JOIA. Archive of Intervened Memory
A book for those who document without words and for those who insist on being remembered. A work that does not seek to heal, but to legitimize. That does not seek comfort, but seeks memory.
"I didn't save myself with therapy. I saved myself when I listened to the body as a creator. Like someone who lives in raw flesh. Like someone who documents without words. Like someone who says: I was there, and that's why I tremble now when I can't hold myself up."
JOIA. Archive of Intervened Memory is a book for those who have felt their bodies as silent witnesses to untold stories. For those who know that every scar, every silence, and every tremor is a personal archive, an unsigned manifesto. It is a journey through the tensions that shape us and the cracks that define us.
"The body was both archive and evidence. It bore no visible scars, but the virus was present: in the tension of my muscles, in the way I sat, in how I stopped breathing when someone raised their voice. The body never forgets. It only learns to ignore what once hurt."
JOIA - Intervened Memory Archive
Art to Reveal the Wound
By Joel De las Heras Beán
"I didn't come here to decorate pain with metaphors. I came to return their archive. Because some wounds don't seek healing, but legitimacy. And when the system refuses to record, we write. With our bodies, with voice, with our own memory." — Joel De las Heras Beán, from the margins of the system.
Note to the Reader
I'm not going to promise you anything.
This is a place you come to when you need to stay.
I didn't know I was going to write this either.
I just knew that if I didn't share it, I was going to shatter like glass falling from a seventh floor.
What you're about to read is both body and mind.
It is an emotional archive that once held me together... and I decided to offer it.
If you're here, we share something.
And that is enough.
I, too, have been broken.
And today, if you want, I can accompany you from what broke me.
Prologue - This is not art, but...
For years, I emptied myself into notes, files, tables, memories, unsent letters, portraits no one saw, words that didn't quite fit.
Until one day, I realized all that wasn't chaos.
It was structure.
I discovered that the disorder I was living in had a method.
And that this method, even if it doesn't appear in manuals or diagnostic codes, is mine.
It is legitimate. It is valid. And, though it might not seem so, it is enough.
Medical, Legal, and Social Protection Protocol for Patients
Purpose of the Document
This protocol is intended to guarantee, protect, and formalize the informed will of patients facing clinical admission for mental health, whether voluntary, involuntary, forced, or conditional, and to ensure compliance in line with current legislation. This document holds the equivalent value of an advance directive and includes the following rights:
Full and continuous informed consent.
Free access to legal defense and support persons.
Respect for dignity, physical integrity, and emotional well-being.
Protection against negligence, coercion, or institutional abuse.
A gender, trauma, and human rights perspective in all interventions.
Control over personal data, decisions, and clinical environment.
Prohibition of interventions without valid consent.
Documented record of all clinical actions.
Protection of artistic interventions with therapeutic value.
External supervision and impartial clinical oversight.
Explicit Patient Declarations
A. Legal Guarantees and Defense Rights
I declare that I am in full legal capacity and demand that any procedure respect my procedural rights and decision-making capacity.
I prohibit any modification of my legal status (guardianship, involuntary commitment, incapacitation) without valid judicial procedure, legal defense, independent forensic evaluation, and guarantee of external supervision.
I designate as my valid support figures for complex clinical or legal decisions the following: a designated legal representative or attorney, and a trusted person nominated for such purposes.
I demand written records, with signature and seal, of any medical, legal, or administrative action affecting my freedom, capacity, or integrity.
I request the presence of an external witness (attorney, family member, or designated person) in invasive, coercive, or high-risk procedures, such as sedation or restraint.
In case of altered consciousness due to medical effects, this document remains fully valid as an advance directive.
B. Clinical Protection and Ethical Treatment
All medical interventions must be performed with full, written, and understandable informed consent.
I demand written, detailed information on diagnosis, proposed treatment, available alternatives, foreseeable side effects, and antidotes for adverse reactions.
I request care focused on recovery, not chronicity or excessive pathologization.
I prohibit all forms of physical or pharmacological restraint, except in cases of immediate, documented vital risk.
Any exceptional measure must be recorded, notified to my legal representative, and documented with date, signature, and copy provided upon discharge.
I request comprehensive, multidisciplinary care that includes psychiatry, psychology, general medicine, relevant medical specialties, physical therapies, respiratory care, and a holistic approach.
I request a detailed, calendar-based post-discharge plan focused on my functional, emotional, and social recovery.
C. Institutional Protection and Social Rights
I request immediate access to a social worker and my Individualized Care Plan.
I demand daily visits from family members and designated persons, with the right to continuous communication.
I demand private, uncensored communication with my attorney and emotional contacts.
I prohibit any retaliation, treatment alteration, or restriction of rights derived from this document.
I prohibit the dissemination of my clinical information without my express, written consent.
I request respectful attention to my cultural, social, spiritual, and linguistic identity.
I request ethical validation of this document by the Institutional Ethics Committee and its binding attachment to my clinical history.
D. Artistic Intervention and Therapeutic Value
I enter this medical facility with complementary documentation and artistic material of therapeutic value, intended to facilitate a holistic understanding of my condition.
Its function is to allow a global reading of my state from a symbolic and experiential perspective.
I authorize its consultation exclusively for therapeutic purposes, under the supervision of the medical professionals in charge of my case, with each consultation recorded: date, signature, and purpose.
I prohibit any modification, alteration, or destruction of this material without my express, written consent.
Sensitive Archive
This is a sensitive archive. A body. A mind.
A manifesto that emerges from intimacy for those who have been observed, medicated, evaluated, silenced, and yet have chosen not to give up.
Part I — Fragments of a Wound
There is no story without a wound.
Chapter 1 — The Hallways of Silence
Some places are remembered for what wasn't said.
The school hallways were like that for me.
There were screams outside, yes, but what truly hurt was the inner silence.
No one told you it would eventually crack you open.
The Archive That Begins in Childhood
My story is made of accumulations.
Micro-absences.
Small humiliations that were overlooked.
A phrase spoken with disdain by a teacher.
An uncomfortable glance in the locker room.
A question that answered itself with the silence of everyone.
That's where the archive began.
Not the academic one.
The emotional one.
The one I update daily, where each entry says:
You noticed, but you said nothing.
The Words They Hid from Me
They never spoke to me about sensitivity.
Or anxiety.
Or trauma.
I was defined with clinical labels without ever being consulted or truly understood, and they never used words that could hold what I was going through.
They offered corrections, but not understanding.
That's when I began to write.
I started to reinvent terms.
To fill digital folders with words no one would ever read.
Not out of literary ambition.
It was out of urgency.
Because if I didn't write it down, I would break again.
Education, a Grand Lie
I learned to pretend I understood.
To smile with a high grade.
To seem brilliant so no one would suspect I was fragmenting.
Was I a good student? I don't think so. Years later, from the other side, I wasn't a good teacher either.
What had value for me wasn't in the curriculum, because the truth is, the magic of this kind of learning lies in observing without being seen.
In detecting the energy of a space before crossing it.
Everything was fine until, one ordinary day, I collapsed. And in that state, when I couldn't hold myself up, no one knew what to do with me.
That's when I understood that shining is useless if you can't sustain yourself.
That, in that black hole, the archive fills and overflows.
And that it all comes down to treating yourself kindly enough to say:
This is happening to me. And it's okay not to know what it is yet.
A part of me still walks through places where there used to be only noise.
I still tremble when someone says "I love you."
I still keep papers no one asked for.
And I still wish, as I did back then, that someone would listen without asking me to improve first.
If you've felt that too, welcome to the Intervened Memory Archive. You're not alone.
The Day After the Mascletà
It had been a few months since that "train the trainers" course. The title promised something epic, like an international congress of wise pedagogues, but the reality was a series of sessions where endless PowerPoints competed with self-help manual phrases. The only memorable thing from that course was the man with the briefcase and, of course, the group chat they left us as a parting gift.
The group was, in theory, for sharing job opportunities. In practice, it was a parade of absurdities: from someone asking for Excel templates "to look more organized" to a guy who once asked if someone could explain what the word 'empathy' meant.
The gem arrived one day when a woman shared a humanitarian message about the apocalyptic situation in Valencia after a natural disaster. The response was immediate and brutal:
"This group is not for that. We only want job offers."
Job offers? Valencia looked like a post-apocalyptic movie set, but all they cared about was their careers. My blood boiled, so I wrote:
"Incredible. Valencia looks like the set of 'The Day After the Mascletà' and all you care about is 'give me a job, give me a job.' Is this a group of professionals or a casting call for the emotionally numb?"
The message hit like a bomb. No one responded, but I know it reached their screens. The silence was confirmation—the kind of uncomfortable silence where everyone reads but no one dares to reply.
Months later, in the city center, it happened. There he was: the man with the briefcase. During the course, his image was imposing—perfect gray suit, flawless glasses, and his inseparable shiny black briefcase, polished like armor. His voice, slow and deep, promised wisdom, but his words were pure filler. "The key to leadership is to lead," he'd say, with a dramatic pause trying to hide the obviousness.
I recognized him immediately. He saw me too, and his face changed as if he'd just encountered his worst enemy. For a second, our eyes met. I thought about approaching him, maybe a friendly comment or a brief chat, but I didn't have time. His eyes widened like saucers, and without warning, he spun on his heels with the precision of a frightened dancer.
What followed was pure comedy. The man with the briefcase crossed the street quickly, as if trying to dodge a paparazzo. When he reached a bright red car, he tried to crouch behind it, forgetting that the vehicle was so polished it reflected his figure perfectly. It was a surreal scene—the great orator, the man who was supposed to teach us to face discomfort, crouched behind a car, briefcase in hand, as if it could shield him from my gaze.
The scene was too much. I burst into laughter so loud that passersby stared at me, confused, as if I had just heard the best joke in the world. How could this man, who had presented himself as an expert in leadership, flee from me as if he were carrying classified documents on empathy?
And that's when it hit me—the real lesson. For months, I had tried to decipher something useful from that course, and there it was, right in front of me. The teachers who promise magical formulas for life are often the first to trip over their own teachings. The real key wasn't in his empty speeches, but in the ridiculous way he tried to escape.
Because life is full of conflicts and uncomfortable moments. But the great lesson, the only one worth remembering, is that if you ever decide to hide, make sure your briefcase doesn't shine brighter than your fear.
Chapter 2 — The Body as an Archive
I didn't need evidence. My body was the perfect crime scene. It bore no visible scars, but the virus was present: in the tension of my muscles, in the way I sat, in how I stopped breathing when someone raised their voice. In the way my eyes avoided certain corners of the world I lived in, in the sudden activation of all my alarms at the hint of an abandoned memory. In the sudden rash. In the migraine that came for no apparent reason. In the way I crossed my arms as if I lacked warmth, even in summer.
The body was both archive and evidence. A sealed document of symptoms. A silent database. A waiting room with skin intervened by art, and a calendar on the back where every bad day left marks of decay. The body never forgets. It only learns to ignore what once hurt.
The Body as Language
They taught me to use my own body as if it were an object: project confidence, control your posture, don't show fatigue, smile. Make sure your voice doesn't shake. Hide the exhaustion. Dominate the tremor. Be still, like anatomy models.
But the truth is, no one ever explained to me that this body also spoke when I couldn't. No one told me that the body also teaches, that it is a pedagogue unto itself.
"Conscious, cooperative patient, but with labile affect."
(Translation: feels too much, and that makes others uncomfortable.)
I learned to decode myself later. I recognized that rigidity wasn't seriousness. I knew it was defense. That lack of appetite or excessive appetite wasn't self-control. It was undiagnosed anxiety. That an upright posture was sustained fear. That slow walking was resistance to moving where it hurt. That sweaty palms were the most primitive form of protest.
This book
is for you if
- You have felt fragmented, but not broken.
- You know that what remains unnamed insists.
- You understand that silence can also be institutional.
- And you carry unspoken words, incomplete gestures, and unarchived memories.
JOIA. Archive of Intervened Memory
A book for those who document without words and for those who insist on being remembered. A work that does not seek to heal, but to legitimize. That does not seek comfort, but seeks memory.
"I didn't save myself with therapy. I saved myself when I listened to the body as a creator. Like someone who lives in raw flesh. Like someone who documents without words. Like someone who says: I was there, and that's why I tremble now when I can't hold myself up."
JOIA. Archive of Intervened Memory is a book for those who have felt their bodies as silent witnesses to untold stories. For those who know that every scar, every silence, and every tremor is a personal archive, an unsigned manifesto. It is a journey through the tensions that shape us and the cracks that define us.
"The body was both archive and evidence. It bore no visible scars, but the virus was present: in the tension of my muscles, in the way I sat, in how I stopped breathing when someone raised their voice. The body never forgets. It only learns to ignore what once hurt."
JOIA - Intervened Memory Archive
Art to Reveal the Wound
By Joel De las Heras Beán
"I didn't come here to decorate pain with metaphors. I came to return their archive. Because some wounds don't seek healing, but legitimacy. And when the system refuses to record, we write. With our bodies, with voice, with our own memory." — Joel De las Heras Beán, from the margins of the system.
Note to the Reader
I'm not going to promise you anything.
This is a place you come to when you need to stay.
I didn't know I was going to write this either.
I just knew that if I didn't share it, I was going to shatter like glass falling from a seventh floor.
What you're about to read is both body and mind.
It is an emotional archive that once held me together... and I decided to offer it.
If you're here, we share something.
And that is enough.
I, too, have been broken.
And today, if you want, I can accompany you from what broke me.
Prologue - This is not art, but...
For years, I emptied myself into notes, files, tables, memories, unsent letters, portraits no one saw, words that didn't quite fit.
Until one day, I realized all that wasn't chaos.
It was structure.
I discovered that the disorder I was living in had a method.
And that this method, even if it doesn't appear in manuals or diagnostic codes, is mine.
It is legitimate. It is valid. And, though it might not seem so, it is enough.
Medical, Legal, and Social Protection Protocol for Patients
Purpose of the Document
This protocol is intended to guarantee, protect, and formalize the informed will of patients facing clinical admission for mental health, whether voluntary, involuntary, forced, or conditional, and to ensure compliance in line with current legislation. This document holds the equivalent value of an advance directive and includes the following rights:
Full and continuous informed consent.
Free access to legal defense and support persons.
Respect for dignity, physical integrity, and emotional well-being.
Protection against negligence, coercion, or institutional abuse.
A gender, trauma, and human rights perspective in all interventions.
Control over personal data, decisions, and clinical environment.
Prohibition of interventions without valid consent.
Documented record of all clinical actions.
Protection of artistic interventions with therapeutic value.
External supervision and impartial clinical oversight.
Explicit Patient Declarations
A. Legal Guarantees and Defense Rights
I declare that I am in full legal capacity and demand that any procedure respect my procedural rights and decision-making capacity.
I prohibit any modification of my legal status (guardianship, involuntary commitment, incapacitation) without valid judicial procedure, legal defense, independent forensic evaluation, and guarantee of external supervision.
I designate as my valid support figures for complex clinical or legal decisions the following: a designated legal representative or attorney, and a trusted person nominated for such purposes.
I demand written records, with signature and seal, of any medical, legal, or administrative action affecting my freedom, capacity, or integrity.
I request the presence of an external witness (attorney, family member, or designated person) in invasive, coercive, or high-risk procedures, such as sedation or restraint.
In case of altered consciousness due to medical effects, this document remains fully valid as an advance directive.
B. Clinical Protection and Ethical Treatment
All medical interventions must be performed with full, written, and understandable informed consent.
I demand written, detailed information on diagnosis, proposed treatment, available alternatives, foreseeable side effects, and antidotes for adverse reactions.
I request care focused on recovery, not chronicity or excessive pathologization.
I prohibit all forms of physical or pharmacological restraint, except in cases of immediate, documented vital risk.
Any exceptional measure must be recorded, notified to my legal representative, and documented with date, signature, and copy provided upon discharge.
I request comprehensive, multidisciplinary care that includes psychiatry, psychology, general medicine, relevant medical specialties, physical therapies, respiratory care, and a holistic approach.
I request a detailed, calendar-based post-discharge plan focused on my functional, emotional, and social recovery.
C. Institutional Protection and Social Rights
I request immediate access to a social worker and my Individualized Care Plan.
I demand daily visits from family members and designated persons, with the right to continuous communication.
I demand private, uncensored communication with my attorney and emotional contacts.
I prohibit any retaliation, treatment alteration, or restriction of rights derived from this document.
I prohibit the dissemination of my clinical information without my express, written consent.
I request respectful attention to my cultural, social, spiritual, and linguistic identity.
I request ethical validation of this document by the Institutional Ethics Committee and its binding attachment to my clinical history.
D. Artistic Intervention and Therapeutic Value
I enter this medical facility with complementary documentation and artistic material of therapeutic value, intended to facilitate a holistic understanding of my condition.
Its function is to allow a global reading of my state from a symbolic and experiential perspective.
I authorize its consultation exclusively for therapeutic purposes, under the supervision of the medical professionals in charge of my case, with each consultation recorded: date, signature, and purpose.
I prohibit any modification, alteration, or destruction of this material without my express, written consent.
Sensitive Archive
This is a sensitive archive. A body. A mind.
A manifesto that emerges from intimacy for those who have been observed, medicated, evaluated, silenced, and yet have chosen not to give up.
Part I — Fragments of a Wound
There is no story without a wound.
Chapter 1 — The Hallways of Silence
Some places are remembered for what wasn't said.
The school hallways were like that for me.
There were screams outside, yes, but what truly hurt was the inner silence.
No one told you it would eventually crack you open.
The Archive That Begins in Childhood
My story is made of accumulations.
Micro-absences.
Small humiliations that were overlooked.
A phrase spoken with disdain by a teacher.
An uncomfortable glance in the locker room.
A question that answered itself with the silence of everyone.
That's where the archive began.
Not the academic one.
The emotional one.
The one I update daily, where each entry says:
You noticed, but you said nothing.
The Words They Hid from Me
They never spoke to me about sensitivity.
Or anxiety.
Or trauma.
I was defined with clinical labels without ever being consulted or truly understood, and they never used words that could hold what I was going through.
They offered corrections, but not understanding.
That's when I began to write.
I started to reinvent terms.
To fill digital folders with words no one would ever read.
Not out of literary ambition.
It was out of urgency.
Because if I didn't write it down, I would break again.
Education, a Grand Lie
I learned to pretend I understood.
To smile with a high grade.
To seem brilliant so no one would suspect I was fragmenting.
Was I a good student? I don't think so. Years later, from the other side, I wasn't a good teacher either.
What had value for me wasn't in the curriculum, because the truth is, the magic of this kind of learning lies in observing without being seen.
In detecting the energy of a space before crossing it.
Everything was fine until, one ordinary day, I collapsed. And in that state, when I couldn't hold myself up, no one knew what to do with me.
That's when I understood that shining is useless if you can't sustain yourself.
That, in that black hole, the archive fills and overflows.
And that it all comes down to treating yourself kindly enough to say:
This is happening to me. And it's okay not to know what it is yet.
A part of me still walks through places where there used to be only noise.
I still tremble when someone says "I love you."
I still keep papers no one asked for.
And I still wish, as I did back then, that someone would listen without asking me to improve first.
If you've felt that too, welcome to the Intervened Memory Archive. You're not alone.
The Day After the Mascletà
It had been a few months since that "train the trainers" course. The title promised something epic, like an international congress of wise pedagogues, but the reality was a series of sessions where endless PowerPoints competed with self-help manual phrases. The only memorable thing from that course was the man with the briefcase and, of course, the group chat they left us as a parting gift.
The group was, in theory, for sharing job opportunities. In practice, it was a parade of absurdities: from someone asking for Excel templates "to look more organized" to a guy who once asked if someone could explain what the word 'empathy' meant.
The gem arrived one day when a woman shared a humanitarian message about the apocalyptic situation in Valencia after a natural disaster. The response was immediate and brutal:
"This group is not for that. We only want job offers."
Job offers? Valencia looked like a post-apocalyptic movie set, but all they cared about was their careers. My blood boiled, so I wrote:
"Incredible. Valencia looks like the set of 'The Day After the Mascletà' and all you care about is 'give me a job, give me a job.' Is this a group of professionals or a casting call for the emotionally numb?"
The message hit like a bomb. No one responded, but I know it reached their screens. The silence was confirmation—the kind of uncomfortable silence where everyone reads but no one dares to reply.
Months later, in the city center, it happened. There he was: the man with the briefcase. During the course, his image was imposing—perfect gray suit, flawless glasses, and his inseparable shiny black briefcase, polished like armor. His voice, slow and deep, promised wisdom, but his words were pure filler. "The key to leadership is to lead," he'd say, with a dramatic pause trying to hide the obviousness.
I recognized him immediately. He saw me too, and his face changed as if he'd just encountered his worst enemy. For a second, our eyes met. I thought about approaching him, maybe a friendly comment or a brief chat, but I didn't have time. His eyes widened like saucers, and without warning, he spun on his heels with the precision of a frightened dancer.
What followed was pure comedy. The man with the briefcase crossed the street quickly, as if trying to dodge a paparazzo. When he reached a bright red car, he tried to crouch behind it, forgetting that the vehicle was so polished it reflected his figure perfectly. It was a surreal scene—the great orator, the man who was supposed to teach us to face discomfort, crouched behind a car, briefcase in hand, as if it could shield him from my gaze.
The scene was too much. I burst into laughter so loud that passersby stared at me, confused, as if I had just heard the best joke in the world. How could this man, who had presented himself as an expert in leadership, flee from me as if he were carrying classified documents on empathy?
And that's when it hit me—the real lesson. For months, I had tried to decipher something useful from that course, and there it was, right in front of me. The teachers who promise magical formulas for life are often the first to trip over their own teachings. The real key wasn't in his empty speeches, but in the ridiculous way he tried to escape.
Because life is full of conflicts and uncomfortable moments. But the great lesson, the only one worth remembering, is that if you ever decide to hide, make sure your briefcase doesn't shine brighter than your fear.
Chapter 2 — The Body as an Archive
I didn't need evidence. My body was the perfect crime scene. It bore no visible scars, but the virus was present: in the tension of my muscles, in the way I sat, in how I stopped breathing when someone raised their voice. In the way my eyes avoided certain corners of the world I lived in, in the sudden activation of all my alarms at the hint of an abandoned memory. In the sudden rash. In the migraine that came for no apparent reason. In the way I crossed my arms as if I lacked warmth, even in summer.
The body was both archive and evidence. A sealed document of symptoms. A silent database. A waiting room with skin intervened by art, and a calendar on the back where every bad day left marks of decay. The body never forgets. It only learns to ignore what once hurt.
The Body as Language
They taught me to use my own body as if it were an object: project confidence, control your posture, don't show fatigue, smile. Make sure your voice doesn't shake. Hide the exhaustion. Dominate the tremor. Be still, like anatomy models.
But the truth is, no one ever explained to me that this body also spoke when I couldn't. No one told me that the body also teaches, that it is a pedagogue unto itself.
"Conscious, cooperative patient, but with labile affect."
(Translation: feels too much, and that makes others uncomfortable.)
I learned to decode myself later. I recognized that rigidity wasn't seriousness. I knew it was defense. That lack of appetite or excessive appetite wasn't self-control. It was undiagnosed anxiety. That an upright posture was sustained fear. That slow walking was resistance to moving where it hurt. That sweaty palms were the most primitive form of protest.
This book
is for you if
- You have felt fragmented, but not broken.
- You know that what remains unnamed insists.
- You understand that silence can also be institutional.
- And you carry unspoken words, incomplete gestures, and unarchived memories.
This website collects no data, stores no cookies, and tracks no behavior. It exists solely as a space for free expression, memory, and poetic justice — free from ads, algorithms, or commercial intent. What you read here is not a product, but a counter-document: a testimony against institutional neglect, a space where stories erased by the system reclaim their voice. All content is protected by the right to freedom of expression and artistic creation under national and European law. The system erases. We archive.
This website collects no data, stores no cookies, and tracks no behavior. It exists solely as a space for free expression, memory, and poetic justice — free from ads, algorithms, or commercial intent. What you read here is not a product, but a counter-document: a testimony against institutional neglect, a space where stories erased by the system reclaim their voice. All content is protected by the right to freedom of expression and artistic creation under national and European law. The system erases. We archive.