I was twenty-six years old. Blonde hair, slim figure, a not bad job, an apartment on the Upper East Side of New York. To others, I probably had it all. No one knew that I was quietly falling apart. I didn't particularly want to cry, I didn't particularly want to laugh, I no longer felt anything around me. And whenever I lay down and entered the dark void, the chaotic voices in my head stopped instantly, and it felt good, almost blissful. I started going into longer and longer slumbers. Less cell phone use. Reduce online shopping. Stop useless socializing. Stopped whitening. Stopped brushing my hair. Stop tweezing. Take a shower at most once a week. Stock up on endless old movies at home. Every time I woke up, I would go to the corner grocery store and buy two large cups of coffee, occasionally hanging on to my eyeballs. When I get enough sleep, everything will be fine. The life I had before would be nothing more than a fantasy dream, and I could start over without complaint. Would I be a whole new person?
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