I’ve been living inside a storm for as long as I can remember. Voices chatter endlessly, shadows move when they shouldn’t, and the world tilts in ways no one else can see. Each day is a battle I can’t win, each night a prison of fear and confusion. I know people love me, but they cannot reach the chaos inside my mind. The doctors ask me if I understand, if this is truly my choice. I do. I want peace. I want silence.

The day arrives. The room is quiet, almost gentle, with soft light spilling across the walls. My hands tremble as they insert the IV, and for a moment, the panic in my chest spikes. But then, a nurse’s hand touches mine, warm and grounding, and I feel—I don’t know—something like permission to let go. A sedative flows into my veins. The voices dim. The paranoia softens. Colors blur, the edges of reality smoothing into calm.

Then comes the second dose. My heart begins to slow, my breathing eases, and I feel the weight of the storm lifting. It is not frightening. It is not painful. The chaos that has haunted me for years retreats like the tide, leaving a profound stillness I have never known. I drift, and for the first time, I feel free.

I am aware of my loved ones, standing quietly by, holding my hand or just being there. I hope they understand that this is not surrender—it is relief. I am not lost. I am released. The world outside may continue in its noise, but inside, I am finally alone in the only way I ever wished to be: at peace, quiet, and whole.