The intake forms left my hand shaking. Not from withdrawal or whatever bullshit they diagnosed me with. From how that counselor, Mrs. Holloway I think, watched me sign away my rights with this patient smile that never touched her eyes. She's got these reading glasses she peers over and this way of tilting her head like she's already decided what's wrong with you before you open your mouth.

The pills come in little paper cups. Pink ones, white ones, ones that taste like nothing and make my thoughts feel wrapped in cotton. They said recovery program but the group sessions are just circle jerks of humiliation where the women in charge nod at each other while we "patients" squirm. There's this one exercise where you have to describe your "triggers" and the more you confess the more pleased they look. Got assigned a roommate who cries at night but won't talk during the day. The shower schedule is posted on a corkboard with our names in neat handwriting. Little victories they call it when you follow the rules without being told. My voice sounds different now. Softer. The hormones in the meds probably.

Found a note under my mattress yesterday. Someone before me scribbled "they want you to break" and I don't know if it was a warning or a threat. The orderlies are all women too and they touch your shoulder just a second too long, correct your posture, fix your hair without asking. I keep waiting for the transformation everyone whispers about. The sissification stuff. Some guys here seem almost eager for it, like they came in wanting to be unmade. Not me. But the routines grind you down. The way they make you sit, speak, even think about yourself. Mrs. Holloway called me by a different name last session. Didn't correct herself. Just smiled and wrote something in her folder while I sat there wondering if I'd imagined it.