Mom rushed into my room, pulling me into a tearful embrace, asking me what I had dreamed about.
I remained silent, my eyes open but unseeing until morning light crept through the curtains.
The diagnosis was harsh: severe post-traumatic stress disorder, coupled with crippling depression and anorexia. "This requires professional psychological intervention," the doctor stressed.
My parents spared no expense, taking me to every renowned specialist they could find, domestic experts, international therapists, anyone with a reputation. Yet all these so-called professionals stood helpless before my wall of silence. I refused to engage, answering nothing, acknowledging no one.
My parents aged before my eyes. Their hair turned gray almost overnight, their once-commanding presence reduced to cons
