Prologue

PROLOGUE

THEY SAY IT’S for your own good.

The doctor nods. The clipboard waits. The door clicks behind you, and just like that, you’re no longer a person — you’re a patient.

Sometimes you walked in. Sometimes you were dragged in. Either way, the moment you cross the threshold, the rules shift. There’s a new gravity here. What you say can be used against you. What you do can be interpreted. Everything is evidence.

Voluntary admission? That’s just a formality. Once you’re inside, “voluntary” becomes theoretical. The staff can hold you. The staff can override you. The staff can medicate you. And the more you protest, the more you validate the diagnosis.

This is the place where mental health becomes institutional.

It’s not the hospital wing with gentle music and warm blankets. It’s the locked unit. The ward. The hold. The psych floor. No shoes with laces. No sharp edges. No privacy. No guarantees.

You become a file, a case, and a bed number. Your name is said in the third person. Decisions are made without you, but always in your best interest. Always for your safety. Always for your own good.

And if you’re lucky, they let you leave.

If you’re not, you learn how to survive in a world that forgets you still exist.