Six years have passed since I entered that room of darkness, struggling to survive in any way I could. It was six years ago when I was diagnosed with a mental health illness, forced into that room against my will. My life, messed up since I was a little girl, makes me wonder when this will all end. I was in fourth grade when I first experienced being hurt by my own father—physically, emotionally, and mentally. I fought to stay alive from a young age, but everything changed with the repeated experiences of pain, until my body gave up. I became numb, perhaps accustomed to it. I went to school with wounds visible on my body, bruises, and scars on my face. It was during that time that I felt pity for myself, seeing others cry in front of me. Other people, especially my own teacher, cried and pitied me. I saw how she shed tears for me. She was the first person to ask for my forgiveness, even though she hadn't done anything wrong to me. She asked for forgiveness because of what my own parents did to me—the apology that I had never heard from them. But even if they never ask for forgiveness from me, I will still forgive them. However, the pain, wounds, and words they inflicted will never leave my mind and body because I will carry them until I die.

The scenarios continued until I grew up and gained my own thoughts and decisions in life. I never experienced living like other children I saw outside our house. I never experienced running, playing tag, climbing trees, swimming in a stream, or making friends because I was always confined inside our house, in my own room. I wanted to study like other kids, to go to school, but since my father found out what happened at school and how people pitied me, they never allowed me to go out. 

I have brothers, and I'm the youngest among us siblings, yet I'm the one disliked by my own parents. Nevertheless, I've never felt anger or thought I should be angry with them. I strive to understand them despite the pain. I clean the wounds and bruises I see all over my body myself. Blood, blood, blood—that's what I always see, no matter how dark it gets; that red fluid flowing from my own body is all I can see. Sometimes I laugh alone while crying. It may sound strange, but that's been my reality then and continues to be now. 

The things that happened to me, I tried to forget them to move forward, and yes, I managed to overcome them. But now, it seems like I'm reverting to my past. I don't know why, but I feel the scenarios from back then even more intensely now. I find myself crying in front of the mirror or waking up in the early hours crying. I admit I'm always tired because of academic pressures, but I never expected the traumas from my past life to come back. I tried to forget everything because I didn't want it to affect what I have now, but I can't. Every day, I struggle with all the pain. Honestly, I'm finding it really difficult to figure out how to get through everything. Since being diagnosed with a mental health illness, I've been attending therapy sessions and seeking treatment monthly, but it feels like there's still no progress because everything keeps coming back.

**PS: This is a real-life experience.**

I try to be okay every day. I smile even when I'm hurting, laugh even when I'm in pain, and face other people as if I have no problems. Yes, it may seem like pretending, but I have to. This facade helps me navigate through each day. I may not be okay right now, but I'm actively working towards healing and finding peace.