Crystalline Waters, part one.

I ran away from my home, in Austin, at 15 to my 16 year-old boyfriend’s house in Dallas. I left behind my family, my friends, and everything I had known in my life on a whim for someone I’d known for a month. He convinced me that my life at home was dangerous because of my dad’s abusive past and I’d be better off with him. To me, he was everything, he was my world. I knew for a fact I couldn’t live without him now that I had him. I was addicted, consumed. I didn’t make it to Dallas, however. A police officer found me and called my dad. He wasn’t happy. He took me to a doctor, who suggested a few things to my father in my absence. I stayed the night at my best friends house, restless. The next morning, my best friend’s mom dropped me off at my house (although it was the last place I wanted to be), where my dad was waiting in the car. He told me we were going to a doctor in San Antonio. It as a long, silent drive. When we arrived, we sat in a very empty waiting room, and it didn’t look like a hospital to me, but I believed my dad. When the magnetically sealed doors opened, we were lead into another room. “Dad, where are we?”

“I don’t know…” He said, but I knew he was lying.

Another nurse came in and lead us to another room where there was a going doctor on the computer. I asked again, once the nurse left and the doctor hadn’t arrived yet, “Dad, what is this place?”

After a long moment, he answered me, “It’s a mental hospital, Morgan.”

I was in shock. Why was I here? I wasn’t crazy! The doctor talked to me a little bit over the web camera, and then he vanished. The nurse came back in and escorted us to another little room. There were animals on the wall, like a zoo, and the chairs were zebra and cheetah print. I have no idea why I can remember that. The nurse told us that there were papers that had to be signed for my stay, one signed by him and one by me, as my consensus. As that door shut, I looked my dad square in the eyes and asked, “Did you know you would be taking me here?”

“Yes.”

I bit my lip. How? I felt like he was abandoning me, AGAIN! Signing me away to strangers that even he didn’t know. “I hate you…” I whispered. And his tears fell. I stood, from my chair, walked to the wall and crumpled to the floor. I covered my face and I wept. You see, I have never liked leaving my house. I’m a very introverted person, and I trust VERY few people. For some reason, I trusted my boyfriend super fast. He fed me all the right words and gave me everything I could ask for (emotionally).

When the nurse came back with the papers, I told my dad, “If you sign those papers, you are my father no longer.”

He cried, and signed the paper. I’d never seen my dad cry before. I shook my head. The nurse came over to me, for me to sign, and I told her there was no way in hell I’d willingly let them take me away. She smiled, and said since my father signed it, I’d be going anyway. I’ve never wanted to slap someone so hard before.

A large African-American nurse came in to take me away. She took my arm, and I shoved her away. It was February 19, 2010, at 7:13 pm, or at least, that’s what it was when I last saw the time. I’d never wanted to die as badly as I had right then. My parents gave me away, and I was alone in a town in which I had no idea how to get home. I was a prisoner.

I was admitted into the hospital for minor depression, major emotional repression, masochism, and running away from home. Apparently, my father expected my stay, and had packed two bags for me. They took my clothes away and I had to wear a yellow jumpsuit. I wasn’t allowed to have a hairbrush because the girl down the hall had tried to kill her roommate with hers after they found out they liked the same girl. I felt alone. I got letters almost every day after the first two days from my grandmother. I was allowed to talk on the phone, only if they called first.

Sometimes, they wouldn’t let them through. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays were the visiting days. My mother came on Tuesday. I refused to see my father, and all I wanted was to go home. I was lost, and alone, and every time they came, they left without me. A bit of my heart felt like it died every time they called and hung up. We were only allowed to talk for half an hour each day.

My best friend wanted to visit, but my parents wouldn’t let her. She tried to call, but my parents wouldn’t give her the number. The first day in, I was awoken by a man with a needle and a tiny vial. He drew my blood, the hard way, the first time I’d ever gotten my blood drawn. It was bruised halfway up my arm and I couldn’t move it for two days. The bruise took two weeks to go away.  The third day I was there, they put me on the lowest possible anti-depression pills they could, because I was the only one without medication.

My outlet was to draw, but I wasn’t allowed to have a pencil outside of the nurse’s site.

I just wanted to see my brother and my best friends. So finally, my mom brought pictures of all my friends that I made into a gallery in the small cupboard in my room. On Saturday, February 27, 2010, I finally went home.

I went through hell the rest of the year. I couldn’t talk to my boyfriend, and I couldn’t see my best friend. I wanted to die.  And I tried.