198 / MARYA HORNBACHER
main room while Staff unobtrusively sat in a chair across from us, observing. We talked about books. They brought me books. I sat at the table, behind my battalion of books, peering over the top, halfreading, half-talking to them, telling them about my books. Then Staff took away my books. I went to my closet one day, pulled on the handle. It didn't open. I ran to the main room, looking for the pile of books on the table, the pile I'd left on the windowsill, the pile on the floor. My books were gone. They'd taken my books. I ran into the office—one desk, a long counter, cupboards, a refrigerator, a bunch of chairs, Plexiglas windows for walls, eyes on our little world—and said, trying to be calm, “Why is my closet locked? Where are my books?” My primary counselor, Janet, began: “Your treatment plan—” “WHERE ARE MY BOOKS?” “Marya, can you lower your voice?” “WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY BOOKS? DID YOU THROW AWAY MY BOOKS?” I had suspected, even accused them, of trying to make me stupid before. It seemed entirely plausible to me that they, not comprehending at all the absolute necessity of books, might have thrown them away. “No, we didn't throw your books away. We feel that it will be a positive experience for you to deal with your emotions for a while, instead of distancing us through books.” “When do I get them back?” I asked, twisting the cuff of my shirt in my hand. “As soon as you choose to deal with your issues.” “WHEN?” Clenching my fists. “That will be your choice.” I lost it altogether. I started tipping chairs, screaming at the top of my lungs, hollering that I wanted my books, how was I supposed to GET ANYTHING DONE without my books, throwing coffee mugs. I hollered that I couldn't deal with all these STUPID CRAZY FUCKED-UP PEOPLE if I didn't have SOMETHING TO DO, I was going CRAZY in here, it was BAD ENOUGH without them TAKING MY BOOKS, and I was led down the hall, shrieking and