Other people get addicted to drugs. Not me. That’s what I would tell myself, every time my boyfriend wanted me to shoot up with him. I could stop any time I wanted. I wasn’t like the other kids, the ones who got hooked and couldn’t stop.

The needle would bite into my skin, and soon the welcome relief would come. But that time, what came instead was the wailing of sirens, and I realized I was lying inside of a shower.

“Her name’s Amanda,” I just barely heard my boyfriend say. “She’ll be okay, right?”

Hours later, I awoke in a bed that was not mine. “She’s coming to,” I heard my mother whisper. Her cool hand grasped mine. “Amanda, honey, it’s me.”

“Mommy,” I said weakly.

“We’re going to have to move her to psychiatric,” the nurse said to my mom.