For most of my life, my name did not matter to them. I was not addressed as a person. I was labeled, cataloged, and discussed in clipped voices behind glass and paperwork. They called me a specimen. They locked me away. Years later, history would find another word for what happened to me.

When Curiosity Replaced Humanity

It began when I was young enough to believe adults always knew what they were doing. I had asked questions that made people uncomfortable. I spoke differently. I noticed patterns others ignored. In a world that demanded sameness, difference was treated as a problem to be solved.

At first, the attention felt flattering. Doctors wanted to speak with me. Researchers took notes while I answered their questions carefully. They smiled politely, the way people do when they think they are being kind.

I did not realize I was no longer a person to them.

I was a subject.

The Language That Changed Everything

Words have power. I learned that quickly.

They stopped using my name and started using terms. Case. Condition. Specimen.

I heard them say it once while standing just outside a room, my hand on the doorframe. They did not know I was there.

“The specimen shows remarkable deviation,” one of them said.

Not child. Not patient. Specimen.

Something inside me shifted that day. I understood, even then, that curiosity without empathy can become cruelty.

The Day the Doors Closed

The decision was made quietly. There was no dramatic announcement. No explanation I could understand.

I was told it was for my own good. That I would be safer. That people like me needed observation.

The building was clean and bright, but the doors were heavy. The locks were loud. The sound echoed in my chest every time they closed one behind me.

I asked how long I would stay.

No one answered directly.

Life as an Object of Study

Days blurred together. I was tested constantly. Lights. Sounds. Questions repeated until my answers changed simply because I was tired.

They measured my reactions, my silence, my frustration.

Every response became evidence of something they had already decided.

When I protested, it was labeled resistance. When I withdrew, it was called compliance. There was no correct way to exist.

I learned to be still.

Isolation Disguised as Care

They told my family I was being helped. That I was receiving specialized care unavailable anywhere else.

Visits became rare. Then supervised. Then stopped.

Isolation is most effective when it is wrapped in official language. Policies replaced conversation. Forms replaced listening.

I was fed. I was clothed. I was housed.

I was not free.

The Weight of Being Watched

Being observed changes you. You begin to perform even when no one is in the room. You second guess every movement, every word.

I wondered which version of myself they were recording. The quiet one. The angry one. The numb one.

None of them felt real anymore.

The mirrors in the facility were polished and cold. I avoided them. It was easier not to see myself becoming something smaller.