I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. The lights never dim, and there’s no window to give me a hint of time. Just soft white walls and the same padded silence pressing in from all sides. My boots make no sound when I pace, and my hands—useless fists wrapped in pink mittens—can’t even touch the walls in a way that feels real. They just thud, muffled, like I’m trying to punch my way out of a dream.
I used to be strong. Not just physically, but loud—the kind of loud that cracks through a room like lightning. The kind of fire that gets people to either follow you or run for cover. My hair has always matched that energy, this wild, red flare that doesn’t ever do what it’s told. Even now, I can feel it frizzing against my neck, no brush, no product—untamed and angry. Like me. Well, mostly.
They dressed me in this diaper like I’m a child, pink with a stupid little heart on the front, like I’m supposed to find it cute or calming. I don’t. It makes me feel ridiculous. Helpless. And maybe that’s the point. My brain keeps trying to tell me I should be furious, I should be tearing this place down, but I’ve been here long enough to know that rage only echoes back at you here. And besides, they’re right—I’m not safe. Not yet.
I remember the last time. My hands, free and shaking, had wrapped around a bottle so tight it shattered before I ever got a drink out of it. There was blood. Not a lot. But enough to remind me how easy it would be to hurt myself when my fire got out of control. That’s why I agreed to this. Voluntary containment, they called it. Gentle voices and firm restraints. Safety, they said. For me.
I hate how quiet it is. I hate how still I’ve become. And yet, there’s something in the silence that starts to make sense. I’m not ready to trust it, but it’s there—this whisper of peace trying to reach through my frustration. I walk in circles, not because I want to, but because movement helps. I can’t fidget, can’t gesture, can’t run—but I can walk. And think. And maybe… heal?
I’m not okay, but I’m trying to be. That’s something. Maybe tomorrow I’ll scream less. Maybe I’ll let the nurse talk without glaring at her. Maybe I’ll even ask for a journal, if they think I’m stable enough for a crayon. Baby steps, I guess. For now, I sit back down on the padded floor, pink fists resting in my lap, and let myself breathe without fighting it. Just for a moment.
