Hey, how are you? Are you content with the hardships you've put me through? What on earth have you subjected your body to?

Let me delve deeper into the whirlwind that followed that fateful day when you seemed to vanish, leaving behind a mere shadow of yourself. What emerged wasn’t 'you' anymore; it was a twisted version, a reflection distorted by circumstances, unrecognizable even to yourself. And if you're wondering when this transformation began, I'll lay it bare, even if it means baring my soul to the world through this letter or these pages.

Let’s retrace the steps leading to the pivotal moment, inching closer to the incident.

The seeds of my transformation were sown during those early school years, but back then, I couldn’t decipher the storm brewing within me. I attempted to encapsulate my thoughts in a diary, yet years later, the only legible word was "pain." I vividly remember the relentless mental agony—not physical pain, but a relentless emotional strain that gripped me daily.

The shift became palpable in the third year when academic pressure intensified, and teachers nitpicked at trivialities that seemed inconsequential to others but weighed heavily upon me. During this period, I yearned to find my place in the world, to belong, without truly understanding what that meant. I was a novice to this existence, grasping at intangible definitions of self. Each time I found joy, the stringent regulations of school snuffed it out, and in my bid to please others, I lost the essence of who I was.

Between the 2nd and 5th grades, during my time in Bulgaria, a sense of disorientation consumed me like a relentless tide. It wasn't just a feeling; it was a haunting realization that something fundamental was amiss. I'd sit in classrooms, staring blankly at the lessons, my mind a tempest of confusion and frustration.

The distress stemmed not just from an inability to retain information, but the relentless cycle of repeating mistakes, a perpetual loop of stumbling through the same pitfalls. Every falter felt like a chasm widening beneath me, threatening to swallow any hope of academic progress.

I sought help, silently pleading for guidance through my struggles. But my attempts were lost in the sea of students vying for attention, drowned out by the bustling classroom atmosphere. As desperation clawed at my soul, I resorted to extreme measures in a frantic bid for recognition. It was a plea, a scream veiled in actions, a way to break through the deafening silence that surrounded my plight.

The need for a tutor wasn't merely an academic requirement; it was a lifeline I clutched onto in the storm. I yearned for someone to look beyond the facade, to see the tangled mess within me. Yes, it got that serious. It wasn't just about academic success; it was about salvaging a sense of self-worth from the wreckage of my academic struggles. Each failure etched deeper scars, each moment of being misunderstood adding weight to an already burdened soul.

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That’s when the dissonance started creeping in. I'm hazy on the details, for in fleeting moments, I sensed fragments of 'me' lingering. It was like someone hijacked my body and soul, dictating my every move, emotion, and word. I began documenting every twist and turn, grappling with the idea that it might be Dissociative Identity Disorder or some variant. But back then, clarity eluded me; I merely lived with the fear of losing my sanity. Despite the turmoil, my parents remained oblivious, fixing minor errors as if they defined my existence. At times, 'I' wasn't even aware of making those mistakes.

It reached a breaking point where friendships crumbled, and I fell in with the wrong crowd. That’s when teachers and my parents pushed me into school therapy, not to address my turmoil but to coach me on presenting a façade to the world. I felt demeaned, unable to voice my emotions. Worse still, I had no one to confide in. Growing up in a household where mental health concerns were dismissed meant that admitting to depression was met with disbelief. Any attempt at openness was met with skepticism and denial.

Losing my best friend was a blow that shattered me. It wasn’t just losing someone I laughed with or confided in; it was like losing a piece of my own soul. Every memory echoed with their absence, leaving a deafening silence suffocating me. I withdrew into a cocoon of pain, shutting out the world that seemed so indifferent to my turmoil.

The ache of losing them physically was unbearable, but the emotional void was even more excruciating. They were the ones I ran to with my dreams, fears, and insecurities. Losing that safe harbor left me adrift in a sea of confusion and loneliness.

I remember those nights, lying awake, tears tracing silent paths down my cheeks, suffocating sobs escaping into my pillow. Anguish clawed at my chest, an overwhelming weight that made it hard to breathe. And in those moments, I wanted to scream, to demand answers from a universe that felt relentlessly cruel.

But what hurt more was the absence of parental guidance. It wasn’t just the loss of a friend; it was navigating this heartache alone. How could I find my way through this emotional labyrinth when the ones meant to guide me were oblivious to the storm raging within? My attempts to articulate the pain were met with dismissive glances and empty assurances that it would pass. But how could they understand when they never truly listened? Their inability to grasp the depth of my despair felt like an additional betrayal.

Anger simmered within me, a volatile mixture of grief and frustration. I lashed out at my parents not because I wanted to hurt them but because I needed them to see, to feel, to acknowledge the hurricane tearing me apart. It was a cry for help masked in the cloak of anger, a desperate plea for someone to understand the storm raging inside me.

In those moments of emotional chaos, I felt stranded, lost in a world that seemed indifferent to my pain. And amidst it all, I struggled to find a way to piece myself together, to reclaim parts of me that felt irretrievably lost.