Wednesday, February 7. Just discharged from the ER. Now somewhere new again: the “Grinch Hospital,” a psychiatric hospital near Brown University. It is not called Grinch Hospital, yet it feels ‘Grinch-like’ with its dull brick outside, beige walls, and white tile. Don’t get me wrong, there are paintings and artwork that line some of the walls, but something about it still feels eerie. 

Colorfully painted hallways. Except the paint is chipping. 

Therapists and doctors. Except no white coats, no familiarity to “medicine.”

Colored pencils and stress balls. Except no smiles in sight. 

Different isn’t always good. It didn’t feel good here.

In the muggy room, I gaze down, folding origami: one lonely person in a circle of lonely people. I was sent to Grinch for a partial hospitalization program. This makes three hospital visits in the past week, and the doctors are still trying to figure out what to do with me. I glance up at people no younger than 18 and no older than 23, all of them quiet in their seats.

I explain my feelings in group therapy and share advice with others. Therapists ask me to speak less. They say others need a chance to speak too. “Why should I even be here then?” I murmur under my breath. I can just talk to my dog and he’ll gladly listen. I keep that part to myself. 

Silence. 

More silence. 

Forced conversation.

Fake laughter.

Two and a half hours go by, then lunch.

 

I head over to get a Ben & Jerry's ice cream from the vending machine. 

I am about to click B1 when I turn to see “Miranda Ella.”

Bright red curly hair, silver rings, and ornate ear piercings.

Baggy black shirt and khaki joggers. 

Colorful Converse sneakers that say: “You are beautiful.” 

“What flavor are you getting?” I ask. 

“Hmm. Classic Cherry Garcia for sure,” she says, giving me a mischievous smile. “You?” 

“That’s usually my go-to, but this time I want to try The Tonight Dough.” 

We carry our lunch and ice cream to one of the round tables in the middle of the hospital dining hall. 

“So, why are you here?” I ask between bites of food. 

“Well, I dropped out of college because I hated it there. Got into a huge fight with my mom. People thought I was crazy. Now I’m on a gap year, but I’m planning to transfer to my twin’s school, Grain College.” 

I smile, and she smiles back. 

“Trust me, I know the feeling. I went delusional for 10 days after insufficient sleep seven days prior. Now I’m here.” Miranda Ella’s eyes go wide when I say that. “It’s okay, you can laugh. It was stupid of me,” I say with a chuckle. 

We exchange laughs and continue chatting about what brought us to Grinch, most of our anecdotes encompassing our experiences as young women going through hardships and health struggles. We have a lot in common: We both love yoga, argue with our parents, make art, have been told we’re crazy. We are 21 years old, laugh a lot, have strong opinions, and wear mischievous smiles. 

After finishing our savory food, we move on to dessert. We crack open the lids of our mini Ben & Jerry’s, giggling about how little the therapists actually understand us, joking about running the sessions ourselves. 

“You seem like you would fit in well at Brown or RISD. Why don’t you apply there?” I ask mid-bite. 

She laughs before saying, “I don’t have the stats for Brown.” She stops smiling, realizing I’m serious. “Wait, you don’t think I actually could get in, do you?” 

“I totally think you would get in,” I say, “especially with your story. Plus, you can cross-enroll and take as many RISD classes as you want! No such thing as failing either.”

“Really? I had no idea!” Miranda Ella is beaming by now. 

Miranda Ella, who is a quiet and shy person in the group session, turns talkative with a bubbly and sassy persona. We have different stories, but we find comfort in each other. This place feels so isolating, so removed from reality. We found a way to smile through the pain of being there. 

“Oh, lunch is over. Better not be late to the next session,” Miranda Ella proclaims to me.

I give her a sly smile, both of us hating the idea of going back, but at least loving our newfound safety net of friendship. 

We walk back into the square gray room, empty circle of chairs waiting to be filled by nine other kids like us. We smile at each other before taking our assigned seats on opposite sides of the room.

I pull out a piece of paper and begin folding. Miranda Ella plays with her rings. 

We both look down, withdrawn. 

We look up, chairs now filled. 

No smiles in sight.

Silence. Sweet. Lonely. Silence.