When I was fourteen I willingly put myself in a box. It wasn't the typical worn-out brown box delivered to your home, too large for the small item you bought on Amazon. The box I placed myself in was painted using three shades of pink which later changed to a soft green. The box I'm talking about is my bedroom. A place where I had left myself vulnerable and deeply felt a wave of loneliness whenever I was alone. This was my outlet; An outlet where I could express self-hatred. Many people consider their bedroom to be a safe place and a place to escape from the world for a while, and I did too. But the problem I had was that I believed that since it was my room I had all the rights to do what I wanted in my room, I believed at that moment that I had the power to do what I wanted in my personal box. That's where I went wrong in my life. I had no right to be destructive towards myself. If only I had shared my room with someone else maybe I would never have felt so bad. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get Original Essay I was smart 4 years ago, but obviously I never admitted it to myself then because otherwise I wouldn't be where I am today. I knew how to smuggle alcohol from my parents' cupboard, pour the poison into a reusable hot insulated cup, then run to my room to escape. The burn of the Jonnie Walker red label crossing the back of my throat as it brings back stimulating memories. I never preferred whiskey as a poison, it just always ended up that way. My parents only had yellow left in the liquor cabinet, perhaps because I had already drunk all the vodka. Eventually I got used to drinking lukewarm whiskey, I got used to the burning on my lips. I was good at hiding my damaged mental health. My family and friends never found out because I only exposed my nakedness in my bedroom. No one knew that I had open wounds internally and externally. I hid them well, long-sleeved shirts in the winter and long shorts in the summer. I hid my mental illness so well that I hid it from myself. I didn't see anything wrong with ruining my body with substances and blades. My mind was so twisted that I thought it was a teenage stereotype and all teenagers go through the same thing, but only in their own spaces and never in the public eye. My room has a distinct odor due to various situations that happened there. The bedroom smelled like spoiled milk and a liquor factory. The milk incident was the result of an anxiety attack I had while holding a bowl of cereal and milk. I can still feel the cold milk running down my trembling legs, the same way it splashed onto the green carpet. When I close my eyes, I remember the vivid details of the events that led me down this deep rabbit hole. An even deeper rabbit hole than the one Alice fell into. It's funny because in 7th grade I was told to write about a character I identified with the most, without a doubt in my mind I chose Alice from "Alice in Wonderland." She joined me because I thought we were both similar. Both lost souls who liked to wander around and achieve something, are intent on making the pain more tolerable. The only difference between us was that I never ended up in Wonderland like the iconic Disney movie claimed. I ended up in my own parallel universe. I was in my body but I couldn'tfeel nothing, like you're numb for months at a time. As I lay in my bed with my face upside down hanging off the side of the bed I couldn't feel the blood rushing to my head. Having out-of-body experiences felt like second nature to me. I craved the pain of the razor tearing my virgin skin into tiny, detailed shreds. Every mark on my body had a meaning and explained why it was placed there. My body was the canvas ready to be painted by the artist. I've always loved painting something about starting something from nothing. I found it beautiful how I can create an image that captures everything I feel. I craved the feeling of being touched at midnight. When the moon shone at its brightest, when the rest of the city slept. That was when I liked to be explored and when I was the most vulnerable. The feeling I get from being with another guy in my bed every night was indescribable. I let myself get knocked down into nothingness and I was fine with that. This is the saddest thing I have to admit: "It suited me." I wanted everything that made me feel alive. I needed to know if I had a heartbeat every second of the day. The adrenaline from the alcohol went straight to my head after the first hit. I remember sitting in the corner of my bedroom, sitting on the floor and planning how I was going to run my life. It was detailed but had room for the imagination to roam. My life after that event took me out of my box, out of my bedroom, away from a “safe zone”. I spent my sixteenth birthday in a psychiatric ward. It was different, candles weren't blown out and surprise parties weren't organised. There has been no panic attack due to the anxiety I feel when people celebrate me. I was in and out of hospital for a year, meaning I didn't have my bedroom as a shield from the outside world. At that time I realized the sentimental value my bedroom had. It was a special place where I not only laid my head to sleep, but a place I experienced growing up as a young woman. I knew I needed to change my negative mindset towards my bedroom. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders for admitting my wrongdoings to myself. I took it upon myself to do whatever I needed to do to get better. I was ready for the adventure of finding my true identity, even if it meant packing my bags and moving away from my special box for a while. My bedroom brought back trigger feelings for a while. The urges didn't end immediately, it took a lot of fights to overcome my "super demons". It was hard to wake up every morning knowing that I would have to use all my energy, just to get through the day without harming myself or others around me. It took many sleepless nights thinking about what the word “living” meant to me. Many used journals are written to the brim, I found the little things that made me feel better. Guitar was one of the hobbies I picked up for self-help. I would close the door and sit on the bed and play the guitar all night. It was really the only thing I was passionate about for a long time. I found it beautiful how you can learn to play an instrument and learn so much about music in so many ways. When I played the guitar, time stopped for a while. The way the guitar strings flowed through my broken fingers made me feel stable for a while. I found my voice that I had lost for what seemed like decades. The guitar made me feel grounded, it made me feel powerful and talented. I started writing songs.