­less meet­ings. The sense of being trapped was over­whelm­ing, and I couldn’t escape the con­stant feel­ing that my life was being direct­ed by oth­ers. Watch­ing the flow of peo­ple in and out of the facility—therapists, doc­tors, and secu­ri­ty guards—while I was stuck in my room only deep­ened my iso­la­tion. It made me feel as though I was locked in a cage, with no con­trol over my life.

I was told repeat­ed­ly that every­thing was hap­pen­ing for my own good, but it felt like aban­don­ment. My fam­i­ly, despite claim­ing to sup­port me, act­ed like I was a threat. I did every­thing that was expect­ed of me, fol­low­ing every rule, but it nev­er felt like it was enough. My vis­its with my chil­dren were brief and controlled—only allowed if I was com­pli­ant. I turned to my only life­line, Cade, who called to check on me dur­ing this time. His sto­ries, like the one about get­ting bit­ten by a scor­pi­on, became one of the few dis­trac­tions from the hor­rors I faced dai­ly. Even though Cade’s tales seemed far-fetched, they gave me some sense of nor­mal­cy and con­nec­tion. The end­less ther­a­py ses­sions, the new med­ica­tion that made me feel like a shell of myself, and the feel­ing of being watched 24/7 cre­at­ed a crush­ing weight on my psy­che.

The med­ica­tion tran­si­tion was one of the hard­est parts of this expe­ri­ence. After years of being on Prozac, I was abrupt­ly switched to lithium—a drug that left me slug­gish, dis­ori­ent­ed, and unable to func­tion. My sense of time became warped, and I found myself unable to rec­og­nize my sur­round­ings or even my own thoughts. The more I was med­icat­ed, the more I felt like my mind was slip­ping away. I wasn’t the same per­son I had been before. And yet, I was treat­ed like a crim­i­nal. My secu­ri­ty team, who had always been with me, now looked at me like I was a threat. The inva­sive mon­i­tor­ing continued—blood pres­sure checks three times a day, blood draws with a team of staff watch­ing over me. I was treat­ed as if I was dan­ger­ous, as if I might some­how explode at any moment.

Being immo­bi­lized and deprived of move­ment was anoth­er form of pun­ish­ment. As a dancer, move­ment was my life. It was how I expressed myself, and it’s how I remained ground­ed. But in the cen­ter, I was kept in a chair for hours, unable to move. The lack of phys­i­cal activ­i­ty made me feel like I was los­ing touch with myself. I was dis­con­nect­ed from my body and from who I once was. I began to notice how my body was changing—not in healthy ways, but because I was sit­ting still for far too long. It was a stark con­trast to the ener­getic life I had known, and it was unset­tling. The only moments of relief came in the form of dreams—dreams where I could run and be free. But when I woke up, the stark real­i­ty of my sit­u­a­tion hit me again.

It wasn’t just the phys­i­cal toll that was damaging—it was the emo­tion­al and psy­cho­log­i­cal iso­la­tion. The time I spent in that place felt end­less, like a night­mare from which I couldn’t wake. Even when I was moved to a dif­fer­ent build­ing, still under the same sys­tem, the change didn’t offer much com­fort. I wasn’t alone any­more, but being around oth­er patients did­n’t bring me peace. I was still trapped in a world where every moment felt con­trolled, where my iden­ti­ty and spir­it were chipped away at with every pass­ing day. I want­ed to be free, to expe­ri­ence life with­out the suf­fo­cat­ing weight of con­stant sur­veil­lance and judg­ment. But free­dom felt like an impos­si­ble dream, some­thing that might nev­er be with­in reach again. Even when I was among oth­ers who shared sim­i­lar expe­ri­ences, I felt like an out­sider in my own life, dis­con­nect­ed from the world I once knew.