There is a Quiet Room just off the hallway—a padded cell, soundproof, with a tiny, letterbox window, like in the movies. When it is empty, I slip inside and shut the door behind me. I sit, facing the wall, and I know that I don’t belong here yet. But, in a week, I will. For we do not go to the asylum to be cured. We go to the asylum to die. This is not the bitter voice of one solitary crazy girl. This is the truth.
