The last couple of days have been rough.
What started as a problem with my work account quickly turned into something much bigger inside my head. Within hours I had convinced myself I’d probably lost my job, that everything I’d worked for was about to disappear and that somehow I’d failed again.
That’s the thing about anxiety. It doesn’t just make you worry. It makes you believe. It takes the worst possible outcome and presents it as the most likely outcome.
By the evening, I was terrified of everything. Terrified of checking emails. Terrified of difficult conversations. At one point, I even found myself avoiding going into the kitchen. I know how irrational that sounds, but anxiety rarely concerns itself with being rational.
People often describe depression as sadness. For me, right now, it feels much more like fear. Constant fear. Fear that I’m letting people down. Fear that I’m failing. Fear that I’ll lose everything. Fear that somehow I’ve done something wrong simply by existing.
At my lowest point, I found myself wishing I could just go to sleep and not wake up. Not because I wanted to die, but because I wanted some peace from the fear. There is a difference.
A man intently watches television in a dimly lit living room at night.
After a long night and very little sleep, I finally admitted I needed help and contacted my GP. To their credit, they brought me in for a face-to-face appointment first thing the following morning, which I was grateful for.
Before I went, I wrote everything down. I’ve spent most of my life becoming very good at hiding how I really feel and I know that I often end up telling people what I think they want to hear. On the outside I can appear calm and reasonable, even when internally things feel very different.
I handed over my notes and, for probably the first time in a long time, tried to be completely honest.
I did get help. My medication was adjusted again and I’ve been signed off for a little longer while things settle. If I’m honest, I came away feeling slightly disappointed because I think part of me was hoping for something more or something different. But disappointment and gratitude can exist together. I’m grateful that I was seen quickly and that I was listened to, even if the outcome wasn’t exactly what I had imagined.
A man shows three Propranolol tablets while holding a glass of water in a kitchen setting.
I suppose that’s another lesson I’m still learning. Sometimes help doesn’t arrive in the form we expect. Sometimes it’s less dramatic than we’d hoped for. Sometimes it simply looks like someone saying, “Let’s give this more time.”
But ultimately, I’ve been reminded that recovery takes time, even when you’re desperate to get back to normal.
If I’m honest, one thing I’m becoming increasingly tired of is constantly having to explain and justify myself.
If I’d broken my leg, nobody would expect me to repeatedly prove that it still hurt. Nobody would ask me to explain every few days why I wasn’t running a marathon yet. People would simply accept that healing takes time.
Mental health often doesn’t get the same courtesy.
When you’re dealing with anxiety and depression, repeatedly being asked for updates, explanations and reassurances can sometimes have the opposite effect to the one intended. I know people are usually trying to help, but when one of your biggest problems is fear and constant worry, being reminded over and over again that you’re ill and being asked to justify yourself can become part of the problem rather than part of the solution.
The truth is, I’m exhausted. Not just by being ill, but by feeling like I have to constantly explain why I’m ill.
Perhaps that’s why I spend so much energy trying to appear okay. It’s easier than trying to convince people that invisible things are real.
And maybe that’s one of the cruellest things about mental illness. Sometimes the better you become at hiding it, the less seriously people take it.
Perhaps the hardest thing for me to accept is that I’m much better at enduring than I am at recovering. Enduring feels productive. Recovery feels like doing nothing, even though it probably isn’t.
The strange thing is that despite everything, life carried on. I had coffee with my parents. I sent the email I’d been worrying about. I took a nap. I watched television. Nothing remarkable happened.
Maybe that’s the lesson I’m trying to learn.
Sometimes, surviving isn’t dramatic. Sometimes, surviving is simply getting through the next twenty-four hours.
Right now, that’s enough.
A man smiles while holding a steaming morning brew on a wooden porch with a scenic countryside backdrop.
And despite everything, I’m still here.
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