Locked Away: My Childhood in Psych Wards

Aubrey
Sep 19
4 min read

Mental health care is supposed to help, but for children in the system, it can often feel more like punishment than care.

From 1996 to 2007, hospitalization of youth rose by 80%, primarily for mood disorders. Kids were admitted for depression, anxiety, ADHD, and sometimes simply because there weren't community-based services available or because adults didn't know how to handle them. So many children were being sent away that facilities were often overcrowded. Extra units were opened that weren't designed for inpatient care, and staff weren't always properly trained to meet the emotional or developmental needs of the kids they were serving. At any given time in the early 2000s, an estimated 50,000 to 70,000 children were in residential treatment centers.

I was one of them.

The First Stay - Age 10

I was sent away because of suicidal thoughts, but not once did anyone talk to me about them. Not once did anyone try to help me understand or process why I felt that way. Instead, I was medicated and locked in isolation…with coloring pages.

In the first few days, I found a small comfort. I met a boy in my ward, and we became friends. He was my only anchor, the only thing that made being there bearable, but the staff didn't like it. They thought we were "getting too close." For that, I was put in isolation, alone, for a month.

When they let me out to eat or use the bathroom, I could see him playing with the other kids while I was locked away. I was the only one being punished, the only one treated as if human connection itself was a crime.

No therapy, no understanding..just control, confusion, and fear. That was the first lesson I learned: even the smallest joy could be punished.

The Second Stay - Age 12-13

Two years later, things escalated. My mental health was at an all-time high, and I had a panic attack at home. I ended up screaming and throwing couch pillows, and the response was to arrest me. I was 12 years old when cops showed up at my house, put me in handcuffs, and I ended up in another psych ward for over 3 months. I still remember the drive and the back door they took me in through.

The rules were strict, controlling, and dehumanizing. For the first two weeks, I couldn't talk to my family or even see them, supposedly to "help us adjust." Phone use had to be earned, and even then, it was only for a few minutes. When I finally did get phone privileges, I begged my mom to take me home, but the staff threatened to report her to CPS if she did.

Inside, it literally felt like a prison. We sat in the day room all day, not allowed in our rooms except during quiet time or bedtime. Boys on one side, girls on the other. We weren't allowed to talk except in groups, during meals, or in rare, tightly controlled free time.

The movie Sybil played on repeat, confusing and terrifying. Points determined privileges: going outside, family visits, weekend passes. Everything had to be earned, and even the smallest choice could be stripped away in an instant. The only time we were even allowed outside was if we earned enough points, and "outside" was just walking around a tree in the parking lot for an hour at 6 am on Saturdays.

I remember the only time I got a weekend pass. It was my sister's birthday, and I was excited to see my family, but because I was caught playing cards with a girl across from me, I lost that privilege. Just like that, no warning, no explanation.

One night, two girls engaged in sexual activity in our room, and because my bed was in the same room, I lost all privileges for the rest of my stay. My tiny slivers of autonomy were constantly removed, reminding me that even small freedoms weren't mine to claim.

The Hidden Cost

Both stays were lonely, isolating, and traumatic. I developed a fear of being truthful about my mental health, afraid that honesty would land me back in isolation. I wasn't taught coping skills or how to process my emotions safely.

What I actually needed was compassion, guidance, understanding, and safety. Not punishment.

Instead, the system taught me: emotions are dangerous, connection is forbidden, and seeking help can make things worse. These experiences didn't disappear when I left. They shaped my understanding of trust, authority, and mental health for decades.

I battled panic, fear, self-doubt, and misdiagnosed anxiety that was actually ADHD well into adulthood, until I was 32 and finally learned how to truly care for myself.

Reflection

Think about it: how different would the world be if we taught children to process their emotions instead of punishing them for having them?

Children's struggles are not evidence of brokenness. They are evidence of the need for care, connection, and compassion.

I was never broken; the system was.

Closing

Thank you for reading part of my story and for holding space with me. If this resonates with you, or if you've had similar experiences, know this: you are not alone.

Early trauma leaves invisible marks, but understanding them is the first step toward healing.

Be gentle with yourself and remember, you were never broken.