I have not been myself lately.
Mental illness is so debilitating, and for me it gets significantly worse during the winter months. I technically count November as autumn still, and December isn’t so bad because of all the festive lights. But as soon as January hits, I nosedive into absolute hopelessness. It happens every year, but this year it has been particularly bad.
I have found myself crying, unable to do anything, and it’s a miracle I have even been able to write. I love a little bit of melancholy but COME ON!
I do not know what it was about 2025 or the start of this year in particular. Maybe it is the state of the world, the persistent coldness, or simply toxic self-comparison. I am doing better now, but I wanted to take a moment to look at the tool that helped me the most, even though it’s the one I resist.
Talking.
I am a talker. I can yap for hours about subjects I find interesting or things I am passionate about, but when it comes to myself, I find it extremely hard to speak up about how I am feeling. There’s probably some deep psychological reason why I avoid being honest about my emotions with other people, even those closest to me, despite never actually being told to bottle up my feelings.
There’s probably a whole shelf of jars and bottles full of unspoken emotions within me. Some feel permanently sealed, but others are fighting to pop their tops.
As someone who has suffered with mental illness for the majority of my life, I have adapted to recognise the warning signs when things are going downhill and catch them before they spiral completely. I usually do this alone, in silence. I get back on top of it. I am always determined to do so, and as far as I know, no one really picks up on it.
I think it’s because of pity. I hate being pitied, and I hate being worried about. That is why I struggle to reach out and why I close myself off. But in the last few months, it had become impossible to hide. Lack of sleep started to show on my face. My skin was a mess of scabs from picking at it. I was bursting into tears on the sofa for no reason at all. I am sure many can identify with that state of spiralling.
We have such a stigma in our world when it comes to mental illness, one that is longstanding, and as much as I advocate against that stigma, it is during these times that I find myself playing into it.
So it was time to be honest. I should not have left it until breaking point, but I finally did what I call “letting out the fizz.”
Those bottles, the ones shaking on the shelf because of everything bubbling inside them, I take down and open. Not too much, just enough for me to control and manage. Enough to let the people around me know that I am not doing well. First, I reached out to my mum and dad. Then my best friend. Each time, I opened it slowly, knowing that if I did it all at once, I would probably reach full mental collapse.
Of course, the shame was there. The embarrassment that I was once again falling victim to that demon in my head, the one that always tells me “What if?” and “I’m not good enough.” It really is a hungry beast, storing up all these bottles and jars of feelings to devour.
However, it starts to starve, to struggle and pull away, the moment I put my feelings into words. I started to spill everything I needed to say. Everything I thought, felt worried about or hesitated over. Sometimes it is written; that is the best therapy I could ever have. But I am learning to talk.
It has been a big step. Sure, it is nothing groundbreaking, but reaching out and talking, in spite of my worries and the hope that if I bottle it up it can simply be ignored, is something I am still learning to do. Even if this hungry demon tells me to shut up, I brush it aside.
There are many reasons why I have been feeling so terrible lately. An imbalance of past and recent traumas has weighed me down significantly. I have gotten over the majority of it and moved on, but I cannot deny that it has taken a toll on how my mind feels. Frankly, I am sick of it. I do not want 2026 to be a spillover when I have so much I want to do.
I am sure my bottle shelf will never be empty, and my demon will always be quietly ravenous, feeding on my self-doubt. But with each day, with each step I take and word I speak, I am getting better.
So I implore you, don’t wait. Speak up. Crack open those bottles. Starve that demon, not yourself.
You might be surprised at how ready people are to listen.
Your writing is a flaming sword for a beautiful soul, mo mhuirnín.
Do you believe in chance? I don't want to use the word "fate" as we are certainly not destined to one another.. maybe in another lifetime .. I wish haha ;)
But what I mean is that I stumbled onto your IG profile on a day of endless and pointless scrolling and I stopped cold in my tracks. Awestruck. I immediately felt drawn to you. And as has happened to me before, I tend to be attracted to articulate, but also troubled, young women. In a sort of older friend, father figure, sort of way (although I can't deny that looks play a part in this). But I seem to sense their nature somehow.
What is striking to me though, is that for me also 2025 was a horrible year. I had bouts of depression and panic attacks over most of my adult life (i.e., several decades), but never as severe as last year. Resorting to "natural medicine" (including occasional heavy use of booze, weed, and various other supplements) had been sufficient on previous occasions, but not this time. I can still suggest a few perfectly legal substances that might be of help if you are interested. However, this time it was simply not enough. I have been on anti-depressants and sleep tablets for the whole past year, and I have only just recently pulled out of them. I found some help in a medical professional who steered me through the right pharmacological help and quickly gave up on psychoanalysis with me (not saying it is a bad thing, but I had tried it several times and never did anything for me). I didn't share it with almost anyone, except 2-3 people in my life, the ones who are closest to me. I felt like drowning in a dark sea of shame and pain, but I got through it.
So, and I apologise if I overshared a little, I was saddened to read that a young, fascinating, and brilliant girl like you was going through something similar to what I have experienced.
I hope these words could be of some comfort, if nothing else, in reiterating the obvious fact that you are not alone in facing your demons and your inner enemies. Good luck, and chin up Lydia.