It’s difficult living with a mental disorder — not just because of the symptoms, but because of how much performance goes into surviving it. You wake up every day and put on your “normal” face. Sometimes it fits. Most days it doesn’t. Some days I don’t even know who I’m putting it on for anymore. There’s the outside stuff: The judgment. The second-guessing. The constant micro-glances from people who wonder if you’re being dramatic, or manipulative, or just too sensitive. And then there’s the inside stuff — the quieter, crueler kind: You start to internalize it. You start thinking maybe you’re making it up too. Maybe this is just your personality. Maybe you’re broken, maybe you’re annoying, maybe you’re impossible to love, maybe you’re faking. I ask for reassurance constantly. I crave validation like water. And every time I ask for it, a little voice in my head whispers they’re going to get tired of you. This disorder — whatever it is — is messy. It doesn’t walk into a room politely and sit down. It slams the door, throws your energy on the floor, and demands your full attention. And I try to live with it. I try to function. I try to be normal. But I don’t know how long I’ve been like this. A few years? My whole life? Is there a version of me before this? Was she real? Did she ever exist? The worst part? I don’t know where the disorder ends and where I begin. wonder if I’ve let it become me. If I’ve built my identity around it like scaffolding — because it was easier to accept being broken than to fight to be whole. Have I over-identified with the pain? Have I romanticized it? Have I let my trauma become my voice? And if I have — does that mean I’m not real anymore? Because the truth is, I don’t know who I’d be without the spiraling. Without the intrusive thoughts. Without the validation-seeking, the panic, the rage, the withdrawal, the shame hangovers. And then there’s the guilt. Because I should be grateful, right? I have a job. I have a partner. I have a roof over my head. People have it worse. So what’s my excuse? That’s the part that kills me. That voice — that echo from the world that tells me, you’re not allowed to suffer if you have stability. But I’m tired. Of pretending I’m doing better than I am. Of trying to package my breakdowns into something poetic. Of being afraid to admit I don’t recognize myself anymore. This isn’t a redemption story. I don’t have a clean ending. I just have today. And this page. And a lingering question I can’t stop asking: Is this just who I am now?