Coming through those hallways, with doors opening and locking shut, my journey would usually end in a warmer room. In this room, with nice carpet and wood fixtures on the walls, I would visit my mother. I was nine years old. The warmth of the visiting room did not convince me that the hospital was a good place. In fact, as a child I was acutely aware of the bad conditions and worried about my mother. There are thoughts that I have about this hospital that seem like memories, but they are not mine. They are memories that I created from listening to my mother over many years as she recounted her experiences. She spoke to me of being locked in solitary confinement for long periods of time. She recalled being told she "was the worst case of bipolar schizoaffective disorder they had seen" and that she would "never get out." But during those visits, I, too, was in captivity. I was in a holding pattern, waiting for my mother to get better so that I could learn the truth about her, about my father, and about my mother's illness. I was living with my grandparents, but they could not communicate to me what was going on. So I retreated into a world inspired by Catholic imagery and mystics and waited for brief moments when my mother would be available to help me.