Now I have a diagnosis. Now I am labeled. Now I am put away. Now I am checked off of somebody’s to-do list. Now I am somebody’s paycheck.
When they took me away from my mother was my first heartbreak. I cried, and still was given oxygen as though I needed it to breathe. They put me in a glass box. Everything was blurry, everything blurred. Adults were magnified. I had a home that was not a home; I had a fishbowl. I’m certain the nurses were nice but they were not my mother. She was just 20, and beautiful, her face softly angled; her dark hair down to her waist in black waves, arms as thin as willow branches. She visited me every day because she was my mother, but for the 1st month, I could not live with her. I lived with the soft shuffle of nurses’ sneakers on a squeaky clean floor, the hum of machines, the chirps of emergency code. Years later I would spend much more time in the hospital. But it was never home.
Copyright Kimbriel – ACG – 2007