Mentally Destroyed you.

Being intellectually annihilated isn't just about feeling miserable or depleted; it is the finished disintegration of one's internal identity, the sluggish unwinding of character, reason, and trust. It is a presence where the brain becomes both jail and victimizer, a steady tempest that never stops, choking out each endeavor to unreservedly relax. To be intellectually obliterated is to awaken every day feeling like a shell of the individual you used to be, a phantom strolling through a world that no longer appears to be genuine, where even the varieties appear to be darkened, the sounds quieted, and the air weighty.

It begins quietly, sneaking in like a shadow at nightfall. From the get go, you let yourself know it's simply pressure, a terrible day, a difficult situation. You push forward, persuading yourself that assuming you disregard it, it will pass. In any case, it doesn't. Gradually, it fixes its hold around your brain, crushing out happiness, supplanting it with deadness, despondency, and fatigue. The things that once invigorated you never again hold any significance. Your interests become ancient remnants of the past, and individuals around you start to feel like outsiders, even the people who care the most.

Confinement follows, not really in light of the fact that you need to be separated from everyone else, but since being around others feels like an agonizing weight. Each connection channels what little energy remains, and, surprisingly, the most straightforward discussion turns into a staggering assignment. Words obscure together, contemplations become muddled, and maybe you are remaining in a jam-packed room shouting, yet nobody hears you. Depression turns into your main friend, folding over you like a stifling haze, persuading you that nobody genuinely comprehends, that nobody might actually fathom the profundity of your aggravation.

The evenings are just horrible. Lying in obscurity, gazing at the roof, replaying each error, each disappointment, each destructive word at any point addressed you. The brain turns into a combat zone, tormented by second thoughts and fears, by recollections curved into weapons that cut profound into your spirit. Rest offers no way out; on the off chance that it comes by any means, it is loaded up with fretful throwing, striking bad dreams, or waking in a nervous perspiration, feeling like you never refreshed.

And afterward comes the depletion — actual sleepiness as well as a profound, soul-squashing exhaustion that saturates your bones. You awaken currently depleted, currently crushed, with no energy left to battle. Indeed, even the littlest undertakings feel stupendous: getting up, brushing your hair, eating a dinner. The easiest choices — what to wear, what to eat, what to say — become overpowering riddles, every decision a weight too weighty to even think about bearing. Your body hurts, your psyche feels drowsy, and everything around you moves in sluggish movement, as though you are caught in our current reality where time itself has lost its importance.

Maybe the most treacherous piece of being intellectually obliterated is the self-loathing it breeds. You start to fault yourself for everything — for being feeble, for not dealing with things better, for not being adequate. The voice in your mind murmurs that you are a disappointment, a weight, that nobody would miss you in the event that you vanished. Rationale no longer holds power; these considerations become your existence, an unpreventable circle of implosion.

But then, you proceed. You grin when expected, giggle when fitting, take cover behind a painstakingly developed veil with the goal that nobody sees the breaks underneath. You tell individuals you're "fine" in light of the fact that making sense of reality feels unimaginable. How would you fully express the impression of suffocating as far as you could tell? How would you depict an aggravation so profound it feels like it has become piece of your very being?

The world doesn't stop for the intellectually obliterated. Life continues pushing ahead, hauling you alongside it regardless of whether you are prepared. Obligations stack up, assumptions stay unaltered, and society requests that you capability like everything seems OK. However, inside, you are shouting, frantic so that somebody might be able to see past the veneer, to perceive the quiet experiencing that has turned into your reality.

Recuperating, on the off chance that it comes, is slow. It requires more strength than you at any point thought you had. It is dealing with the haziness directly, recognizing the aggravation, and figuring out how to retaliate against the considerations that look to obliterate you. It is permitting yourself to feel once more, to open the injuries to allow them to mend, to connect in any event, when each nature advises you to pull out. It is a fight, battled each second in turn, an endless flow of little triumphs.

To be intellectually obliterated is to be caught in a tempest, battered and broken by winds of depression, lost in an ocean of sadness. Yet, even the most terrible tempests don't endure forever. Some place past the murkiness, past the interminable evening, there is light. Finding it is the hardest thing you will at any point do, however it is there, pausing, gleaming like a far off star in a huge sky. Furthermore, however you may not see it now, however you might feel like you are excessively far gone, you are not. You are still here. Furthermore, that implies trust is still reachable.