itchiness and mental health

What’s something most people don’t understand?

“The mind alone is the friend of the self, and the mind alone is the enemy of the self.” — Bhagavad Gita

The night did not begin with fear.It began with a small itch.He lay on his bed, tired from the day, when a sharp irritation rose from his leg. At first, it was nothing. Just a scratch, a shift, a turn of the body. But the itch stayed. Then it grew. Then the swelling followed.

His eyes opened.The room was silent, but his mind was not.A thought entered—soft, uncertain.Then it returned, louder.This is not normal.He sat up slowly, staring at his leg as if it held an answer. The skin looked different. Felt different.

Alive in a way that disturbed him.Then the story began.A name surfaced Radin Dewi. It came without reason, but once it arrived, it rooted itself deep.

His mind started weaving, connecting, explaining.Sulfur… every night… slowly harming me…The darkness of the room seemed to agree. Every sound became a sign. Every sensation, a message. The faint brushing of air against his skin turned into movement—tiny legs, crawling, biting.

Crickets… sent to eat my leg…His breath quickened.He could not stay still anymore.He rushed out, grabbed salt with urgency, and poured it over his skin. The grains pressed into the itch, stinging, grounding, pulling him away from the invisible and back into something he could touch.

He spoke under his breath—words mixed with memory, comfort, and confusion. Not fully understood, but deeply felt.Slowly… the itch began to fade.Not suddenly. Not completely. But enough.The room became quiet again.Morning arrived without asking questions.Light filled the space where fear once stood.

The same leg rested before him—still swollen, still real—but now it carried less story.He looked at it carefully.No crickets.No signs.Just skin, breath, and silence.The name that once felt powerful now drifted at the edge of his thoughts, weaker in the daylight.He sat still.

For the first time, he did not chase the thought. He did not build on it. He simply watched it pass, like a cloud that no longer demanded meaning.The itch had spoken loudly in the night.But the morning spoke differently.

And in that quiet, a deeper understanding rose—not forced, not loud, but steady.That the mind can create a world so real, it feels like truth.And yet, truth waits patiently, needing no noise.He took a breath.The leg remained.The body remained.He remained.And for a moment, that was enough.

“When one conquers the restless mind, peace arises; and in that peace, one sees things as they truly are.” — Bhagavad Gita