Chapter One - Check In, Strip Down

CHAPTER ONE

Check In, Strip Down

THE DOOR SHUTS behind you. There’s a chair, a desk, and a person with a badge. They ask your name. Date of birth. Who brought you here. Why.

The questions keep coming:
Do you hear voices? Are you a danger to yourself? Do you know where you are? Do you know what day it is?

You’re already being evaluated. Every blink, every pause, every word you say — it’s all going in the file. Notes about your affect. Notes about your reliability. Notes about your “insight.”

Then comes the search.

You empty your pockets. Your shoes are taken. Laces gone. Belt gone. Jewelry gone. Phone? Absolutely not. You’re handed a clear plastic bag for your things — maybe. Maybe they’re locked up somewhere else. Maybe they disappear.

If you’re carrying a notebook, it’s confiscated. Pens are restricted. Paperclips? Contraband. Even books can be considered dangerous, depending on the content. Anything that could be “used” becomes suspect.

You are now an object to be managed.

Someone gives you a wristband. It has your name, date of birth, and a barcode. You’re not allowed to take it off. It becomes your identity here — the tag that lets them scan you for meals, for meds, and movement. You’ll keep wearing it even after you forget it’s there.

Then come the rules. Some are spoken, some are posted, some you’ll learn the hard way.
No touching.
No yelling.
No standing too close.
No standing too far.
Follow instructions.
Stay in line.

You’re told where to sleep, when to eat, when to talk, and when to take your pills. You are told what day it is, if you ask.

And all of this happens before you meet the other patients. Before group therapy. Before med rounds. Before the walls start closing in.

This is check-in.

It’s not a welcome.
It’s a warning.