fightclub17
🫶🏽
- Mar 3, 2026
- 100
I lost everything.
I truly tried everything I could in that moment. I cried out for help to professionals. I had insomnia for three months. I was dysfunctional off that back log of sleep deprivation. I was reacting to the antidepressant in ways I didn't understand at the time. I was pacing, had adrenaline, wanted to jump out of my own skin.
I should have been taken more seriously when I voiced my suicidal thoughts to two GPs and my psychologist. I should have had a formal risk assessment. A crisis plan should have been mentioned at the first disclosure of my suicidal ideation. I should've been sent to hospital.
But by then, it was too late - I had already jumped. Only once I was reviewed by psychiatrists in hospital and in out patient, did I learn what akathisia truly was.
I wouldn't be living with a broken body - mind, soul and family.
This isn't victim mentality. This is a flawed system.
The system speaks from rooms designed to echo authority. Where voices are amplified, but our pain never is. They call it mental health provision. Services. Pathways. Targets. Efficiency.
We call it surviving the wait.
Filling out forms with hands already trembling. Retelling the worst parts of our lives to people trained to look at the clock. Being told we're not 'sick enough yet', as though suffering were a ladder - and we are required to fall further before they notice the impact.
They say there's no money. Funny how there's always money for what does not weep in waiting rooms. They see it as financial restraint. We see it as neglect.
Every cut of funding has a name. A face. Parents who will never understand why help didn't come sooner. Family and friends who say 'I wish I'd seen the signs'.
They say the system is under pressure. So are we. But when we crack, it's labelled failure.
They tell us to reach out. But we did. Through doctors and psychologists. Through phone lines and chat boxes that loop us in circles. Through email inboxes that reply weeks later. Through months long wait times to see a psychiatrist. Through clinics with posters about hope peeling off the walls.
Our hands are tired of reaching. They never seem to meet their's in time.
They measure success in numbers. Appointments delivered. Boxes ticked. Budgets balanced.
We measure it in nights survived. Urges resisted. In the quiet heroism of getting out of bed when our minds are warzones.
They speak of resilience as if it were infinite. As if people are elastic bands instead of bones.
They like to talk about the future. So here it is: we are teaching generations that asking for help is an endurance test. That care is conditional. That suffering quietly is more acceptable than being heard loudly.
Neglect is not neutral. It is a choice.
And choices have consequences.
Where does this leave me now?
When an animal has a serious medical issue, disease takes hold, when infection spreads, when the prognosis turns dark - a vet gently sits with the owners and speaks of euthanasia.
They call it mercy.
They call it compassion.
They call it sparing them unnecessary suffering.
But when a human is in relentless pain, when illness ravages the body, when survival itself becomes torment - we are told to endure.
To push through.
To be resilient.
To keep breathing no matter the cost.
And if we cannot bear it, the only exits left are violent ones.
Peaceful release is withheld.
Mercy is debated.
Compassion becomes conditional.
Why is suffering prevented for animals - yet prolonged for us?
Why is a gentle goodbye considered humane for them, but forbidden for us?
My body and mind are broken. Physically and mentally traumatised. Full of ptsd.
What benefit am I to anyone in this state?
I don't know if all of this is trauma logic.
Because there's still a part of me that knows the most destabalising thing for someone isn't a loved one healing.
It's losing her.
But I don't want to do more harm than good.
The fear isn't that 'I don't love them' or that 'I don't care'.
It's 'What if I damage them?' 'What if I can't function normally?' 'What if they pick up on it?'
I'm not dangerous. I'm terrified.
Maybe it is trauma lying to me. Maybe I am still in survival mode. Maybe my trauma is predicting an imagined future of instability. It's collapsing time. Right now this state feels eternal.
I don't know if this message sounds contradictory. My mind is fighting for perspective.
I don't know if I'm logically inconsistent. I'm in pain trying to reconcile love and despair.
I'm not as certain as the 'exit' voice wants me to be.
But I need to break my generational trauma.
It has to end with me.
I truly tried everything I could in that moment. I cried out for help to professionals. I had insomnia for three months. I was dysfunctional off that back log of sleep deprivation. I was reacting to the antidepressant in ways I didn't understand at the time. I was pacing, had adrenaline, wanted to jump out of my own skin.
I should have been taken more seriously when I voiced my suicidal thoughts to two GPs and my psychologist. I should have had a formal risk assessment. A crisis plan should have been mentioned at the first disclosure of my suicidal ideation. I should've been sent to hospital.
But by then, it was too late - I had already jumped. Only once I was reviewed by psychiatrists in hospital and in out patient, did I learn what akathisia truly was.
I wouldn't be living with a broken body - mind, soul and family.
This isn't victim mentality. This is a flawed system.
The system speaks from rooms designed to echo authority. Where voices are amplified, but our pain never is. They call it mental health provision. Services. Pathways. Targets. Efficiency.
We call it surviving the wait.
Filling out forms with hands already trembling. Retelling the worst parts of our lives to people trained to look at the clock. Being told we're not 'sick enough yet', as though suffering were a ladder - and we are required to fall further before they notice the impact.
They say there's no money. Funny how there's always money for what does not weep in waiting rooms. They see it as financial restraint. We see it as neglect.
Every cut of funding has a name. A face. Parents who will never understand why help didn't come sooner. Family and friends who say 'I wish I'd seen the signs'.
They say the system is under pressure. So are we. But when we crack, it's labelled failure.
They tell us to reach out. But we did. Through doctors and psychologists. Through phone lines and chat boxes that loop us in circles. Through email inboxes that reply weeks later. Through months long wait times to see a psychiatrist. Through clinics with posters about hope peeling off the walls.
Our hands are tired of reaching. They never seem to meet their's in time.
They measure success in numbers. Appointments delivered. Boxes ticked. Budgets balanced.
We measure it in nights survived. Urges resisted. In the quiet heroism of getting out of bed when our minds are warzones.
They speak of resilience as if it were infinite. As if people are elastic bands instead of bones.
They like to talk about the future. So here it is: we are teaching generations that asking for help is an endurance test. That care is conditional. That suffering quietly is more acceptable than being heard loudly.
Neglect is not neutral. It is a choice.
And choices have consequences.
Where does this leave me now?
When an animal has a serious medical issue, disease takes hold, when infection spreads, when the prognosis turns dark - a vet gently sits with the owners and speaks of euthanasia.
They call it mercy.
They call it compassion.
They call it sparing them unnecessary suffering.
But when a human is in relentless pain, when illness ravages the body, when survival itself becomes torment - we are told to endure.
To push through.
To be resilient.
To keep breathing no matter the cost.
And if we cannot bear it, the only exits left are violent ones.
Peaceful release is withheld.
Mercy is debated.
Compassion becomes conditional.
Why is suffering prevented for animals - yet prolonged for us?
Why is a gentle goodbye considered humane for them, but forbidden for us?
My body and mind are broken. Physically and mentally traumatised. Full of ptsd.
What benefit am I to anyone in this state?
I don't know if all of this is trauma logic.
Because there's still a part of me that knows the most destabalising thing for someone isn't a loved one healing.
It's losing her.
But I don't want to do more harm than good.
The fear isn't that 'I don't love them' or that 'I don't care'.
It's 'What if I damage them?' 'What if I can't function normally?' 'What if they pick up on it?'
I'm not dangerous. I'm terrified.
Maybe it is trauma lying to me. Maybe I am still in survival mode. Maybe my trauma is predicting an imagined future of instability. It's collapsing time. Right now this state feels eternal.
I don't know if this message sounds contradictory. My mind is fighting for perspective.
I don't know if I'm logically inconsistent. I'm in pain trying to reconcile love and despair.
I'm not as certain as the 'exit' voice wants me to be.
But I need to break my generational trauma.
It has to end with me.
Last edited:
