Hell is you!

I’m really flabbergasted at how hyperactive my littlest pup is. For real. And honestly, I’m glad he isn’t like me. I was diagnosed with severe autism, and even now I can only sit in a W‑position. I was scared of everything, freaked out by the smallest things. People around me during childhood were always unsettled by my weirdness.

There were things I couldn’t explain. Like the cupboard full of china at my grandma’s house—if I wanted to fall asleep, I’d make someone open it, then sit in front of it and stare until I drifted off. I had gazing issues too. I’d sit alone, completely still, like a sculpture, staring at something random until I passed out for minutes. No response to anyone—cut off from the world.

Doctors ran CT scans, psychologists gave diagnoses, and even a few times people dragged me to exorcists because they thought a demon lived inside me. My memory is strong—not eidetic, but close. I can recall things from before I was two years old as if they happened yesterday. Those zoned‑out moments caused problems. Teachers shouted at me for staring at walls for ten minutes straight. But learning was easy—I understood what they taught without much effort.

I still remember figuring out Archimedes’ Principle while sitting on a squat toilet at six years old. It was a constipating week, but my head was busy with bigger things than counting Nina’s apples.

Later, I snuck into my grandpa’s book closet and read a translated version of No Exit. I remember saying out loud: “Hell is other people.” And right then, I broke up with existentialism. Because hell isn’t other people—it’s what lives inside your own head. Utterly restless, chaotic, unrelenting.

As I grew older, I collected more memories. The happy ones stay together in one room—I call it the happy place. But the bad ones live forever. Each one builds its own haunting room inside my mind palace. And my brain forces me to revisit them, over and over. I relive the same bad choices, the same mistakes, helplessly watching myself repeat them. My brain seems to enjoy hurting me, dragging me back into those rooms.

Hell isn’t other people. Hell is you, inside you.

Now, I don’t zone out anymore. My brain multitasks. And all I hope is that my son never inherits a brain like mine. I hope his hell is other people.