The Reality of Being Mentally Ill :
TW : Raw and harsh content, SH, violence, S attempts
“Time to finally live. It’s my one and only chance to finally escape this family,” I thought.
But I should’ve known. It was too easy. I’m stupid; it’s not how life works.
I was born prematurely—seven months—at home. I’m the second of six sisters. My whole life, I’ve looked up to my older sister. She’s always known what she wants, and she goes after it. She’s fearless, outspoken, and determined.
Isn’t that admirable?
I’m the opposite. I’m shy, introverted, and timid. I have severe anxiety, depression and eating disorders. Multiple professionals have told me I might be on the autism spectrum, and honestly, I probably am.
Why? Because I’ve never really fit in. I learned to mask from an early age—to change everything about myself just to be accepted. And now? I have no idea who I really am. I hate noise. I hate people. I get intensely obsessed with things (but it doesn’t last). I crave knowledge and details. I don’t understand emotions, including my own. I don’t know how to express how I feel, and I don’t know how to be myself.
Some days, I just... shut down. I can’t speak. They say it’s from the exhaustion of constantly pretending to be someone else just to survive. And I agree. I even had to do it in my own family.
I want to meet the real me, but I don’t know where to look.
I have younger sisters too—each one stronger, more expressive, louder, and more confident than me. I always felt like the odd one out. I was bullied growing up, and my older sister sometimes stepped in, but she never saw the full extent of it. I was always following her, always watching her, always wishing I could be like her.
One of my younger sisters was bullied too, and I did my best to protect her—to say things I wish someone had said to me. I saw myself in her... but she’s stronger than I ever was.
My father died years ago. It didn’t affect me.
Now, here’s the real story. Not the version I usually tell—the sugarcoated one with only the highlights.
Here’s the dark truth. The actual truth.
My father was violent—especially to my mother and me. He would hit me, tell me he hated me, punish me at random. My mother fought him when he went too far. He only acted like a father once—when a classmate was bullying me and he finally stood up for me. That’s the only "good" memory I have of him.
My family says I’m heartless for not mourning him, for not remembering his good sides. But when they started pretending I wasn’t the one who suffered most under him, I realized—no one had really been on my side.
My mother has always been harsh with me, more than anyone else. She says things like “I don’t want another one like you” or “Don’t act like her” to my sisters. She made me the example of what not to become.
My sisters lie about me, blame me, twist the story. They hate me. I don’t know why. I’ve done nothing wrong.
They say they wish I was dead. That I’d rot in hell.
And I’ve tried. Many times.
Unfortunately... I’m still here.
But don’t worry. I’m on stronger medication now. If I try again, it’ll work.
No one will find me. No one will care.
Even my mother knows about the scars, the attempts. She does nothing.
So, I gave up.
In early 2025, I made the difficult decision to seek help. I got a diagnosis. I started treatment. The medication didn’t work. We tried again—still nothing. Then I broke. Mentally, physically. I collapsed. I stopped trying.
Eventually, I needed medical attention. A doctor online told me to get hospital tests. I ended up in a psychiatric ward. It was hell. No privacy, no space, constant noise. I wasn’t in a room—just in a hallway.
I begged to leave, and the psychiatrist agreed. She referred me to her clinic. They called me the next day.
The truth is, mental illness isn’t just “feeling sad” or “tired.” It’s worse than that. Way worse.
We’re not just drained. We’re dying inside. Healing is terrifying. It means facing everything you buried.
It gets worse before it gets better. That’s the part no one talks about.
Here’s a glimpse of what life looks like in my head, every single day:
No energy. Even turning over in bed feels impossible. You don’t shower. You don’t eat. You don’t drink.
You sleep too much or not at all. You push people away. You self-harm.
If you eat, you purge. You weight yourself every minutes.
You are never satisfied.
You panic.
Obsessions about violently hurting yourself. Think violent thoughts. Think about suicide all day, every day. You planed everything.
You overthink. Your thoughts just go on and on.
You don’t trust yourself around pills or blades. You’re a danger to yourself.
Your body is sick from it all. You’re already dead inside.
But you have to pretend you’re fine. Even tho you wrote goodbye letters.
You lie. Smile. Joke. Keep it all hidden.
You don’t have hobbies. You don’t feel joy. You’re numb.
You’re falling apart. Alone.
And when you finally open up?
They leave.
They use you. They play with your vulnerability and weaknesses. They hurt you. Then vanish.
I’m struggling. Drowning. Suffocating.
I’m scared. I’m tired. I don’t want to be here.
I want to die.
I want to disappear.
I want to stop hurting.
I want to end it all.
I opened up to people—just once. Just to feel loved.
They abandoned me. No closure. Just silence.
I have attachment issues. They knew. They didn’t care.
I’m tired of swimming oceans for people who wouldn’t step over a puddle for me.
And this? This is just a tiny part of it.
That’s why mental illness should never be taken lightly.
All they want is to be loved. Just once. Just a little.
Not fixed. Not lectured.
Just held.
I moved away from my hometown to study, thinking I’d finally be free. That I’d be happy.
But you can’t escape trauma.
You can’t outrun abuse.
It follows you. And it whispers the same lie every day:
“You’re never going to make it.”
I told myself : “This is my chance to live.”
“Time to finally live. It’s my one and only chance to finally escape this family,” I thought.
But I should’ve known. It was too easy. I’m stupid; it’s not how life works.
#Depression #Anxiety #EatingDisorder #MentalHealth
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