When I was fourteen, I intentionally put myself in a box. This wasn't the typical tattered brown box you receive at your door that is way too oversized for the small item you bought on Amazon. The box I put myself in was painted using three shades of pink which then transitioned into a muted green. The box I'm talking about is my bedroom. A place where I allowed myself to be vulnerable and felt a deep sense of loneliness whenever I was alone. It was my outlet; An outlet where I could express my self-hatred. Many people consider their bedroom a safe place and a place to escape from the world for a bit, and I do too. But the problem I had was that I believed that since it was my room I had every right to do whatever I wanted in my room, I believed at that time that I had the power to do what I wanted in my personal box. This is where I went wrong in my life. I had no right to be destructive to myself. If only I had shared my room with someone else, I might never have had such a serious situation. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay I was smart 4 years ago, but of course I never admitted it to myself at the time, because then I wouldn't be where I am today. I knew exactly how to smuggle alcohol out of my parents' closet, pour the poison into a reusable thermal hot cup, then run to my room to escape. The burn of red label Jonnie Walker rushes to the back of my throat as it conjures up triggering memories. I never preferred whiskey as poison, it always ended up that way. My parents only had yellow in their liquor cabinet, perhaps because I had already drunk all the vodka. Eventually I got used to drinking lukewarm whiskey, I got used to the burn on my lips. I was good at hiding my damaged mental health. My family and friends never found out because I only exposed my nudity in my bedroom. No one knew that I had open wounds inside and out. 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 found nothing wrong with destroying my body with substances and blades. My mind was so twisted that I thought it was a teenage stereotype and all teenagers went through the same thing but just in their own boxes and never in the public eye. My room has a distinct smell coming from various situations that have occurred there. The room smelled of spoiled milk and an alcohol 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, as if it had splashed onto the green carpet. When I close my eyes, I remember the vivid details of the events that took me down this deep rabbit hole. A rabbit hole that went even lower than the one Alice fell into. It's funny because in tenth grade I was told to write about a character I most identified with, and without a doubt in my mind, I chose Alice from "Alice in Wonderland ". She connected with me because I thought we were both the same. The two lost souls who loved to wander around and stick their heads in things to make the pain more tolerable. The only difference between us was that I never found myself in the land ofwonders as the iconic Disney film said. I found myself in my own parallel universe. I was in my body but I felt nothing, like I had been numb for months. As I lay in bed with my face upside down hanging off the edge of my bed, I didn't feel the blood rushing to my head. Having out-of-body experiences seemed like second nature to me. I wanted to feel the pain of the razor tearing my virgin skin into small, detailed shreds. Every mark on my body had meaning and explained why it was placed right there. My body was the canvas ready for the artist to paint. I always loved painting something about going from nothing to something. I found it beautiful how I could create an image that captured everything I was feeling. I wanted to experience the feeling of being touched at midnight. When the moon was shining at its peak, when the rest of the city was asleep. This is when I loved being explored and was most vulnerable. The thrill I got from being with another guy in my bed every night was indescribable. I let myself decompose into nothingness and I was okay with that. That’s the saddest thing I have to admit: “I was okay with that.” I craved anything that made me feel like I was alive. I needed to know that I had a heartbeat every second of the day. The adrenaline from the alcohol was rushing straight to my head after the first shot. I remember sitting in the corner of my room, sitting on the floor, planning how I was going to execute my life. It was detailed but left room for imagination. My life after this event took me out of my box, out of my room, away from a “safe zone”. I spent my 16th birthday in a psychiatric ward. It was different, no candles were blown out and no surprise parties were thrown. No panic attacks have occurred because of the anxiety I feel when people celebrate me. I was in the hospital for a year, which meant my room was no shield from the outside world. Around this time, I realized the sentimental value of my room. It was a special place where not only did I sleep, but also a place I experienced growing up as a young woman. I knew I had to change my negative mindset towards my bedroom. I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders as I admitted my bad actions. I took it upon myself to do whatever I needed to do to improve. I was ready for the adventure of finding my soul, even if it meant packing my bags and moving away from my special box for a while. My room reminded me of triggering feelings for a while. The cravings didn't stop right away, it took a lot of fighting to overcome my “super demons”. It was hard waking 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 me many sleepless nights to think about what the word “live” means to me. Many used journals written to the brim, I found the little things that made me feel better. Guitar was one of the hobbies I chose for personal development. I would lock the door and sit on my bed playing guitar all night. It was really the only thing I was passionate about for a long time. I thought it was wonderful how you can pick up an instrument and be able to learn so much about music in so many ways. When I played guitar, time stopped for a while. The way the guitar strings passed through my broken fingers made me feel fixed for a.