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The Illusion of Stability

From February 13th to February 17th, I felt normal. Stable. Five whole days of something that almost resembled peace.

For a brief moment, I let myself believe it. That the new pill had finally kicked in, that maybe—just maybe—this time, things would be different.

But the night of February 17th shattered that illusion.

I felt it slipping away—the normal version of me fading like a mirage, dissolving into something darker. And I could do nothing but watch as I spiraled, deeper and deeper, back into the pit I thought I had finally escaped.

I tried reaching out. Called someone. No answer. Tried again. Still nothing.

I was alone.

Work was done for the day. I had nothing to keep my mind occupied. I tried watching Marvel movies—the ones I used to love—but they felt distant, meaningless. My thoughts were racing. A crushing anxiety wrapped around my chest, and I felt like my head was going to explode.

Panic took over.

I picked up the blade again. A few more cuts and an emoji on my right wrist—some twisted attempt at humor, or maybe a desperate plea. As the blood traced patterns on the floor, a momentary release washed over me.

I turned off every light, stripped off my clothes, and buried myself under the blanket.

And tears started rolling down my cheeks, silently. I cried for what felt like ages.

Everything is falling apart. Again. And I have no way of stopping it. I thought I had gained some control. But I was wrong. I am back to square one.

You are beyond repair. The scars on my skin whisper to me.

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