The air in my room was stale, a mix of unopened windows and unsaid words. The walls, once painted a cheerful yellow, now seemed dull, as if they had absorbed all the sorrow I carried. I was 18, but I felt older—like the weight of my past had aged me in ways that weren’t visible to others.

I stared at the ceiling, my heart racing from the panic attack I’d just barely managed to suppress. Another day, another battle no one saw. My family tiptoed around me, pretending everything was fine, but it wasn’t. The scars on my arms were proof of the war I fought with myself—silent, invisible to those who didn’t want to look.

School was no better. The pressure to succeed loomed over me like a thundercloud, but I couldn’t summon the energy to care. My grades were slipping, and every glance from a teacher or a classmate felt like a dagger. I wanted to scream, to tell them I was drowning, but instead, I just smiled. It was easier that way—easier to let them believe I was okay.

The nights were the worst. Memories of the past clawed their way into my mind. The betrayal of people I trusted, the words they used as weapons, the way their laughter echoed even in my dreams. I hated them, but I hated myself more for letting their voices take root inside me.

I found solace in the wrong places. Sharp objects became my companions, their pain a twisted relief from the chaos in my mind. For a few moments, I felt in control, as if I could bleed out the poison inside me. But the relief was fleeting, and the shame that followed was suffocating.

Anxiety was my constant shadow. Every step, every word, every glance felt like a test I was bound to fail. I couldn’t escape it, couldn’t quiet the voice in my head that told me I wasn’t enough, that I would never be enough.

Then there was the pressure—pressure to heal, to move on, to “get over it.” People didn’t understand that healing wasn’t linear, that some days I could barely breathe, let alone pretend to be normal. Their well-meaning advice felt like judgment, their encouragement a reminder of how far I was from where I was supposed to be.

But despite it all, there was a flicker of hope. A small, fragile part of me that wanted to believe life could be different. I didn’t know how to reach it, but I held onto it anyway, like a lifeline in the storm.

"My toxic life," I called it—a life where pain was the default, and joy felt like an illusion. But maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to rewrite my story. Maybe the toxicity wasn’t permanent. Maybe I could learn to breathe again.

The thought was terrifying, but it was also enough to make me get out of bed, open the window, and let the fresh air in.