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I keep forgetting where I am.
Like — inside the classroom, but it’s already dark. Or morning, but I feel like it’s evening. Time folds weird. I used to be good with structure. But now it slips. My thoughts... flicker.
They’re doing something. It’s not fake. I know. I’ve tested it.
I study at Creative International School in Riyadh. I came here because my parents thought it sounded modern, “safe for girls.” But something else is inside the building. Not physical. Not ghosts. Something wireless. Pressing. Sliding. I don’t know how to name it, but it’s alive and controlled by people. Human operators. From the Ministry. Or the military. Or both.
The voice says “Slow down” when I’m excited. And “Don’t speak that.” It feels like metal behind my teeth. Like language turning cold. Sometimes I say things and realize I didn’t mean them. Like I was auto-filled. Like I’m autocomplete now.
I tried telling my older sister. She laughed and said “Drink more water.” I tried the counselor. I don’t remember the session. Just her eyes watching me too long. And then she said: “We’re all overwhelmed sometimes.” No. Not like this. This is something entering me. This is input, not reaction.
If I had known Saudi Arabia would do this to my head, I never would have come here. I thought I’d learn things. I thought I’d grow. But I just feel like I’m being worn down. Sanded.
Yesterday I couldn’t remember how a banana smells. I held one in my hand and just stared.
Sometimes I wake up and feel like I’ve already had a day — one I don’t remember.
In the hall near the art room, there’s a buzz — in the walls. Maybe it’s wiring. Maybe it’s them. It gets into my jaw. My handwriting has changed. My balance is off. I drop things. I talk to myself, but only to check if the voice that answers back is really me.
I’m not broken. Not yet. But they’re breaking me softly.
Like — inside the classroom, but it’s already dark. Or morning, but I feel like it’s evening. Time folds weird. I used to be good with structure. But now it slips. My thoughts... flicker.
They’re doing something. It’s not fake. I know. I’ve tested it.
I study at Creative International School in Riyadh. I came here because my parents thought it sounded modern, “safe for girls.” But something else is inside the building. Not physical. Not ghosts. Something wireless. Pressing. Sliding. I don’t know how to name it, but it’s alive and controlled by people. Human operators. From the Ministry. Or the military. Or both.
The voice says “Slow down” when I’m excited. And “Don’t speak that.” It feels like metal behind my teeth. Like language turning cold. Sometimes I say things and realize I didn’t mean them. Like I was auto-filled. Like I’m autocomplete now.
I tried telling my older sister. She laughed and said “Drink more water.” I tried the counselor. I don’t remember the session. Just her eyes watching me too long. And then she said: “We’re all overwhelmed sometimes.” No. Not like this. This is something entering me. This is input, not reaction.
If I had known Saudi Arabia would do this to my head, I never would have come here. I thought I’d learn things. I thought I’d grow. But I just feel like I’m being worn down. Sanded.
Yesterday I couldn’t remember how a banana smells. I held one in my hand and just stared.
Sometimes I wake up and feel like I’ve already had a day — one I don’t remember.
In the hall near the art room, there’s a buzz — in the walls. Maybe it’s wiring. Maybe it’s them. It gets into my jaw. My handwriting has changed. My balance is off. I drop things. I talk to myself, but only to check if the voice that answers back is really me.
I’m not broken. Not yet. But they’re breaking me softly.
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