My Life is a Daily Calibration

Memior

In the kaleidoscope of my mind, a fragmented tableau unfolds, not pretending to map the byzantine corridors of human psychology but only to offer a few snapshots. In the panorama of my youth, shadows of emotional stagnancy loom large, punctuated by an ineffable sense of powerlessness. A certain magnetism pulls to document the freefall, my plunge into the depths of unabated neurosis, a chasm teetering dangerously close to oblivion.

The obsessive-compulsive disorder tethered me was not just a collection of symptoms; it was a white noise drowning out every autonomous impulse, leaving me in a vacuum of anxiety. Likewise, depression didn’t just darken my days; it swallowed them whole. Anorexia and bulimia were not diet choices; they were the contorted dialect of my emotional famine.

Yet, it’s not a story of utter ruination. Every day now is a testament to an uneasy peace, a fragile equilibrium achieved through hard-won insights. Living well becomes less an aspiration and more a daily practice, a liturgy of small acts that defy the gravity of my past.

I’ve not so much recovered from the psychic scarring of my formative years as I learned how to navigate with the wounds. I’ve recaptured a measure of self-respect and achieved a semblance of self-sufficiency.
In the recesses of my mind, a child still meanders through a labyrinth, occasionally tripping over shards of broken dreams, stumbling but persevering in the quest for a clearing, a space untouched by the chaos of existence. The…