I haven’t been home in eight months, and frankly, I just want my bed back.

The hospital mattress is lumpy and covered with strange, ominous stains I have no interest in asking about. The thing about it that really makes me tick, though, is the fact that we only get one pillow each, even though there are hundreds stacked in the back. I bet the staff use them to sleep on when they’re supposed to be doing bed checks.

There are a lot of bad things about the hospital, like the food and the petty patients and all of the unnecessary (and sexist) rules. Here’s one: if a girl’s shorts don’t pass her knees, she can’t wear them. Outside. In 100 degree weather. But God forbid a guy gets in trouble for sagging his pants so low he trips on them and chips a tooth. (It’s happened.)

The hospital prides itself on its safety, but the time my friend found a rusty hammer sitting on her bedroom table screams otherwise. It was a ludicrous situation, really. Everyone was confused as to how it ended up there in the first place. My theory is that a maintenance guy forgot where he was and made the unfortunate mistake of leaving it behind. In the end it was fine, because my friend doesn’t have a homicidal bone in her body, and didn’t decide to go all Texas Hammer Massacre on everyone. But I would not be surprised if she did; I would’ve been tempted.

Obviously, a long-term state psychiatric facility isn’t the ideal place to spend the summer going into my junior year of high school. There’s just so much I could be doing, that I should be doing, instead of making duct tape pens and completing so many puzzles that I literally have no place to put them anymore.

My whole entire life revolves around these suffocatingly beige tiled walls, and no matter how much I try to give to the universe it never gives back. I’m left with my empty palms stretched out, pleading to anyone who chooses to listen.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when no one answers back.

The one good thing is the yoga class Ms. Beverly teaches every Thursday night.

There are around eight students, each of us placed in a circle under the dim lights of the auditorium stage. I have a few friends who go, and we always practice next to each other. We’re not very good at the hard stuff, but it’s nice to belong to a little club amidst all the chaos. During the hour we’re there, it doesn’t really feel like we’re patients, and the peace that cradles our scarred bodies in its arms is a stark contrast to the rest of our day.

Ms. Beverly is a staff member in her thirties, petite and muscular. She’s sweet and her voice is like honey. She starts off every lesson by telling us how perfect we are. A few of us laugh uncomfortably – we’re mentally ill teenagers with no confidence whatsoever – but Ms. Beverly repeats it until we have to shut up and listen. It’s a good tactic.

“Do we want to work a ten today?” She always asks us, and we always say yes, of course, we want to sweat and forget about our problems. We go through all the stretches and Sun Salutations, each pose affecting each muscle differently.

Out of all of them, I like the Warrior One pose the best. It sounds stupid, but I feel so confident whenever I stand tall like that with my arms spread to the sky. That’s the thing about yoga: you fake it until you make it. 

Usually, we lay on our mats and meditate for the last 10 minutes or so. But one day in particular, Ms. Beverly had us lie down next to each other with our feet vertical on the wall. I ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with two of my closest friends. We giggled at the proximity.

“Relax all your muscles and close your eyes if you’re comfortable.” Ms. Bev’s voice echoed from her spot across the stage. “Make sure you’re focused on your breathing.”

I didn’t close my eyes, but instead stared up at the lights that hung above our heads, taking in air through my nose and releasing it through my mouth.

“I want you all to think about the intentions you set for today’s practice,” she continued, “and how you think you accomplished them. Did your mood shift? Do you still feel as heavy as you did before our session?”

I didn’t.

“I know your minds are all over the place, because mine is as well,” she said. “But there’s one thing I’d like to focus on, and that thing is courage.”

She breathed the word out in an airy sigh; I felt my heart thump inside my chest.

“You’re all here because you need a little more of it,” she said. “And I do, too. But I’m here to tell you that your lack of courage does not make you weak. It makes you human. You’re hurting right now, I can sense all the pain your bodies carry, and I know you’re tired of the fight. I don’t blame you.” She paused, as if to gather her words carefully. “I have a task for you. I want you to put your right hand over your heart and pretend you have all the courage you need to succeed. To love someone, to forgive someone … to forgive yourself. Take a few minutes to really think about what it’s going to feel like when you finally do whatever it is you need to do. Open your eyes when you’re finished. I want to see each and every one of your beautiful, triumphant faces. Remember to really focus.”

I did what I was told, and thought about how scared I was to get better, how terrifying the outside world really is. I thought of the look on my mom’s face on the way to the emergency room, the gentle pressure of her hand against the cuts on my skin. The screams of my sister and the weeks spent lying in bed, stoic and silent, wanting so badly to let the bed swallow me whole.

Your lack of courage does not make you weak, it makes you human.

It wasn’t until Ms. Beverly told us to open our eyes that I realized I was crying. A few other girls were as well, and we all tried to discreetly wipe away our tears. But their shell-shocked faces mirrored mine, and I knew what we were all thinking: God, I need to get better.

What I love about the class isn’t just the yoga. It’s the feeling of feeling enough. It’s treating my body like I love it and pretending to have the courage that I eventually need to find within myself. 

In all reality, I don’t know where I’m going. Or what’s going to happen in the future. I’m still living day to day, therapy session to therapy session. I may need to rely on medication my entire life.

But there’s one thing that’s certain, and it’s that someday, I will be able to sleep on a clean bed with two pillows, and that’s enough for me.