When I was sixteen, I was a member of a ‘day program’ at the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario, sixth floor, east wing. Survivors scattered around the Ottawa-Carleton region simply call it Six-East. There’s a lot of us.

The program was designed to assist and nurture under-18 kids who were in poor living environments, or had trouble coping with day-to-day events, depression, fears, and social issues. I went in for the day program under the recommendation of my mother’s psychologist, and they ended up keeping me for a few months. They didn’t feel that I was safe to let back out.

Most kids were supervised constantly, except for when they were sleeping, or using the washrooms. The unlucky ones were on a system called one-to-one, where they were constantly in the presence of one of the councilors. No privacy, at any times. Good behavior was rewarded with unsupervised cigarette breaks, increased autonomy, and kitchen privileges.

The kitchen was fairly bare. No sharp things to hurt yourself with, ice cream eaten with wooden sticks, and oven-ready mini pizzas. And brownies. Not from scratch, or from a popular mix, but from this industrial brownie mix that comes in white wax bags, used by caterers all over the country, and bought in bulk by the hospital.

The smell of brownies was overpowering, and ever-present. Only the occasional incense stick of a hopelessly depressed romantic trying to change the air and enjoy a bit of beauty before the nurses noticed, broke the pattern. Incense sticks, cigarettes and razor blades were the currency.

It was these things that came rushing back to me when I walked into the kitchen at work, intending to get a coke. Someone was making brownies. The same kind, from the same mix.

I knew that I was not in Six-East, that I was not at the hospital, that I was not a fucked-up kid with a problem and no social or coping skills. I wasn’t forced to stay here, I was only at work, I could leave anytime, if I really needed to.

I almost want to go outside for a moment, and breathe the cold air, just to make sure. I think I would, if I could trust my hands to stop shaking long enough to open the door, and my legs to not give out on me again.