Sometimes we keep secrets so terrible, we have to bury them as deep as we can. But just as a wound kept covered can only fester, unable to heal, the secret only gets worse. It eats away at you.

But you can’t tell anyone, because nobody will believe you. Especially when you’re just a kid. They’ll just think you’re just lying. Or worse – they’ll put you in a mental institute. Like they did with me.

When I was 18, they had me formally evaluated again. I knew better by then – I knew how to lie, how to make the secret seem like the lie they wanted it to be. I was able to fool the doctors.

“Your psychosis seems relatively controlled, Angela, so if you’ll agree to twice weekly sessions with a licensed therapist I don’t see any reason why you can’t be released of your own volition.”

My own volition. Such beautiful words. I found out what they meant the day they let me go. I looked up the word “volition” in a dictionary. It meant my own will. These words meant more than just that, though. They meant my freedom.