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The Fraying Rope: Slowly Wearing Thin and Shattering
I once fancied myself a master weaver — deftly knotting slender threads of reason to keep myself from tumbling into the void. I wove strands of silence to bury my sobs in the night. I wove a glittering, intricate mask so that every morning, facing the mirror, I could see a “better” version of myself — even though the real me had been cracked for a long time. Then the last thread snapped. I realized I was no longer the weaver but someone dangling on the edge, watching each fragile strand cut into my skin, wearing away, bit by bit.
At fifteen, life handed me a bitter gift: a white prescription with long, foreign names I couldn’t pronounce. The doctor told my family it was “just headaches”; I had to sneak onto Google to learn I was being given antidepressants. Remarks like “You’re making a fuss over nothing” or “What a waste of money” from relatives slit through my young mind like a blunt knife. I stopped the medicine, quit my appointments, buried the fear of a child, and told myself to be strong. But was that strength real, or merely fear of admitting I was breaking?
A year ago, the final rope gave way. I collapsed under the betrayal of people I once respected. The shock shoved me into a dark cube with no light. I took myself to the hospital and sat in a cold, empty corridor. The doctor said, “You need to go home; your family must cooperate and support you.” But I’d grown used to being a solitary patient — did I need that? They diagnosed severe depression; I only felt tired. So tired that even breathing became a burden.
The calls demanding repayment became the terrifying soundtrack of my life: nearly two hundred calls a day, dozens of threatening messages — all for a credit debt of nearly $6,000 USD. Many would call that sum small — a month’s pay, a beat-up car, rent. True: for someone healthy who can work 16–20 hours a day as I once did, it might be small. But for me — trapped inside this dark cube, powerless and ashamed — it is an enormous weight.
Worse, the debt is the offspring of my own kindness and naive trust. At 23–24, I believed in “standing by the company.” I worked from eight in the morning into the deep night, convinced sweat and brainpower would be repaid. I dipped into my own pocket and took credit to advance company costs: living expenses, rent, project advances, even monthly medication — believing we were in it together. I sacrificed, worked through nights, thinking there would be light ahead. Instead, I was exploited, squeezed dry, and then discarded like trash when they discovered the “vessel” of my mental health had cracked. They wrapped it in polite language: “to ensure workplace safety.” Kindness became a trap; trust proved a cruel joke.
I left empty-handed, heart like lead, carrying nearly $6,000 — blood and bone spent on credit and on a painful lesson about human frailty. This pain, layered onto old wounds, sucked me into a swamp of darkness and illness.
Two hundred calls a day. Each ring a phantom blade slicing my mind. Dozens of threatening messages stacking in my inbox; every word like a pin at the soul. “We will contact your family.” “Your identity will be publicized.” The threats make me curl inward. Each ring feels like a slap that rocks me toward the abyss.
I silence the phone, but fear is louder than quiet. Fear they’ll come to my door, fear my family will learn the truth, fear becoming an additional burden. I won’t power it down. I cannot sever contact with the world. That $6,000 is more than money — it’s a moral weight pressing on my heart.
I live inside a dense black cube with no light. Time seems to stop. Invisible walls press on me day and night. My days become a chaotic soundtrack: vibrating phones, notification chimes, the shrill echo in my head. The space around me feels like an oven; every breath is a load.
At home with my family, the living room is no longer a communal space — it is my room. I sleep in the living room, where every movement is watched like an animal behind glass. I dare not cry, or even whisper a complaint. Typing a sentence must be done carefully, stealthily, afraid someone passing by will spot the exhaustion on my face. The “normal” mask has fused to my skin, heavy and suffocating — created by my own hands, now drowning me.
My family — the place most people would call a harbor — is the source of my greatest fear. I avoid telling them things; to tell might invite a storm: insults, shaming, possibly even blows. When my exhaustion shows, they say, “You studied medicine and you’re ill?” “You’re useless.” “When will you get a job?” These words stab like knives; they make me want to disappear. They don’t distinguish stress from depression; to them it’s simple scorn. For me, the distinction is beside the point — it only deepens the loneliness.
At night, whispers in my head grow louder: a hiss, a high-pitched static like radio interference — hallucinations born of the illness — become a haunting. A small sound can make me jump; my heart fractures. My body and mind, once proud of medical training, are now my worst enemies. I ask myself: Am I really ill or merely shirking responsibility? The psychological tests read severe depression; the family says I’m “too normal” to be that sick. That contradiction is its own hell.
Inside me sits a courtroom of conflicting selves. One voice suggests a medical exit: “Induce clinical death, leave a wish to sell your organs to pay the debt.” Another begs, “Confess to your family and endure their humiliation so the calls stop.” One scolds, “Cowardice! You would only shift the burden to others.” Another cries out, “There’s so much beauty ahead — don’t give up.” They argue while the phone rings. I, exhausted, stand between them and hear my heart shatter. The debate is a cacophony in my skull. I am too tired to tell truth from script. Every night I ask: is death a solution — or the last cowardice of a failure? Too many voices; I don’t know whom to trust. Each passing second is like a stone on my chest.
Is Death the Way Out?
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Part of me knows the physical symptoms—lost taste, muffled hearing, phantom static—are due to illness. Another part suspects I’m just lazy or pretending to dodge responsibility. My family says, “I’ve never seen someone so normal with such severe mental illness.” I don’t know if I’m normal. I just know this feels like a real nightmare.
I’m exhausted. I dare not cry because of scrutiny. I force myself to eat but want to throw up. The thin thread of reason is almost severed; I don’t know how long I can hold on. The despair urges me to lie down and sleep forever.
I can no longer work like a typical person: stigmatized for mental illness, squeezed on pay, turned away in the name of “safety.” I search for freelance work but reputable platforms require fees; local options carry fraud and danger. I fear they’ll come to my house, hack my contacts, shame me publicly. Each day the scythe feels heavier. Can I hold on until that day comes?
I don’t know. I only know I’m tired. Tired of pretending food isn’t ash. Tired of hiding tears in a house where I am an exhibit. Tired of the phantom electronic shrieks and static that remind me I’m unraveling.
Yet a stubborn, illogical part of me remains — it pushes me to write. It has me scouring fee-charging platforms I cannot afford, dreaming a contest or grant will throw me a rope. The flame is weak, flickering among two hundred calls a day, but it’s still there.
I write to find an exit — writing is the only thing left I can do. Is there any other solution besides letting go? I do not write for pity; I do not expect a cinematic rescue. I only confess: I am spent. Threads of trust have rotted; the last one is fraying.
The scythe still hangs. The rope still frays. For now, I remain — writing as a final defiance. Perhaps this is an end; perhaps it will be the start of something else.
From the series “Lạc Dạ Uyên Hải” — lost nights of a soul without an anchor...by me
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