On November 9th, 1989, I was a patient in a mental health center in my home city. I was thinking back, while I was preparing snacks for the other patients, about how I had lost my once-a-month right to visiting with my 2-year-old son. I worked with a staff member named Bill, preparing and serving the snacks, and he happened to be my son's paternal uncle, but he did not care about my situation or the fact that I had lost my rights. I sat in my bedroom, crying, thinking about how the staff at the institution did not give a damn about what had happened to me. I thought about the adoption trial that I had gone through, and how I cried, albeit quietly, at different points during the proceeding. I made the doctor's bed that night, I was always volunteering to do something around the hospital on the ward to take my mind off my problems. I also made up beds for people who would be sleeping in the library, to make room for patients who needed to be in bedrooms on the ward. I swept the floors and cleaned up the social areas. I was in a state of Silent Tragedy, I could not talk about it with anyone because nobody wanted to hear it. I thought about my upcoming desolate future, and I felt as though I was all alone in the world. There was, truly, no justice.