There is a two-storey building inside my head.  However, you can only visit the top floor by climbing the staircase. The first sight that greets you is the blinding light followed by deafening silence. You’re not allowed to wear shoes inside. You’re not allowed to stain the white. You walk inside and stand in a corner. You stand until your legs give out. Then you sit and stare at the white walls that surround you. You stare and you find a doctor looking at a person laid down on the table. Ah yes, the person does look a lot like me, so does the person on the table. The board behind the doctor is a mess. It looks awfully similar to the Pepe Silvia meme (the man in front of the whiteboard), tangled in red wires, one thing pointing to another.

“It’s me, Mario,” I yell. I expected to hear a gust of laughter but yet again, you and I are greeted with silence as you stare at me in muted horror.

I’ve always heard the saying, “Your body is a temple” and nothing has resonated with me as much as this saying has. My body is a temple and I am in charge of inspecting every nook and corner to make sense of the reason why the cracks that are appearing inside of me hurt so much.

“What’s beneath this floor?” you ask, trying to change the subject.  I don’t know how to tell you.  Imagine millions of SpongeBobs trying to work but the entire place is on fire. You’re on fire. You’re Spongebob now. It’s hot, isn’t it? I know you can hear a child crying. Ignore it. Your skin is melting. Your hands… Your hands. Come sit, lay down. Fall back. It’s loud, isn’t it?

“Why?” you ask as you become one with the floor, your skin all over the floor.

I answer, “Welcome to absolute despair. We hope you have a miserable time here!”

This house has been my prison and my home sweet home for as long as I can remember. I’ve spent most of my life inside the second floor in radio silence. And it’s only been quite some time since I’ve managed to get on the first floor.  AHA! Victory has never tasted so bitter and sour. Hell might be hot but the first floor of my house is an Instagram baddie.

My personal review of the experience of my time spent inside the first floor? I give it a 10/10. The sadness was packed with flavor. The numbness? Immaculate. The chest pains, the phantom weight on my shoulders that often accompanied sadness? An experience that would make you never want to go to a spa again. Why would you, when you have it all right here!

“Are you still inside this house?” you ask, lying in the puddle of your own goo. Well, I technically am. It’s just that right now the house is inside a ball. You gasp as you’re teleported to a sandbox. “A sandbox?” you question. Ah yes, DING DING DING!!!  It’s yet another metaphor!

“Why are we staring at the ball?” you wonder aloud.

“The house,” I mumble. The house is inside the ball. My vulnerability, my emotions, my memories are inside the house that’s inside the ball. I am watching it with you because I cannot get inside. I don’t know how to. After therapy, I’ve been kicked out of my house and the sand keeps slipping out of my fingers. All I have left is this stupid ball that stares back at me and I’m staring at it in hopes of returning home. But it seems home has slammed its door shut in my face. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or if the ball is yet another prison that I will have to escape from.

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