I was physically and mentally drained—exhausted—yet I was finally home.

Today, I quit my job as a sales assistant. I blocked everyone I knew, even family members.

I laid on my bed, full of anger and pain. I hated how my brain never went silent, how my limbs always felt weak and numb, how my eyes looked so lifeless. How my posture slumped. How I always told myself this feeling was just temporary—though it had been ten years since the symptoms started, and every day, it only got worse.

The worst part was that no one knew. I hid it really well.

Lately, all I wanted to do was escape my own skin or scream until my lungs exploded. People around me began to notice. I didn't smile as much. I was rude, impatient. I got lazy. And I lost the one feeling that had kept me together: stress.

I had despised stress ever since I was a kid, believing it had ruined my life. But now that I'd lost it, I realized: it was what made me care about things. Without it, I wouldn’t have forced myself to study for a better future, to be better in case people thought I wasn’t good enough, to worry about tomorrow.

Now, I didn’t have that anymore.

But at least I didn’t have to fake a smile. Fake a laugh. Fake caring or showing up.