Her voice in my bones

The journal isn't fancy.

Stiff cover.

Thin paper.

No lock.

But it's mine.

And that's what makes it dangerous.

---

I asked the nurse for it casually.

Said it was for "processing."

They nodded.

Smiled.

Wrote it down on their clipboard like I was being "productive."

They didn't ask what I was writing.

Because they assumed I'd already been tamed.

---

They were wrong.

---

The first page?

Not a diary.

Not a letter.

A list.

> "Things They Did While Calling It Treatment."

I didn't write in full sentences.

I wrote in bullets.

Facts.

Sharp.

Moved therapy time without consent.

Denied exit request despite progress score.

Recorded session without informing me.

Locked the window shut after I asked for fresh air.

Used "non-compliance" as a reason to restrict books.

Every word felt like reclaiming a part of me they tried to classify.

---

On the second page, I made a map.

Not of the building.

Of the system.

Lines connecting names to decisions.

Arrows between phrases like "voluntary hold" and "reclassified."

I wasn't journaling.

I was building evidence.

---

I started hiding the notebook in the vents.

Only pulled it out late at night,

when the cameras rotated to the far hallway.

I memorized their schedule better than my own.

Because I wasn't healing — I was investigating.

---

And then I wrote this at the bottom of page three:

> "If I disappear, this doesn't end."

"It only begins louder."

---

That sentence alone made me feel more real than any therapy session ever had.