matrix

RED PILL

The suburban calm was instantly replaced by the overcrowded, ever-humming urban atmosphere as I stepped off the train.

Welcome home – I thought to myself through clenched teeth.

And in that moment, a familiar entity appeared, one whose shadow I had increasingly sensed since that last evening in Monor.

As soon as I received the first trigger, it suddenly returned in full force to remind me: this was far from solved with a bit of fresh air.

At least by then I knew that anxiety recedes into the background if I can retreat to a quiet place.
The only problem was that I didn’t want to become a hermit.

Either way, at least I knew there was a small oasis not far from here, where I could find some temporary peace.
I almost felt homesick, despite only spending a few days there.

I received something. Or rather, I got something back — something I apparently had been needing for a very long time.
I could be with myself for a while, turn inward, and ask important questions.

Of course, all this quickly faded into oblivion once the triggers came crashing back down on me with multiplied force in the now highly intensified environment.
Because compared to Pest, Monor had been like a sensory deprivation therapy.

There was this “I’m not in reality” feeling that had intensified to such a degree, I was no longer even sure of my own existence.
I can only compare it to The Matrix.

As if something had malfunctioned in the connection, altering my perception.
I was living in a euphoria-like fever dream that became more unbearable with each passing day.

Somewhere deep down, I sensed one possible cause for all this — but it was incredibly hard to admit it to myself.
An uncomfortable topic, one I didn’t even want to share here at first.

Oh well.

From the age of 15, I smoked quite a lot of weed, which eventually came to an end about two years later with a panic attack.
I was hungover, in a pretty frustrated mental state when it happened — and shortly after, I experienced symptoms similar to a heart attack.

An intense fear of death gripped me, but I didn’t dare say a word to anyone, so I sat through the whole two-hour ordeal with a blank face, while internally I was practically disintegrating.

I wasn’t exactly surrounded by the most understanding people, and maybe I was afraid they’d see me as weak or lame if I showed any emotion.
After that, I tried a few more times, but I could never enjoy it again.

That, too, was about fitting in — like so many other things in my life.

I grew up in this kind of “underground” subculture — all my graffiti, rollerblading, and skating friends used it.

It’s ridiculous to say it out loud, but as a teenager I felt ashamed that I couldn’t enjoy something that was basically a pillar of every gathering.
So I’d always hide behind some excuse and try to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Then, in the autumn of 2015, after struggling with anxiety for months, I decided to buy some for myself at home.

For old times’ sake.

I have no idea what kind of idiotic impulse that came from, especially considering it was obvious — given my current mental state — that it would only amplify everything that had been raging inside me for months.

Maybe it was the hedonist in me rebelling, or maybe I wanted to observe myself as I confronted an old trauma.

There would’ve been plenty to observe — if I hadn’t lost control in the very first minute.
I had a panic attack so intense it practically launched me out of my own body.

I must’ve suffered for about two hours, going back and forth between cold showers and pacing around the apartment.
Eventually, I sat wrapped in a blanket, trembling, staring at the faint light of a candle in front of me — until it burned out.

It’s possible there was something else in that pack, but I never got an answer to that.

My mind recorded this event as a near-death traumatic experience, one that had plenty of time to settle in during the knee surgery a few days later, followed by weeks of bedridden isolation.

That was the point when all the demons broke through the floodgates — ones I had managed to keep at bay until then.
As a cherry on top, I had already been injured for months by then, cut off from the one activity that had helped me ground some of my fears.

In a way, I got stuck in that feeling I had experienced back then.

There were many similarities — but it was still different.

As if you were transparent, or halfway outside your physical body.
Despite your memories, everything and everyone feels alien, like your mind is interpreting sensory input in an entirely different way.

Maybe a layer of my subconscious had opened up that I wasn’t at all prepared to face.

I should’ve taken the blue pill, but there was no way back.

There was one particularly terrifying incident when this feeling peaked for a few moments.

Somewhere around Deák Square, during a “therapeutic walk,” something serious unfolded inside me while I was trying to ease the anxiety through conversation.

Mid-sentence, I suddenly felt like I had split in two.

One part of me was speaking — and the other was listening from the outside.

For a few seconds, I identified with the latter — which was barely connected to any bodily sensation. Just a dull awareness, pulsing with a wave-like, almost numb feeling, pushing me back into reality.
Or whatever you want to call it…

It lasted about 3 seconds — and by the time the realization hit me that I was there, an overwhelming terror washed over me like never before.
I ran off in panic, almost without saying goodbye.

By then I had already cut back on smoking for a few weeks, but after that experience I ended up in a tobacco shop immediately.

At home, I stood smoking on the shared corridor when my mother arrived — she never approved of it, but I didn’t care in the slightest.

She could see something had happened.
And I tried to explain, in my own words, the traumatic experience I’d had just two hours earlier.

By that time, she had already been consciously working on herself for a while.
You could say she wasn’t exactly materialistic.

She meditated a lot and was also practicing the Anamé Kundalini program (which I’ll go into more later).
After a brief silence, she said:

— Maybe this is a good thing. I just can’t see it yet.

I lit another cigarette with a smile, thinking about what in this hellish feeling could possibly be something that served my growth.

— I don’t know what this is, but I feel like I’ll never be okay again.

— You’ll get through this, Dani. Don’t worry.

That’s the only part of the conversation I remember —
and I remember it gave me a lot back then.

This day had drained almost all of my energy.

Half-lying down, I was staring at my laptop when I suddenly came across a music video on YouTube.

A face I didn’t recognize was talking about the love for a sport — the same one I used to live and breathe every day before my knee injury.
The style wasn’t really my thing, but the vibe hit me hard.

Those four minutes somehow reminded me that there is a purpose in my life worth fighting for. Because somewhere deep down, I still had a passion inside me that was stronger than anything trying to drag me down.

It gave me a kind of momentum — like something was about to shift, and the message was: just keep going.

It didn’t find me by accident.
To this day, it lives in me as an imprint of that period.