In the darkness, as I lay on the bed, tears streaming down my face, the weight of my story pressed against me like a suffocating fog. Writing it all down had been like tearing open wounds I didn't even realize were still festering. Each word was a scalpel, slicing through layers of denial and numbness, exposing truths I had buried so deeply that they felt foreign when laid bare. The patterns—the pain—were all there, staring back at me like grotesque shadows I could no longer ignore. I had...