It was the beginning of a nightmare that took away my life.

I traveled last month from Logan to Las Cruces, N.M., for a conference connected to my job as a resident assistant with Utah State University's housing department. My co-workers and I got in the car and drove 45 minutes down through El Paso, Texas, to Juarez, Mexico, on a Friday night. We were looking for souvenirs.

After not being able to find a souvenir shop open that late, we decided to head back to our hotel. We got lost trying to leave the city, and barely escaped a crash.

All this added an extra 25 minutes to our stay. We finally reached the border, only to find out that I could not pass back into America. When they asked if we were citizens, I was honest and said no. I had no passport (my father told me it had been delayed for the past 1 1/2 years in San Francisco) and had been told my green card was lost.

I should have lied.

The next 2 1/2 weeks were surreal. I was placed in a "detention facility," as the Department of Homeland Security calls it. Oddly enough, it resembled and was run like a prison. I was seen as a potential threat or terrorist because I was an illegal alien, even though I had no idea that was my status.

I was placed in a barracks with 45 other women, all of whom were awaiting word about their potential future in this country. When I first arrived there I was placed in a holding cell for 4 1/2 hours. I was told I would get a chance to eat in a few minutes but hour after hour passed and it was almost as if they had forgotten I was there.

Finally, when they came back to process me they gave me a uniform and took me to a small room that had a shower and metal bench. There I was told to shower and change and put the only belongings I had with me, my clothing, into a box that would await me upon my release.

I was taken to a room with an X-ray machine and told to take off my shirt and stand in front of it. They left the door slightly open and as people passed through the hall looking in, I could feel the last of my dignity being drained.

In the barracks everything was metal and concrete. It's an open area with no privacy, not even in the showers or restroom stalls. Everything is under surveillance and that includes you. Sleeping, eating, writing, showering, it's all recorded. I refer to it as government porn.

We were allowed outside once, maybe twice, a day for recreation time.

At the very top of a 9-foot fence were 2 more feet of barbed wire; a second fence was the same, and the third was an electrical fence, then a brick wall that was the shooting range if there should be a break-out.

We were all there because we wanted to fight for the chance to remain in this country. Many had paid thousands of dollars to be smuggled in to try to establish a better life and support their families back home. Others came for refuge.

Some were simply traveling the country, and in some instances, a week before leaving for home were detained at a national park and shipped to the facility in El Paso to be deported. Women in my barracks told me never to go to White Sands National Monument in New Mexico because there is a checkpoint there.

Then there was me.

They called me "special case." I had no classification because most of them had never seen a situation like mine. I had been living in the United States since I was 2 years old and my parents came for a temporary stay and ended up living here. I went through public school in Utah and graduated from Kearns High School in June 2003. I was registered throughout my school years with a falsely notarized birth certificate that my parents had given me. The false notary gave my birth date as Oct. 16, 1984. I found out later I was actually born Oct. 16, 1986.

When I was finally confronted with the truth at the border, I called my parents. They hung up on me. Later, my uncle called and told me everything. When I saw my parents again, they said they had lied to me for my protection.

I was lucky to have friends with tricks up their sleeves. My dear older sister used every loophole she could find, being a paralegal, to figure this mess out. My uncle and parents hired two lawyers, one in Utah and one in Texas. My confused friends wrote letters on my behalf.

University officials called around and eventually reached Salt Lake City Mayor Rocky Anderson, who referred my case to Sen. Orrin Hatch and his staff who, in the end, got me released.

I was granted humanitarian parole. I am currently waiting for a bill to go out in my name in Washington. Sen. Hatch had previously tried to pass a bill called the DREAM Act in 2003. The DREAM Act stands for the Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors.

The bill would help illegal immigrants who were brought here as children by their parents and have graduated from a U.S. high school who now want to further their education by either attending college or serving in the military. They would be granted a period of time as a legal permanent resident while they accomplish this. Then they would be able to attain legal status indefinitely. I am to be, in a sense, the poster child for this.

President George W. Bush said in a speech on Sept. 10, 2003, regarding immigrants; "We welcome families and tourists, students and business people from other countries. But our border must be closed to criminals and terrorists."

This implies that if you do not fit one of those categories you are automatically a criminal or terrorist. I felt offended and hurt that after all these tries to make everyone equal and assimilated, we still are considered different. I have lived in the United States for almost 16 years. I probably know more about this country and its history then a lot of citizens. I passed the Advanced Placement U.S. history test in high school. I am the one who encourages my friends to vote. Yet, since I no longer fall into the categories President Bush listed, I am seen as a criminal or terrorist.

I'm still fighting to get my life back. I am still enrolled at Utah State University, but I can no longer be paid to be a resident assistant.

I don't exist anywhere other than on a little slip of paper that says "parole." I'm currently struggling for money, not only for myself but my parents, too. I was their support, now I have lost the ability to work legally.

I'm always afraid to visit a new place where there's a potential for my ID to be checked. I don't even know what to answer when people ask my age because I've spent my whole life thinking I was someone else.

I have doubts at times of who I am. The only thing I know for sure is that I am innocent. I am an American and I fear for what's ahead.

Not a day goes by when I don't wonder if I will be detained and sent away from those I love. Not a night passes where my ordeal doesn't haunt my dreams.

I just want a normal life. I just want to be a citizen.

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Heilit Martinez is a student at Utah State University.