PERFORMING BEING HUMAN
You don't lose your mind all at once. It leaves in pieces—a Tuesday where colors feel wrong, a Thursday where your own thoughts sound like a stranger's voice, a Sunday where you realize you've been holding your breath for three years.
The worst part isn't the falling. It's the clarity. Being smart enough to name what's happening, articulate enough to describe the symptoms, self-aware enough to watch it unfold—and still completely unable to stop the descent.
You become an archaeologist of your own ruins, cataloging exactly how you broke while the person you used to be watches from somewhere you can't reach anymore.
And every morning you wake up and perform being human, because what's the alternative? The world doesn't pause for invisible architecture to collapse.
Mental illness is being both the building and the earthquake. Both the crime scene and the detective. Both the drowning and the witness on the shore, taking notes.
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