That evening, I must have fallen asleep by the window. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a building I didn’t recognize. Floors, corridors, doors… Each one marked with names written in old script: “Anxiety,” “Longing,” “Childhood,” “Procrastination.” A voice whispered in my ear: Shall we take a little walk inside?
GROUND FLOOR: THE WOMAN SILENT TO THE LIGHT (Depression)
My first stop was the ground floor. As soon as I stepped inside, a heavy weight settled on my shoulders. The air was cool, not from the weather, but from the emotions lingering there. A woman was curled up on the couch, wrapped tightly in a blanket. Her eyes were open, yet unseeing. Does today even matter? she whispered. I had no answer. Sometimes, answers disappear. Time moved slowly in that room, if it moved at all. Everything seemed frozen in place. Stay, she said. But leave me alone. I understood exactly what she meant.
FIRST FLOOR: QUESTIONS ECHOING IN SILENCE (Anxiety)
I went upstairs. The door to this floor didn’t need knocking it was already ajar. The moment I entered, questions rushed at me: Why are you so quiet? Did you say something wrong? What happened today will ruin tomorrow, won’t it? The apartment was tidy, but the energy was chaotic. Anxiety paced back and forth in the living room, restless. Suddenly, it stopped and looked straight into my eyes: If I keep control, everything will be okay, right? I smiled gently. Sharing reality wasn’t possible in that moment. Being present was enough.
SECOND FLOOR – A SOUL EXHAUSTED BY PERFECTION (OCD)
The moment I stepped onto this floor, the sharp scent of disinfectant filled my nostrils. Please take off your shoes. The carpets have just been cleaned. Dirt, dust, the chaos of the outside world all were forbidden here. OCD stood at the doorway, dressed in a striped shirt, hair impeccably combed. The silverware on the table was aligned with mathematical precision. This order protects me, he said. Why? Because my mind is so chaotic. That meticulous order wasn’t just habit it was a silent defense against inner noise. He had never been this open before.
THIRD FLOOR: LONELINESS IN LUXURY (Narcissistic Personality)
The door opened without a creak. The room inside resembled a page from a design magazine. Every detail was stunning, every word spoken as if meant to be posted online. Welcome. That painting’s original, brought from France, he said, clearly expecting me to be impressed. Are you happy? I asked. He hesitated. Then laughed. Happiness is relative, but I’m successful. That’s enough. The pause was long, but not long enough to tell the whole story. Sometimes, the greatest loneliness is when everyone sees you, but no one truly sees you.
FOURTH FLOOR: LOVING TOO MUCH, HURTING TOO DEEP (Borderline Personality)
The door opened wide. Her eyes sparkled. I missed you. Please don’t leave, she said almost automatically. Before I even stepped inside, she clung to my arm. We sat, talked, laughed. Five minutes later, the smile faded. Her face changed. I knew you were going to leave me, she said. Torn between two extremes, she collided most violently with herself. Her heartbreaks were many, but her greatest wound was to her own heart. Saying goodbye was painful. I knew she would cry after I left.
ATTIC: BRIGHT IDEAS, DARK THOUGHTS (Bipolar Disorder)
I climbed to the attic. The door burst open. Welcome! I have something to show you. The space was filled with colorful lights, notes, unfinished projects, and crumpled dreams. This morning I woke up and finally understood the meaning of everything, he said. His energy was contagious. But in the corner lay a torn notebook: Yesterday, I did nothing. I’m useless. The wind in the attic blew fiercely. He soared high, then collapsed inward. I wanted to stay with him there, but I knew, soon, the silence would return.
BASEMENT: WHERE TIME STANDS STILL (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder)
As I descended, each step echoed. The basement door was closed, but a pale light leaked out from underneath. I touched the handle, gently pushed it open. Inside, everything had a yellowed tint, like an old photograph. Dust coated every surface. In the corner sat someone staring silently at a photograph. PTSD. What happened? I asked softly. It already did, they replied, without turning. A small bicycle stood in the center of the room, covered in dust. Some places can’t be cleaned. They need tenderness instead.
TOP FLOOR: SO… WHO AM I?
Sometimes, I leave a shard of laughter in the attic. Other times, I hide under the blanket on the ground floor. Sometimes, I crave perfection. Sometimes, nothing matters at all. Each floor holds a version of me, but none holds me completely. My mind is an apartment. In each room, a different version of me lives. But something has changed. The doors are no longer locked. The inner bolts are quietly unlatching. I’m preparing, not a temporary stay, but a permanent home for myself in self-discovery.