I had volunteered to join a cultural trip organized by the local municipality to visit historical museums.
I hoped it would be a meaningful experience — full of history, beautiful places, and maybe even new friendships with people my age from the same region.

And at first, it was.
At least on the first day.
But the next two days turned out to be a nightmare.

We were staying at a dormitory for three days.
From the very beginning, I felt like a stranger.
Especially during the bus ride there — I don’t even know why, but I’ve felt foreign to this world for as long as I can remember.
And not in a poetic way — in a real, painful, inescapable way.
No matter what I do, this feeling never fades.
Nothing feels real.
Not the food I eat, not the schools I go to, not even the water I drink.
Everything hurts more than it should, and it does so quietly.
I live with this feeling every day. And I’m tired.

Back to the trip —
We first saw the dorm, left our bags, and started exploring.
The first day was okay.
But later that evening, after dinner, things changed.

At first the food seemed fine.
But then my stomach started acting up — and I got diarrhea.
Not just a simple one.
It lasted for two full days.
I’m not exaggerating — I couldn’t sleep a minute that first night.
I kept going to the bathroom, over and over, sometimes every few minutes.
My body was in constant turmoil.

> “There are feelings that hurt more than pain itself.”
A person who’s drowning might not feel pain, but the sensation of drowning is worse than pain.
That’s what it felt like.
I started crying.
Of course, no one was there.
I cried alone, pacing the room, in unbearable discomfort.



As always — overthinking.
My mind was racing with a thousand emotions.
I couldn’t enjoy a single thing.
I was suffering.
The next day, the trip continued.
But I had no energy left.
I was dehydrated.
At every museum, the first thing I looked for was the bathroom.
Nothing brought me joy.
All I wanted was to go back home.

But that wasn’t the only thing that shattered me.

I met someone — I won’t say who —
and they shared stories I will never forget.
Stories of sexual assault.
They described being raped so violently that they lost consciousness.
One story included a photo.
A bus accident. A body torn in half.
The photo showed the upper half, with intestines spilling out.
It was graphic. Horrifying.
I could never have imagined how awful such an event could be until I saw that image.

It was, in the end, a mostly terrible journey.

I think the only good thing I took from those three days was discovering what is now my favorite song.
If it weren’t for that… I’d have nothing worth remembering.