ANXIETY

The end of something

You know what’s the best thing about mental disorders like panic disorder or anxiety?

That if you take responsibility for them and start walking the path of conscious trauma healing and self-work, a process begins—one that sooner or later brings you closer to yourself.
And who knows? Maybe something beautiful will unfold from it, something that even gives you a new sense of purpose.

I didn’t think much about whether I should share my experiences from the past 9 years. I simply felt: no.
It was too personal to put into words, and I doubted anyone would even care.
At some point, though, something shifted in me, and I decided to start a blog where I could share my reflections on the parallel between subconscious healing and artistic creation.
Because most of the paintings shared here are imprints of a long healing journey.
What I see is that more and more people are struggling with similar conditions—and many of them live with the belief that there is no solution, or at best, only symptom relief.
I want to shed light on the opposite.

It’s fascinating to look back at a former version of ourselves.
Seeing the change and how the puzzle pieces came together over the years is a beautiful feeling.
That something truly meaningful can emerge even from seemingly hopeless life situations. Even the memories of the darkest periods come back to me with love, because now I can see they all happened for me.
I just couldn’t grasp that back then…

Now it’s 2025.
The end of a nine-year cycle that began in 2016.
Back then, I had no idea my life would be turned upside down.
I had just come out of a typical self-destructive adolescence, full of repressed emotions that fed into anxiety.
I couldn’t experience even a moment of happiness—there was always something in the background I felt I had to worry about.
By the time I turned 20, this had turned into chronic anxiety.

You could say I was living a full-on self-destructive lifestyle. Punishing myself subconsciously for everything, all while wearing a grinning mask.
I had been involved in an extreme sport for years—something I had some success in, but it came with more drawbacks than benefits.
I lived under constant pressure to perform, even at the cost of my physical safety.
Eventually, my higher self had enough and decided to twist my knee mid-move.
The result: a torn ACL and a forced break that lasted a year.
My long-standing passion ended overnight, and it was uncertain whether I’d ever be able to return to it.

The truth is, it was a huge opportunity for me—but I wasn’t ready to see that yet.
I was forced to look inward for a bit.
Of course, I experienced it as punishment.
Soon enough, the self-destructive program kicked in, masked by constant partying.
Yeah. I think many of us are conditioned this way.
But no matter how much I tried to look the other way, my body kept reminding me of the unresolved issues waiting beneath.
The best example of this? The hangovers.

I remember my very first experience with this: a strange “something’s wrong” feeling…
Well, of course it was wrong. 40-degree tent heat, four days of drinking, barely any sleep, and a mentally rough state.
Then suddenly something felt so wrong that all I wanted was to be alone, in silence, away from people.
But since I couldn’t find a place like that, more drinking seemed like the most obvious solution.
At least it dulled the anxiety that kept intensifying in the background month by month—until I hit a full breakdown.

During that time, I made countless promises to myself, only to break them on the very next weekend.
Six months later, my anxiety had developed serious physical symptoms.
In November, I underwent knee surgery—and after that came what I believe was a complete breakdown.
With a brace on my leg, I had already been lying at home for two weeks when I slowly decided to go for my first walk.
I grabbed my crutches, opened the door—and what happened next, I truly didn’t expect.

How can you describe the indescribable? Only someone who’s experienced it would understand...
I completely lost my sense of reality.
It felt like I had stepped into an unstable dream where even breathing felt like a conscious task.
I knew where and when I was—but I couldn’t feel it.
It was like I had fallen out of the Matrix.
Yes, I think that describes it best.
People freaked me out the most—as if I had landed among background characters in a video game.
God, I was terrified—thinking back now...

I remember thinking maybe I had suffered brain damage, that it was somehow related to the surgery.
I tried to come up with a rational explanation, but nothing could calm me down.
I completely broke down by the time I got home and hoped it was just a one-time system glitch.
"Tomorrow I’ll be fine."
Of course, I wasn’t.

Back then, I still believed in superficial fixes—like spending time with friends would loosen me up and help me forget the pain.
But the real problem was: I could barely make it to any place.
No matter how many times I had walked that route before, new rules now applied.
I walked with my head down, trying to absorb as little of the outside world as possible, while wondering what my role models would do in my situation.

My experience in extreme sports gave me some strength at the time.
I reminded myself that I used to be one of the boldest.
There, I truly learned to push my limits and expand my comfort zone.
I used to face my fears as a challenge.
The difference was: this challenge had no end.
It was a constant physical sensation, paired with fear—draining a massive amount of energy, because I had switched into a state of permanent alertness.

So, eventually, I made it to a friend’s place, where everyone had already had a few drinks.
As I stepped over the threshold, I wanted to burst into tears and run—but there was no turning back.
Suddenly I was in the middle of a crowded apartment, facing the next test.
I couldn’t bear the questions aimed at me—I was afraid they’d see me… really see me.
So I kept a blank face and turned to alcohol again, ignoring the looming dread of the next day, which hit even faster than expected after I blacked out.

The first thing that crossed my mind was that I had to get home immediately.
With shaking hands, I put on my coat, hoping it would somehow buffer the roaring chaos of the outside world.
It felt like I held my breath for the entire 20-minute walk.
My senses were heightened even more—amplified by the morning bustle and my lack of sleep.

When I finally got home, I experienced what might have been my first honest moment in a long time.
The mask slipped, just for a second.
Tears burst forth from the frustration of the past months—or maybe even years.

That’s when the real journey began…