“Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” — Nietzsche

Running has been my instinctual response to the fears that life thrusts upon me: the tumultuous chaos at home, the stifling feeling of suffocation, and the relentless judgment and criticism that shadowed me. Monsters, elusive and menacing, feed on the scent of fear.

In the tangled web of my mind, nightmares weave seamlessly into daydreams, darkness entwines with light, and pain intertwines with memory. The imperative lies in detaching ‘sensations’ from ‘facts.’ Indeed, when the fact is not a bearer of bad news…

I etched onto my mirror with lipstick, “Never attach yourself to a person, a company, a project. Attach yourself to a mission, a calling, a purpose. That’s how you keep your power and peace.” Repeatedly reading it, staring into the eyes of the person reflected in the mirror, I came to the stark realization that this time I didn’t want to flee. The fear of hospitals, the recollection of darkness, the memories of chaos, heat, noise, cries, anxiety, pain, tears, and blood—the fear.

It demands confrontation; it has haunted me throughout the passing years.

Spring of junior high, cherry blossoms, delicate white bunnies cradled in my hand, a twisted reflection in the mirror, and the poignant cries of newborns echoing through hospital corridors. Unfamiliar names, the medicinal tang of steroids, the biting scent of alcohol, staircases that led to the unknown, and crowds that pressed in relentlessly. I found myself in an alien city, within the confines of an unfamiliar hospital, shrouded in fear.

Broken chairs, shattered remnants of dishware, glasses scattered on the ground, hot air seeping through the window, and an abandoned home. The entire world had deserted me.

Fear. Fear. Fear.

Shock. Pain. Struggle.

I was succumbing to the weight of ceaseless worries. I cried, I yelled, I called out. There was no one. A red bike under the scorching sun, its brilliance blinding me. Colors swirled vibrantly, and I was left blind.

My entire life has been a journey of healing from this.

The MRI remains etched vividly in my mind—a tunnel sucking my soul. Time stood still. It felt as though a century had passed, my heart torn and twisted, my mind ablaze with sparks of fear, hatred, and confusion. Why me?

The same harrowing scene replayed itself in the summer of 2023. My meticulously planned, happy life unraveled before my eyes. Unarmed, barefoot, I treaded back towards my deepest pain, retracing steps back to my profoundest fear. This time, it was worse.

It wasn’t my face that was under attack; it was my brain.

I jestingly declared there was no way I would return to neurology. How ironic, guided into neurology research by the person I once trusted most. Led to neurology by a man who could discuss the possibility of my death without a flicker of emotion. I saw nothing on his face. I was numb.

MRI.

It all flooded back. Every single fragment. The monsters had returned.

This time, I am going to kill them.

The only weapon against fear is inner peace. Inner power. The ability to lock eyes with the monsters and declare, “I am not afraid of you.” Exhausted from the relentless chase and haunting dreams, I must cease and stand my ground.

I acknowledge that no one can rescue me. Should someone stand by my side, I will lean into them, draw strength, and fight behind the shield. The monsters will return.

I am prepared to face it. The Lord is aiding me. I recognize this as a solo war. It may not be the final battle, but I will conquer the monsters, and they will dissipate in smoke amid my laughter and tears.

I must confront it alone.

Armed with my armor, my shield, and my weapons.

I am ready to fight.

And I will triumph.

When it is all over, I will sing a song.

A tale of a beast born and raised in a rose garden. He devours only thorns, hoping that by doing so, he can amass more petals and blossoms. Yet, the thorns multiply, obscuring the flowers in the shrubs. He played and grew alongside me. The day he halts picking the thorns, he beholds a sea of red roses swaying in the warm, brilliant sun.