1.5 Years Ago:

Every day at 8 in the morning, the white van pulled up into my drive way and honked three times. That was my cue to run out and get in the van. Inside, was at least one other nutcase. Then the van ran around town collecting more mentally ill people and transporting them to an outpatient service center. Group therapy, individual therapy, cognitive behavioral technique group therapy, rehab training, even lunch, were provided. They told us how to stay sober (smell flowers or read a book), they told us how to think (do not have a self-defeating attitude), they told us about our illnesses (schizophrenia is caused by a brain chemical imbalance), and then they let us paint on cheap paper. These six months are a time that I will never disclose to anybody except those who somehow found out accidentally about my illness. People do not understand that a mentally ill person can be rehabilitated. They do not care. After you utter the word, “mental” they tune you out and start tiptoeing out the back door.

However, on paper, people are fascinated. They do want to read about this process, now that I am a safe distance away. Now that I cannot make them feel uncomfortable with my horror stories of how the inside of a mental asylum is like. I am Asylum Girl. Skizzie Lizzie. Admit it, you're a little curious.

Coming soon: More Normal Than the Normals: Lessons of the Asylum Girl