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The last three therapists I’ve had have all expressed concern about the impact of being (for lack of better phrasing) a “mental health influencer.”
So. I want to talk about it.
So. I want to talk about it.
I usually laughed when my therapists asked me to take a break from social media. In part because it felt impossible to do when it’s so tied up in my work.
But also because I care a lot. Having an outlet to connect and support people feels so meaningful. Why would I walk away?
But also because I care a lot. Having an outlet to connect and support people feels so meaningful. Why would I walk away?
(CN: Sui, depression)
As a teenager, I was the kid googling “help I’m depressed” and “why do I want to die.” I was largely isolated, and the forums and blogs that I found were literally a lifeline for me.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thinking about that kid.
As a teenager, I was the kid googling “help I’m depressed” and “why do I want to die.” I was largely isolated, and the forums and blogs that I found were literally a lifeline for me.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thinking about that kid.
I went viral, completely by accident, just shy of my 23rd birthday. And suddenly, the emails and messages came pouring in. They haven’t stopped since. And I still can’t believe that the words I wrote online have become someone else’s lifeline.
I’m 29 now. I have had the very sacred honor of holding so many people’s stories for six years now. I’ve been the gentle voice and the hand outstretched in countless dark hours.
A younger part of me aches with deep recognition every single day.
A younger part of me aches with deep recognition every single day.
But my therapist said to me last week, “No one is designed to hold that much space, that much pain, that much trauma on that scale... much less alone.”
I haven’t stopped thinking about that.
I haven’t stopped thinking about that.
The therapist before her said to me, “Every time you offer yourself up as someone else’s life vest, you’re reopening your own wounds, forced to remember that you didn’t have anyone to offer you theirs.”
I haven’t stopped thinking about that one, either.
I haven’t stopped thinking about that one, either.
I don’t regret for a second putting my soul into words, hoping it might make somebody else consider — even for a moment — that maybe they aren’t alone. That they’re cared for, thought about, wanted here.
But. I’m not sure I stopped to consider what an enormous weight that is.
But. I’m not sure I stopped to consider what an enormous weight that is.
When I was really little, I used to wish on stars. And I can remember wishing that whoever else was wishing on a star at that moment would have their wish come true. I don’t know that I’ve lived a single second on this earth without hoping, giving, living for everybody else.
And when my therapist said to me last week, “You have to live your own life first,” it finally dawned on me: I don’t know the first thing about that.
Do you know about emotional flashbacks? Where we flash back to a previous emotional state and reexperience it in the present? Pete Walker writes about this in his book about complex trauma.
It’s almost as if, emotionally, we never left.
It’s almost as if, emotionally, we never left.
My therapist says I’m resurrecting that scared teen every time I reach for the past to help me write in the present.
That when I tremble reading someone’s DM, or snap at my partner after writing about my past, or melt down after a flurry of replies... that is me, flashing back.
That when I tremble reading someone’s DM, or snap at my partner after writing about my past, or melt down after a flurry of replies... that is me, flashing back.
What I’ve seen happen is that my needs aren’t met because I ignore them, invalidate them, bury them until they’re all but undetectable — because my value and identity hinges on what I’m giving.
But the void of “I need” is still there, and no matter what we give, it remains.
But the void of “I need” is still there, and no matter what we give, it remains.
When my old therapist told me I turned my fawning into a career, I was (honestly) fucking offended. But I’m sitting with it again. Sitting.
Because I see so many of us in mental health throwing ourselves on the line, stitching other wounds with the thread that’s meant for ours.
Because I see so many of us in mental health throwing ourselves on the line, stitching other wounds with the thread that’s meant for ours.
I thought my ability to help others heal meant I was healing, too. I thought my ability to write my pain and spin it into something of meaning meant I was closer to making peace with it all.
But I question now how true that really is.
But I question now how true that really is.
How many times did I extort wisdom from my own pain for someone else’s consumption? And how sure am I that this is what healing actually looks like? How many times did I ignore my inner voice, neglect myself, deprioritize joy and expansion and passion, to be someone else’s spark?
Healing can’t be built on a foundation of fawning. We can’t befriend ourselves if what we’ve grown to love about ourselves is conditional on what of ourselves we are willing to surrender and give to others.
That’s spiritual dismembering. That’s undoing ourselves.
That’s spiritual dismembering. That’s undoing ourselves.
Social media, at so many points in my life, became this vehicle of spiritual self-neglect. It mechanized my fawning so that I habitually forgot myself. I am still untangling this. I am still trying to understand the cost.
Quoting my last therapist: “Writing your feelings in an Instagram caption isn’t the same as feeling them.”
Do I remember how to be? How to feel? How to move from any place other than offering?
Do I remember how to be? How to feel? How to move from any place other than offering?
