“It’s a sin to be sad!” My mother used to shout as I lay in bed. She’d pull open all of the blinds, letting the sun seep through, and take the blankets from my eyes. “Appreciate the light in this life!” I’d tell her that my body couldn’t move, that I felt so deeply sad that I couldn’t even bear to open my eyes, and she’d just repeat that it’s a sin to be sad. She’d dance around my body in bed, playing music, asking me to dance, bringing me meals, yet I’d stay in bed, never smiling, rarely moving, never agreeing that it was a sin to be sad.

Now she’s dead, and in the mental hospital they do much of the same things. I do, too, staying in bed, wondering if my mother was right all along and when my punishment will end.