But today that pain twisted into something else and I recognized it for the amazing thing it was.

Hope.

It was there, hanging out in my heart with a polka dotted party hat on, waiting for me to realize that perhaps it had never really left me.

I woke up to Tyler blasting The Beatles “Birthday” accompanied by some of the worst dance moves I had ever seen. And coming from a guy with two left feet, that was saying something.

I sat up and wiped the sleep out of my eyes, trying to wrap my brain around the image of my normally shy and introverted roommate, gyrating around the room completely out of time to the music.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, laughing. Tyler pumped his fists over his head and jumped on the desk chair, singing at the top of his lungs.

Not thirty seconds later, there was an authoritative knock on our door and I shot Tyler a look as he scrambled to turn the music down. Jonathan, the aide on duty poked his head in the door and gave us a stern look. Jonathan was probably in his late twenties and already balding, poor guy. But he was nice enough, in that I-still-live-in-my-parents’-basement kind of way.

“Guys, it’s seven in the morning. You know the rules about music. I’d hate to confiscate your stereo.” Tyler looked sheepish and switched the music off. The Grayson Center was all about rules, birthday or not.

“Sorry, man,” my roommate mumbled, clearly embarrassed by the reprimand. I got out of bed and stretched, scratching the back of my head.

Jonathan gave us a smile. “Just don’t let it happen again. I hate having to be the bad guy.” The aide looked over at me and threw something in my direction. I grabbed it before it fell to the floor. It was one of those cheesy “I’m the Birthday Boy” buttons that you wear when you’re a kid.

“Happy Birthday, Clay,” Jonathan said, grinning as I stuck the pin into my shirt. I grinned back, displaying my button proudly.

“Thanks, Jon. Just what I always wanted,” I joked as the aide left. I went to my dresser and pulled out some clothes and then gathered my shower stuff.

“Hurry up, Clay. The kitchen staff will make you whatever you want on your birthday. So unless you want to choke down a shit tasting bagel with the rest of us, make it snappy.” I snorted at Tyler.

“Yes sir, I’ll make it snappy,” I replied sarcastically. But Tyler was right. I wasn’t missing out on a southwest omelet for nothin’. I couldn’t get rid of the ridiculous smile on my face as I got ready for my day.

This happy stuff was pretty awesome.

***

By around two in the afternoon I was officially in the birthday spirit. Maria, Tyler and a few of our other friends made a big production of wheeling out a cake during lunch time. Maria insisted I wear a pointed birthday hat made of cheap card board. I played along, not being able to help but enjoy the whole thing.

The counselors had gotten me a new journal (oh joy) and some books about loving myself or whatever. I didn’t get hung up on the cheesiness of it and just appreciated the fact that they thought to get me anything at all. Louis the center’s administrator gave me some coupons redeemable for different privileges, like extra TV time and a few “get out of chores” tickets. It may not seem like a lot, but to the patients at Grayson, those coupons were like gold.

Everyone was going out of their way to make me feel special. Which was definitely needed when by late afternoon it became apparent that I wouldn’t be getting a phone call from my parents. I received the obligatory greeting card of course. It looked cheap, like something from the dollar rack. I was pretty sure it was something my dad’s secretary had picked up at Wal-Mart. It had only been signed “Mom and Dad.” And I was almost positive that it wasn’t even their handwriting.

It wasn’t as though I was surprised by their lack of sentiment. But I had to seriously tamp down the hurt and bitterness that threatened to swallow my good mood. I really wished I could just turn off the juvenile expectation that my parents would for once act like…well, parents. Setting myself up for the disappointment was way past old.

I had met with Dr. Todd right before dinner. He had wanted to touch base with me about my ongoing treatment. He explained that he was legally bound to inform me of my rights now that I was of age. I technically had three more weeks left at the center according to the treatment plan my parents and I had signed when I was admitted. But now that I was eighteen, my treatment was my own. Given that I had made significant progress and no longer posed a threat to myself, I could be cleared for discharge as early as the end of the week.

I cleared my throat; taken aback by the information I was just given. “What about my parents? Couldn’t they fight that?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine my parents sitting by and letting me discharge myself. Not without some serious legal wrangling. But just knowing that I could do as I liked was empowering.

Dr. Todd sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, to be brutally honest with you, Clay, your parents wouldn’t have much to stand on legally. Yes, they had you admitted, but they have been, well, less than involved in your treatment here. Despite efforts by staff to engage them. You have made progress without their input. But I must say, as your therapist, that you still have a lot of work ahead of you. With the regulation of your medication, you’ve been able to focus on getting your self-injury and suicidal ideation in check. But this will be a lifetime battle.”

I nodded, not feeling defensive or irritated by his assessment. He was only stating facts. “And when the time comes for you to leave Grayson, we can discuss my recommendations for your continued treatment. Leaving in-patient is difficult and usually requires a transitional program, such as going to Langley’s the group home over in Miami Springs.”