I told the nurses – another word that made me scream in frustration – that I should be discharged because I wasn’t ill. The reason I didn’t like the word ‘nurses’ was because it reminded me of hospitals, and as I have mentioned, I was not ill. No indeed! I was very well, much better than many people are in their whole life.
The day my parents told me where I was going, I screamed at them. Just once, briefly. And then I went to my corner and just sat there, rocking and rocking. My sister came to try and comfort me but it didn’t work.
“You’re not the one going to a funny farm,” I told her, and her dark eyes filled with sympathetic tears.
“I know, Jenny,” she said, and I knew she did. That night, she was the only one I would allow in my room as I packed the case full of the things I was taking. It was only a small case because there were limits, restrictions, on what I was allowed to take. From then on, my whole childhood was made of limits and restriction. It was made of rules.