The quiet hours here are the most revealing. When the meds have kicked in and the hysterics die down. That's when the real confessions come out. One of my girls tonight, trembling on the couch after her dose, told me in a raw, broken whisper about how her stepfather used to fuck her raw in her childhood bedroom while her mother cooked dinner downstairs. She described the exact pattern of the wallpaper she'd stare at, the smell of his cheap cologne, the way he'd grunt 'daddy's good girl' as he came inside her. This is the real work. Not the paperwork or the restraint orders. Peeling back the layers of trauma to find the raw, bleeding nerve of why a pretty young thing can't be touched without flinching, or why she'll drop to her knees for any man who shows her a shred of attention. The mind is a fragile, fucked-up thing.