I wasn't always a guide. There were seasons when I wandered through the "Upside Down" without a torch, convinced that the shadows surrounding me were the only reality left.
It started quietly. A stray thought here, a flicker of worry there. But gradually, the background hum grew into a deafening roar that I couldn't switch off. I felt like a character in a play, controlled by an unseen director. I fought my own mind, trying to suppress those thoughts—to lock them away and throw away the key.
But the harder you fight the monster, the more you feed it.
The shift didn't happen when I "fixed" everything. It happened when I stopped being afraid of the fog. One day, I decided to stop running. I sat down in the darkness and said: "Right then. I’m here. What is it you’re trying to tell me?"
I discovered that behind the terrifying noise, there is a profound silence. And in that silence, I found myself. I don't share this to boast; I share it because I know how much it hurts out there in the cold.
I am not a psychiatrist in a clinical white coat, judging you based on a textbook. I am someone who knows the terrain. I have a map of the minefield because I have stepped on the mines myself.
If you feel like you're being a "bother" or that no one could possibly understand, let’s change that narrative. My radio is on, and I'm listening.
Are you ready to find your way back?