The next day began exactly as the one before it had ended: with the mechanical click of the lock and the suffocating presence of a small plastic cup. I was woken up, propped against the wall like a discarded doll, and forced to swallow the morning’s chemical cocktail before being presented with a tray of lukewarm eggs.
My body and mind remained trapped in that heavy, velvet numbness. The world was a grayscale movie playing at half-speed. I watched my own hand pick up a fork, marveling at how distant the limb felt, as if I were operating a crane from miles away. Every movement was a chore, a delayed reaction to a command my brain was too tired to send.
"Eat up, Sarah," the nurse chirped, smoothing the edges of my cot. "You have a big day. You’re having your first official session with the
