Padded Walls

The Psych Ward

Be sure to listen, too. 🎧

---

These walls, these walls.

If they could sing,

they would not rush the song.

They would take their time,

because time behaves differently here.

They would sing in layers,

voices stacked on top of voices,

old echoes pressed into plaster,

memories breathing through paint,

that has been changed more times,

than anyone can count.

They would sing a song about sorrow.

About pain that arrived quietly,

and pain that arrived kicking the door in.

About suffering that learned how to smile,

so no one would ask questions,

and suffering that finally collapsed,

under the weight of pretending.

They would remember the nights.

Oh, the nights.

Ceilings stared at until they blurred.

Hallway lights glowing like small moons.

The sound of footsteps,

meaning everything or nothing at all.

They would sing of bodies heavy with exhaustion,

of minds that refused to be kind,

of the endless argument between wanting to stay,

and wanting to disappear without causing a scene.

But these walls would not stop there.

They never do.

They would shift key.

They always do.

They would sing a melody of recovery,

tentative at first,

like someone testing their voice,

after years of silence.

They would sing of first good days,

that felt suspicious.

Of laughter that startled its owner.

Of moments where breathing

didn’t feel like work.

They would hum about hands learning how to hold again,

about eyes meeting mirrors without flinching,

about the quiet pride of getting dressed,

of eating a full meal,

of staying.

Hope would slip into the song,

without asking permission.

Not the glossy kind you see on posters,

but the real kind.

The kind that limps in, bruised,

and says,

“I’m still here.”

You see these people.

They are just like you and me.

They loved.

They lost.

They broke in ways that weren’t visible

until they were.

They didn’t fail at life.

Life failed to be gentle with them.

They needed a little extra help.

A pause.

A handrail.

A place where falling wasn’t the end of the story.

Nothing wrong with that.

Nothing shameful.

Nothing weak.

If anything,

these walls would sing this part the loudest:

that surviving sometimes means asking for help,

and healing often begins

the moment someone is finally heard.

---

Hey, it’s ya man, HVR (Hawtorn V. Rabot). Haaaaaaaaaaave you met Ali Aliwritesherlife)?

We’ve got something in common, maybe two, maybe three, or four?

There are places people hear and shutter, you see.

We were in the “room where it happened,” and more.

I’m taking you a place.

Where they hide they face.

Your mind almost erased?

Body giving chase?

This time? Don’t let it waste.

Mental health needs to be paced.

Hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY!

Dim the lights. Amp the sound. Smash the drums. Gather round.

Ready? Of course not

Take ‘em to the room with the pads, Ali.

---

---

Before I walked in, life looked fine from the street,

But the house was on fire underneath my feet.

Planning big dreams at three AM,

Lighting little matches and calling it “zen.”

Voice notes spinning, I was queen of the plans,

While my whole world slipped right out of my hands.

They stamped it “voluntary” when the doors slid wide,

But it felt like my brain had already been tried.

---

I was going places, I really was, you see.

This place that place the place over there.

and there over where over here this place and where.

So much potential all over me.

All the while I looked around asking where?

I was the oyster. Fuck the world, you hear?

Locked my silence like I had no voice.

Life was a truck with lights. Me? A frozen dear.

Set it up when I had the chance,

Wrote that note and said goodbye.

Who knew Death wanted another dance?

Shit, just wouldn’t let me die.

Ambulance came to get me instead,

The hospital we go, get some care.

“Why did you wish to be dead?

Tell us, won’t you share?”

What else, Ali?

---

Greige-painted walls and a blue plastic bed,

Pink crayon poems where a pen should’ve bled.

Smoke break sky was the only proof of outside,

While my baby grabbed my bracelet and I swallowed my pride.

High-risk label for a ring in my nose,

Walking like a stray where the locked door goes.

Inside those walls I finally saw it clear:

I’m not the only broken saint surviving in here.

---

Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!

Re-cov-ery? You mean, recover me? Was I ever free? Let’s keep the me-lo-dy.

Hey, stop the bass, drop it back,

Am I in your face?

Yeah?

Ha.

Resume the track.

Finally got me to the other side,

I was finally free from the mess.

I no longer had to seek and hide,

A vacation it was, I guess?

They cared for me, treated me,

No secret agenda.

All the bullshit finally free.

So much love? I surrenda.

Work on me, let them treat.

Fuck yes, sounds great, I’m becoming.

In the fire I found no heat,

Just attention, care, and welcoming.

Many people were the real,

Staff wanted us to heal,

It’s as if I my mind was locked and sealed.

I learned how others lived and wheeled,

I didn’t learn defense, no shield.

No weapon for mind’s protection to wield.

That would take longer, more time,

In this fucked up life of mine.

Thought it was a but a start,

I saw caretakers with heart,

Didn’t squint at remarks,

What I knew? Contrast was stark.

Take the mic, Ali.

---

Had to smile on cue, had to nod when they spoke,

Had to swallow every truth like a bad, bitter joke.

“Take all your meds, keep your voice down low,

Color in the workbook, don’t let it show.”

I learned the script just to buy my release,

Playing model patient so they’d sign my peace.

Freedom was a checkbox on somebody’s form,

Not a heart getting quiet after weathering a storm.

---

Right, right, you know it, it’s right.

I played along. Got better. Felt better.

How long do I stay this time? Oh, okay.

Wanted to leave, but my name lost its letters,

I lost count of all the nights and days.

Wanted to go out to catch some run rays,

Mornings early afternoons afternoons evenings nights,

I knew it’s what I needed to have.

So long, how long (HOW LONG), too long!

I still crackled and laughed.

Made others nervous, but I was never wrong.

Shit they kept me in gen pop!

What about you, Ali?

---

Told the doc straight up, “I can’t heal in this cage,

I need the open unit, I can’t live on this rage.”

Fought through the red tape, through the clinical tone,

For a patch of blue sky and a pen of my own.

They finally moved me, said I’d “earned” my place,

Like survival was compliance written on my face.

I walked through those doors, still meds in my veins,

Knowing I’d have to fight the system just to keep my own name.

---

Ali, I’ll bring it home, cool?

I was “discharged” though it was always by choice.

The choice was by choice or by law.

I guess they kind of took my voice.

I didn’t know how much I needed what I saw,

Once I got out I was back, kinda.

Went day treatment, morning to night,

Might as well have gotten paid, sorta.

Thought the treatment I received was right.

Healing healed heals healers. Yeah, what? Okay.

I hope it’s true, I really do, hope it for you me and for you.

But for me? Much is here to stay.

I’m not bitter or angry, okay, maybe, just at who?

Since I’ve never again been taken away,

Though sometimes I hope they do.

If I act outta myself, make it weird, will they,

Give me another spa vacay?

Get helped, treated, catered, loved and more?

I haven’t pretended yet, but I’ve also kept open the door.

Stop the track. Listen up. I need to talk.

Mental health matters. It’s not mysterious.

Shame us, label us, box us. To us? No shock.

It no longer gets me upset or furious.

Far more out there are like us and need to hear it.

Demystyfy, destigmatize, deostricize the bullshit.

Want a target to point at and call names?

Here we are. Take a shot. Ready your aim.

We can take absorb crash bump and keeping going.

Leave those new to it or more sensitive out.

DMs are open if you’re stuck and not growing,

Happy to intro you to people who don’t listen and shout.

Project Mayhem’s for the real, not the ones seeking clout.

Most of you already figured it out.

I’m HVR, and I’m beyond fucked up.

Meet my friend Ali, who collabed a tea not her cup.

Flood the lights. Record the track. Sound good? Post it.

With that our time is about done,

Stick around, play it back, no reason to run,

We made it. For good? I don’t know.

-HVR and Ali, outta those walls.

---

---

Drop by and say hi, but don’t make it weird.

We both take pay subs. Ali? A deal?

We do 30 percent off if they DM to pay sub us both?

Yeah, cool, but we don’t preach false heal.

Where I come from? That price? A steal.

So we stamp it with our approval of seal.

HVR's Substack and paid plans

Ali's Substack and paid plans

---

If you feel the want or need, please know we went to parts of ourselves that bleed.

If you wanted to tip, we’d welcome it.

It’s not expected. We’re all in different places.

Buy Ali coffee.

Buy HVR pencils.

---