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Knock On The Door

I never anticipated the depth of pain nestled in my heart and the weight of truth left undigested in my gut. My fingers, relentless in their ache, seemed determined to type on indefinitely. Medication may quiet illusions and murmurs, while therapy offers a listening ear, yet my therapist himself confessed to the outdated nature of many practices. The truth, however, refuses to be subdued by pills or sessions. It stands immutable, even in the absence of evidence, for I am the witness to my suffering. No force is mightier than my voice, no eyes more truthful than mine.

For 13 long years, I dwelled in the wilderness, where no visitors knocked on the door to my house, even in the depths of despair. Alone, I confronted an unseen force each night, summoning every ounce of strength within me. The rare visit from my parents brought fleeting moments of solace, yet I couldn't bear to witness their agony as they beheld the slow fragmentation of my mind. Their helplessness only served to diminish my resolve.

When I reached out via email to those I believed I could rely on, I harbored no expectations, yet I was unprepared for their lack of sensitivity. The feminists and MeToo survivors, who often advocate for empathy, promptly blocked my messages. While some men expressed sympathy superficially, beneath the surface, their concern seemed fleeting. It wasn't that I sought attention; I was grappling with understanding my painful situation. However, looking back, it's clear they could have extended a simple reply or a phone call, if only for old times' sake or basic humanity. It dawned on me how much they wanted to distance themselves from me. Slowly, I removed myself from a narrative I mistakenly believed we shared—a narrative of mutual support. It was an illusion that required medication to confront—the illusion of support.

Unable to bear my growing sadness, my mother reached out for help in the US. A person responded, but when I attempted to discuss the cyber attack that had profoundly impacted my life, it was dismissed as an everyday occurrence without recognizing its depth. Instead, the focus shifted to making the person visit our home with egoistic intentions. It wasn't until I visited them first that others followed suit. Their one-day visit seemed more about showcasing their concern to the world than genuinely understanding my plight. It became evident that their gestures were superficial, merely designed to impress by taking people to fancy hotels.

When my mother requested the assistance of a close member to spend a week with me, aiding in my recovery, the request was turned down, forgetting the good times I shared with them at their house. We were advised to seek help from our own family members instead. Another individual labeled me disrespectful based on their unfounded imagination of me not opening the door, showcasing their need for desperate attention, not me. These were like mad elephants running amok, causing harm to everyone in their path.

As my mother's visit came to an end, I felt myself collapsing, shattered into countless pieces. It was as if every part of me had been broken. Around 3 am that night, there came a knock on the door. A compassionate neighbor, unable to ignore my sobs echoing through the night, had called the police. With their torchlight cutting through the darkness, the officers entered the room and found me huddled in a corner, tears streaming down my face, my body trembling uncontrollably. I resembled an abandoned infant left in a dumpster—utterly vulnerable and frail.

Every aspect of me seemed feeble; my voice quivered, and my body shook with fear. That night, despite being in the solitude of my own home, I felt like a homeless person. I struggled to articulate the depth of my pain, and the officers, unable to discern the root of my distress, left me as they found me, with only a cursory check to ensure I was physically unharmed. It was a fleeting gesture of primary consideration, yet in that moment, it meant everything.

For what felt like days—though the exact duration escapes my memory—I remained in that state of homelessness within the walls of my own home. The faint sound of "Walking Dead" music echoed through the empty corridors, serving as a haunting soundtrack to my shattered existence.

I wandered along the streets, oblivious to my surroundings, feeling like a homeless soul lost in a world of uncertainty. Sobbing uncontrollably, I moved through the world in a state of frailty. In those moments of despair, I gained a newfound understanding of the plight endured by those without a home. I realized that one doesn't necessarily need drugs to comprehend one's struggles; isolation, a sense of apathy, and a succession of harrowing, unexplainable experiences are enough to evoke empathy.

Reflecting on my experience now, with a semblance of clarity, it boils down to a simple yet profound desire if you were to inquire about my expectations from others during that tumultuous time. All I longed to hear was a message of essential courage: "Hang in there. You are not alone."

Despite my years spent with them, I failed to heed the warnings of the impending storm, as they often labeled me as sensitive. Now, I am determined to shatter their illusions and reveal that I am not sensitive, but instead they must confront their insensitivity by learning my truth.

Next time you see a sobbing homeless person, remember - You cannot purchase people with money. Sexuality does not diminish people's worth. Substances do not define people. I learned this the hard way without sex, drugs and money. 

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