Recently, I came across an old diary entry, and it hit me hard: I’ve been asking myself the same question for years—How much more of this can I take? The fact that I’m still searching for an answer feels like a heavy reminder of just how long I’ve been carrying this weight.
I’ve been trying to pinpoint why I’ve felt so invalidated lately. Every day feels like a monumental struggle—one I endure not because I want to be here, but because leaving would mean putting my family through grief. That has been my reality for years. I can’t deny those feelings. I think I’ve grown complacent with my daily survival tactics; they’ve become so routine that I’ve numbed myself to the severity of my situation. This numbness has, in turn, left me feeling invalidated, as though my struggles somehow don’t count—despite the fact that nothing has gotten any easier.
I’ve been battling poor mental health since I was about 10 years old, but I never imagined it would consume my entire adulthood. I feel like I have no right to complain because I’m painfully aware of my privileges: a supportive family, a loving partner, my basic needs met, not destitute, and relatively good physical health. I know others have it far worse. I understand and recognise that. I even acknowledge how fortunate I am to be aware of my limits and to have the option to avoid exceeding them without catastrophe, whereas others have no choice but to keep going until they break. But why does not being top of the most “deserving of sympathy” list mean I should be forgotten? How did it come to this? How did I reach a point where I can’t feel joy, where even daily life feels like too much to handle?
Sometimes I think back to a psychiatrist I met in 2018. He told me, bluntly, that after trying 10 or 15 different medications, maybe I was the problem—that perhaps my personality itself was the issue. At the time, I was furious. How could a medical professional say something so reckless and then walk away, leaving me to deal with the aftermath? But now, I wonder if he was right. What if this is just who I am, and there is nothing that can help me? Maybe I should give him credit for telling me the hopeless, painful truth instead of stringing me along with false hope and endless, ineffective therapies like the other professionals.
Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if I’m just a hypochondriac, or if I’m experiencing something like Munchausen’s syndrome. What if the darkness clouding my life is all in my head? I don’t know what purpose there would be in that, but the thought lingers. By choosing not to share the full severity of my struggles with loved ones, have I accidentally made them believe I’m exaggerating or faking it for attention? They see me masking my pain every day, so do they assume everything is fine? Do they talk about me behind my back, questioning the truth of it all? Do they ask themselves why, if things are so bad, I haven’t just ended my life? I can’t help but feel like the small strength I show—my ability to function at all—works against their understanding and empathy.
On the “not the worst” days—when I manage to make a cup of tea, fix myself something to eat, or go for a short walk—I start to question myself. Does this mean I’m all better? After all, this is the kind of “logic” those government “assessments” use to decide whether someone is well or not. If I make toast one day, does that mean I’ve proved to myself I’m perfectly fine?
It feels like a big part of what should be recovery has been stunted by my need to prove that I am unwell to people who are determined to ruin me. The evidence is there—it goes all the way back to my childhood. But maybe that’s part of the problem: my struggles have been ongoing for so long that people have stopped taking them seriously. Are they exhausted by it? Have they simply stopped caring? Or has society turned “mental health awareness” into another fad people roll their eyes at because “everyone’s struggling” these days? What makes me so special? What makes my pain worth acknowledging? What makes me worth empathising with?
And yet, I wonder if I’ve just imagined that people think this way about me. No one has ever actually said these things to me outright—it’s all in my head; paranoia twisting tiny details, misinterpreted looks, or throwaway comments. Paranoia has fueled my rumination for as long as I can remember.
I remember the last time I saw my GP. She asked if I could ever picture myself living a normal life. I told her no—not while I feel this way. Since then, I’ve convinced myself that her question was a test to catch me out, to see if I was being authentic. They haven’t invited me for any reviews since, and haven’t responded to my desperate cries for help with my medication. I know I’ve always struggled with rejection, but this silence has weighed on me for years. It’s hard not to feel abandoned.
I feel so lonely, even though I’m surrounded by people who genuinely want to help. But I can’t let them see the full extent of how I’m feeling—it would be too much. The guilt of burdening them would crush me. I can’t put that worry on their shoulders. With friends, it’s like I haven’t “earned” the right for them to give me their time or care because I haven’t been forthcoming in doing the same for them. The thought of forming new friendships, only to weigh even more people down, feels impossible.
So my diary and this blog have become my only true outlets. I write publicly in the faint hope that some anonymous person out there will read my words and that, somehow, that will validate how I feel. I’m so aware that I drag the energy out of every room I enter, that I take the joy out of things for others. Everywhere I go, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being silently judged—for being a failure, for not being able to cope with the most simple of tasks or events.
I’m ashamed to talk about any of my diagnoses publicly. They’ve become so loaded with stigma in society—reduced to “attention-seeking” labels or trendy, over-diagnosed conditions that some people use to excuse terrible behaviour. I know these people don’t mean harm and are raising awareness and promoting acceptance in their own way, but they have unintentionally stolen the respect and support from society that people like me need to survive. They’ve turned real struggles into “kids these days” generalisations or something performative, like a novelty t-shirt they can parade around in. And while those people get to control how they’re seen, people like me are left trying to disappear, terrified of being rejected.
Every single day is weighed down by a constant, all-encompassing sense of hopelessness. I can’t focus on anything, can’t set goals, and can’t feel happiness, excitement, or any positive emotions. Motivation is a foreign concept. I have no hopes or dreams to work toward—there’s just nothing there. How am I supposed to want to get better if there’s no personal goal to aim for?
Whenever it feels like I’m making progress, it’s as if an invisible barrier appears in front of me, blocking the way. People don’t see it, so they wonder why I’m not moving forward. To them, it looks like I’m standing still. But I feel that barrier; I can’t get past it. Even basic life is too much for me. The smallest of tasks drains what little energy I have—squandering my “spoons” for the entire day. And yet, nobody seems to understand how all these tiny, invisible weights add up, slowly crushing me under their toll.
I think most people could endure my daily struggles for a day—maybe even a few days—and think nothing of it. But could they cope with them chronically, every single day for decades, with no respite, no predictability, and no end in sight? I don’t think so.
The truth is, I’ve become too good at masking my difficulties. I hide them so well that everyone probably thinks I’m fine. But that mask feels heavier every day, and I can’t help but wonder: is it time to drop it completely? Is it time to stop fighting?