I am fifteen years old, and I have spent almost a thousand days of my life circulating through psychiatric treatment centers for depression, anxiety, and disordered eating.

During these times, I miss whole chunks of my childhood that I will never get back. I will never attend the parties and extracurriculars that others my age take for granted. I will never know what the excitement of entering high school feels like because I spent my whole first year of in the hospital. I will never be able to retrieve the time that was taken away from me, and all the dreams I had growing up—publishing the novel I've been writing for seven years, auditioning for The Voice, traveling to Italy with my school—have fallen by the wayside.

Yet, it would all be worth it if going through these programs meant that I would one day get better, be able to function in society, and have a "rest of my life." I would not mind spending another thousand days in programs if it meant receiving the care I need and finally getting better after years of struggling.

But that’s not happening.

Treatment in psychiatric units is not what people think it is. Every day, I witness and experience things that I believe no one should have to. I’ve heard counselors laugh about the extra money they’ll make staying after hours while holding down a tear-streaked kid. I have seen the terrified eyes of my peers as they watch stony-faced security guards shove their sobbing friends onto beds to be strapped down. I have watched adolescents shut behind locked doors for weeks at a time without access to fresh air or the outdoors, without contact with the outside world at all. I have been kept awake by more than the unit’s horrors when irritated staff have refused to allow me even a mattress to sleep on, much less a pillow or blanket, claiming that because I had tucked my arms into my shirt from being so cold, I was not being safe enough to deserve bedding. I’ve seen an eleven-year-old girl shut in a room naked for days at a time, refused even the basic needs of a human, not to mention the psychological needs of a little girl. Fellow peers recall this same eleven-year-old coming into the program with an anxiety disorder that did not nearly cloud the glowing light and extraordinary potential within her. We were forced to watch as her mental health deteriorated and her eleven-year-old spirit was crushed. I've watched her grow up far too fast. So many times, I've asked myself, "How can it be so difficult for these professionals, who've gone through so much psychiatric training, to offer her a tiny bit of compassion?"

Because compassion is something that all humans need, and especially humans who are sick and hurting. Professionals everywhere agree that many inpatient stays become traumatic and that the system is, in many ways, broken, yet nothing is being done to change it. Instead, staff continue to disregard our human rights, belittle us, treat us with disrespect, and put us in restraints more so to punish and control us than to ensure our safety.

At thirteen, I was admitted to my first hospital, and I met a girl not much older than me who told me that it was her twentieth psych unit without batting an eyelash. Two years later, she’s at her fortieth. Why do kids continue to circulate through programs if these places are helping us? Why do we come out of programs and attempt suicide ten times more often and get admitted to higher and higher levels of care? Why do we live in a society where it is acceptable for young people to have entire years of their youth taken away?

The attitude in the mental health system needs to change. We need to be recognized as individuals who each have a story to be told. We need to be treated as humans, not as patients who have done wrong and need to be punished and controlled. I may not have a fancy degree or a badge proclaiming that I work for one of nation's top-ranked hospitals, but somehow, I know that what we need is some care and empathy.

A seven-year-old boy intent on scratching his wrists does not need four security guards rushing in to hold him down. In five days, the scratches will fade, but the horror of being strapped down by strangers and stabbed by a needle containing an unknown medication will remain with him for the rest of his life. I have not read his pile of paperwork, but I know that what he needs is not a frightful night of staff making snide comments about him behind his back and refusing to allow him to call his parents, or security guards boasting about how they are the best guys on the floor who show up first to every restraint.

Nothing makes us feel more powerless and worthless than to be regarded by masks of professionalism, the relentless upholding of an arbitrary power dynamic, and the use of force as a threat and punishment rather than a last resort. Kids who have grown up neglected and abused all their lives have not been shipped off to another program so they can see more uncaring faces and be answered with more emotionless replies.

We are rarely listened to, although we are the ones who know what we need best. We are given treatment by strangers who barely know us, yet are often too busy and assured in their knowledge to sit down with us and listen. How can these psychiatrists, psychologists, and counselors possibly know what we need if they have never walked in our shoes? How can they possibly help us if they see us and treat us as patients that need to be contained, controlled, and filed into cabinets?

We are imprisoned by not only unit walls and plexiglass windows but also the endless restrictions piled upon us and staffs' aloof replies that we “did this to ourselves.” Trust me—if we could find a way to be happy, safe, and free, we would.

Boundaries are important. Safety is critical. And as someone who strives to do good in society, I know. But I have suffered from depression for nearly half my life, and I see the same need for empathy, mutual respect, and compassion that I see in the mirror in the eyes of my fellow patients. No rule, restraint, or piece of research can change the fact that we are all humans.

To the clinicians and staff out there who truly care, who have been human with me, thank you. You have helped me more than you can imagine.

To all the others: a change of attitude is needed in the mental health system. A smile, some understanding, and the words, “I care” can begin to change someone’s life, but your learned masks of professionalism, desensitized protocols, and gloved hands digging into our flesh will only break us more.

I am asking for a more humanistic approach to treatment. Kids should be treated for their problems—deep-seated issues in their lives—rather than the surface-level behavioral symptoms. The use of restraints and other traumatizing protocols should be a last resort, rather than a means to simplify a problem. There needs to be more open-mindedness in listening to what patients have to say, respect for each patient’s dignity and privacy, and value in each patient’s human rights.

I am also leaving this petition open-ended because I want other patients themselves to be the ones who contribute to what they want to see in mental health systems. All of us should be the ones who ask for the changes that we need so we make our time at programs worth it.