She felt her head was about to explode, as if a thousand tiny needles were pressing from the inside of her skull towards the outside. The pain pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, a dull and constant beat that clouded her thoughts. She knew, with that clarity that sometimes makes everything even more unbearable, that it wasn't a real pain. It was just her body translating into physical sensations what her mind could no longer contain. But this awareness, instead of bringing relief, only added another layer of frustration to her suffering.

She moaned softly, an almost imperceptible sound in the silence of the room. Her fingers mechanically massaged her forehead in small circles, an automatic gesture as futile as it was. She curled up on the bed, knees tight to her chest, like when she was a child trying to protect herself from imaginary monsters. Except now the monsters were inside her head, and there was no blanket that could keep them away.

Through squinted eyelids, she still perceived the light filtering through the curtains - thin golden blades cutting through the darkness of the room. She had thought there was no need to close the curtains completely on that gray and lifeless day. Now every ray was like an arrow in her eyes. The irony was not lost on her: she had tried to escape the day's grayness, and now that small amount of light she had allowed in was tormenting her.

Thoughts tumbled in her mind like waves during a storm, each trying to overwhelm the other. It was paralyzing. She couldn't think - or perhaps she was thinking too much, a paradox that only those who have experienced anxiety can fully understand. It was like being simultaneously empty and too full, motionless while everything whirls around.

But it wasn't entirely honest to say she couldn't think. The truth, more bitter and harder to admit, was that she didn't want to. Because she knew, with that same painful clarity as before, that if she gave space to her thoughts, if she allowed them to take definite shape instead of letting them swirl like fog, she would see only the negative. As if her mind were a darkened lens, capable of focusing only on shadows and never on light.

She curled even tighter into herself, as the afternoon slowly advanced towards evening, and the shadows in the room stretched like dark fingers on the walls. The headache continued to pulse, a metronome marking the time of her personal symphony of malaise.

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She had a vivid memory of fingers stuck in her throat to try to get rid of the inner pain, the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.

A small, disoriented internal thought suggested what to do in such situations: contact her doctors or find the strength to get out of bed, as being immersed in her own pain was not beneficial.

However, there was also another part that made her realize that she needed the pain and that without her illness she would have nothing.

She was so used to feeling sick that she feared finding out who she really was.

In a way, it was comforting to have that feeling. Spending much of your life immersed in this sickness, at the young age of twenty-six, you begin to believe that you are the sickness. It is normal to constantly feel hopeless and that you are already like this.

Waking up every day and feeling better can be scary, especially when you have to confront your identity once the pain is gone.

A tear slipped from his eyes onto his cheeks, leaving two traces of warmth on his cold skin that caused a slight ache and welcomed it as another little pain.

She felt the urge to hide under the blankets to protect herself from the cold she felt seeping into her bones; for a moment she resisted the urge to enjoy her own sadness, but then something in her cried out. It was a feeling difficult to interpret, but clear enough for her to realize that she was not yet completely ready to let go.

She clumsily wrapped herself in the blankets, and her small tremors and labored breathing from crying seemed to subside.

Sometimes you don't notice how small gestures can make you feel a little better, just the comforting weight of the blankets and the warmth they gave off made her feel a little more herself. She pushed her face, the only part of her left uncovered, against the pillow to (smother) herself to keep warm.

She thought she could fall asleep this way.

She also thought of a blade pressed against her own neck, her grip firm, sure of what she was about to do.

A part of her almost salivated at the idea of the blessed oblivion it would bring.

But she did not get up, did not go to the kitchen, and did not grab any knife; she remained motionless in the on the bed as she slowly slipped into sleep and thought:

“When I wake up, if I am lucid enough, I will call the doctors.”

Perhaps, despite everything, there was still a part of her fighting to survive.