Symptoms Include

I’ve been hit by something—some insidious virus or infection—something that’s crept in my brain like a dense fog. It started on a Monday, December 13th. The fog rolled in, slowing normal thought, followed by a headache that felt like my brain was being smashed through my skull. Nausea, just enough to kill my appetite.

The day seemed to drag on, each minute stretching like taffy. My body felt like cold syrup, my feet cemented to the floor, each step was an exhausted effort. Sounds warped and twisted around me, buzzing in and out like a swarm of angry bees, my hearing funneled into a narrow tunnel.

But those eerie sensations were just the beginning. Sleep has become elusive, a three-day torment. I lie there, eyes wide open, my mind a runaway train hurtling through chaos: real-life anxieties, fragmented memories, TV episodes that never made sense, dark questions about crimes long past. Thoughts so bizarre they’re almost laughable, if only I cared to laugh. But I don’t. It’s madness, pure and simple.

The lack of sleep chews at my sanity, a vicious cycle that tightens its grip with each passing hour. My thoughts spiral into madness, feeding a growing anxiety that knots my muscles, especially around my neck.

Even the usual escape—masturbation—offers no relief. The release is hollow, the tension remains, mocking me. It’s as if the universe conspires against me, pushing me further into paranoia and lunacy.

The face in the mirror looks familiar, but something is undeniably off. The eyes staring back are mine, yet they aren't. They're haunted, as if belonging to a stranger who's seen too much. My face is sunken, frail, as if life itself has been siphoned away, leaving only a ghostly shell.

Electric pulses flash at the corners of my vision, a strobe of unsettling energy. Am I this? Are you me? The questions ring in my mind, each one I speak then hear again. What has happened to me?

The room around me feels distorted, as if the person within the glass is aware of something I am not. A crawling sensation that something is terribly, inexplicably wrong.

The questions swirl again—am I this? Are you me? I feel the boundaries of my mind stretching, fraying, as if reality itself is unraveling. I am lost in a maze of reflections of a twisted version of myself. The face in the mirror is mine, but it isn't. And as I stand there, trembling, I can't shake the feeling that something has slipped away, something vital has been lost.

This can't be made to last, is this something passing? Who am I asking? The answers elude me, slipping like sand through weary fingers. Just days ago, life seemed untouched by turmoil, yet now those days feel like an eternity away, lost in the haze of memory.

No issues, that was a lie told to myself. My life, unraveling, a slow descent into some hopeless abyss. Walking away from lucrative opportunities, from the goddamn money piled higher than I ever thought possible, and for what? This flu-induced delirium can't shoulder all the fucking blame. For a year, I've felt the pull, the downward spiral into depression.

In this sickness, in this disgusting hopeless mire, a spark begins to flicker. Once you’re beat down, there is nothing that can bring you down any lower, the only place to look is up. A desire, begins to stir within. In the depths of depression, a passion ignites, a flame born from the heart's darkest days.

The hardest lesson I've learned is the need to press on, even when there is nothing left inside or no place to go.

This truth is simple. Life doesn’t pause for sadness, sickness, or unraveling spirits. It moves—unabashed, unapologetic—demanding our movement. There’s no time to stop, no pause for repair, no stillness to gently piece ourselves together. The world doesn’t wait, even when we need it to.

No one prepares us for this. As children, we grow up on stories of happy endings and triumph, where everything falls into place. But adulthood strips away those comforting stories, revealing a harsh truth: survival isn’t glamorous. It’s wearing a mask of strength while falling apart inside. It’s showing up when you want to retreat. It’s moving forward, step by painful step, when your heart begs for rest.

And still, we endure. That’s the miracle of being human—we endure. In the depths of pain, we find strength we didn’t know we had. We learn to hold space for ourselves, to be the comfort we crave, to whisper hope when no one else will. Over time, we realize resilience isn’t loud; it’s quiet defiance, a refusal to be crushed by life's weight.

Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s exhausting. And yes, some days it feels almost impossible to step forward. But even then, we do. Each tiny step is proof of our resilience, a reminder that in our darkest moments, we’re still fighting, still refusing to give up. That fight—that courage—is the quiet miracle of survival.