When I entered the residential facility, it consisted of a group of multi-bedroom houses, and I was assigned a shared bedroom with a welcoming woman. The rest of the residents were gathered in the living room, watching TV. I felt a bit intimidated by their apparent comfort, and I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider.

The care team at the facility included a psychiatric nurse, an assistant, and two licensed therapists, all of whom were women. The nurse and assistant worked 12-hour shifts, while the therapists were available from 9 to 5. Additionally, a music therapist would visit once or twice a week. Although we were responsible for cooking, laundry, and household chores like we would at home, the team was there to provide assistance when needed.

To ensure safety, we had no access to corded devices or potentially harmful substances like shampoos and detergent. These items were provided for a short period when necessary. Every week, there was a grocery pickup day where everyone could order the items they needed, and the assistant would take care of the pickup. On my first order, I requested a Squishmallow—a comforting item to hold. However, it turned out to be much larger than I expected, and it brought laughter to everyone’s faces.

We had a variety of activities planned every day at the facility, and my personal favorites were the art and equine therapy sessions. During equine therapy, we would visit a large horse farm where we had the opportunity to interact with the horses, feed them, groom them, and even walk them. To help us feel more at ease, there was a therapy dog present in case anyone felt overwhelmed. Walking a horse turned out to be quite a challenge, as these majestic creatures can be stubborn and have a mind of their own. I learned that to gain their cooperation, you have to communicate firmly and confidently through your body language and voice. Through multiple sessions, I discovered my lack of self-belief and how much I cared about others’ perception of me. One day, I accomplished a personal milestone by confidently guiding a horse through an obstacle course, realizing the importance of being firm and vocal, regardless of how timid I felt.

During my time at the facility, I had a dedicated therapist who held sessions with me and even arranged virtual sessions with my ‘family.’ Unfortunately, my mother didn’t fully understand mental health and what I was going through, and the only other family member who knew was my cousin’s elder brother, who also had doubts. However, I found a sense of belonging with Sonia and her husband, Anav. They became like family to me and provided invaluable support during my journey.

During our first session, I was asked to complete a detailed questionnaire that delved into my personal history. It covered sensitive topics such as the first time I experienced sexual abuse, my initial suicide attempt, the frequency and methods of my attempts, the identity of my abusers, whether they were still in my life, my current feelings about life, and my known triggers. It was a vulnerable moment for me to share such intimate details with someone I had just met, and I felt incredibly nervous.

The first instance of sexual abuse occurred when I was just 8 years old. At that age, I didn’t understand what was happening or why it was happening. I mistakenly believed that this was how people showed love, and I even innocently remarked to my mother and cousin, ‘That uncle is very nice,’ as we headed home. In India, children commonly refer to older individuals as ‘uncles’ or ‘aunties.’ It’s important to note that this person was not related to me.

When I look back on my childhood, there were moments when I wished I didn’t exist. My first attempt at ending my life happened when I was 15. I vividly recall my mom walking in on me, and when I stopped, she yelled at me, emphasizing the pain she experienced while raising me, before storming away. That moment remains etched in my memory. I’ve learned a valuable lesson from that experience — it’s crucial to take suicide attempts seriously and seek immediate medical care.

After that therapy session, I felt a flood of raw emotions swirling in my mind, as if I had become completely open. I retreated to my room, needing some time to regain my composure and be myself again. Our therapy sessions focused on preparing me for a safer return to life outside the facility. We explored various strategies to desensitize myself to triggers, reflected on the progress I had made, addressed the profound loss of childhood I experienced, and learned coping skills tailored to my specific needs. As part of my assignments, I even had conversations with my mother and cousin, to prevent their potential invalidation of my experiences from triggering me.

One assignment that stood out was writing down all the childhood memories I had missed out on and the things I wished I had been able to do. The list included simple joys like playing hopscotch, as I would often watch other kids play while never getting a chance to participate. It also encompassed cherished items like a comfort blanket or toy that kids hold onto for a sense of security, going to a theme park, having toys, and learning to ride a bike. My housemates couldn’t fathom the extent to which my childhood had been deprived. They struggled to comprehend how an 11-year-old ended up shouldering the responsibility of caring for 50 kids coming and going from our house. To be honest, I couldn’t fully grasp it myself. I never had the chance to truly experience childhood; I was either shunned by kids my age or caught in the middle of domestic affairs at home.

My therapist, upon seeing the list, encouraged me to create a bucket list with each of those childhood experiences and start reclaiming what I had missed. She reminded me, ‘You’re never too old to make memories.’ With her guidance, I embarked on a journey to rediscover myself and make up for lost time.