When they say it grabs hold, they mean it engulfs you—your body, your mind, your very sense of self. It brings grief, emotional devastation, instability, and a slow erosion of character.
They call it man-made.An object.A thing.
But those who have felt its weight know the truth.
To them, it was strategy.Understanding.A way of life.
The most dangerous substance to exist so openly—so normalized—when in reality it should be feared.
The first time? That was the fearless part.
They say it only takes once, but I know better. It's the second… the third… when it tightens fully around your breathless throat. It doesn't take your name all at once—it returns, again and again, dismantling your morals, your values, your identity, your body, your mind.
Slowly. Patiently.
It drains the life from you while convincing you that you've finally found peace.
It has a personality—repulsive and deceptive. Yes, it numbs the pain in that moment, but beneath the surface it's dismantling everything that makes you you. First, it steals your sleep. Then your appetite. Then it begins to rewrite your reflection—your teeth, your face, your cheekbones, your breath, even your scent.
It wants you broken. Submissive. Bowing to something it pretends to be—but never was.
The relief is temporary. The damage is permanent.
Try to imagine it like this: you're finally on your own, trying to stand independently for the first time. The fear of failure becomes unbearable, so you numb what doesn't serve you in that moment.
You think you're surviving.
You don't realize you've just invited a tragedy.
First, it takes your kids.Then your family.Then your friends.Your house.Your car.Your job.
There's no warning label. No fine print.
No notice that it will traumatize you for life, disfigure your body, and leave you grieving everything you once were.
First, it takes you.
Then it takes everything and everyone you love.