Where do you go when you can’t pick up the phone?

When asking for help feels impossible, when it’s easier to curl up in a ball, crying and begging some unseen force to save you from a pain that no one can see or measure.

How do you move past the deep unworthiness that sits inside, that lack of self-regard? Even if reaching out for help were possible, those professionals can’t fix me or cure me. That has to come from within.

But even when every part of me wants to feel human, to live as others manage, to do the simple everyday things that are taken for granted, the pain swells through my body. The darkness creeps in, and before I know it, my whole being feels tormented. Tortured by fear, pain, loss, and a longing to belong somewhere in a world full of people.

My favourite one-liners are “I’m ok” and “I’m fine.” I hide behind them as though they’re twenty-foot walls made of reinforced steel. The hurt hides behind my smile, the pain sinks beneath the laughter with friends. I throw myself into supporting others, being the shoulder to cry on, the hand to hold, the comfort in someone else’s despair. It’s easier to show up for others than to admit how drained I feel inside.

Because the truth is, the life within me feels like it has been quietly draining away. That all too familiar feeling of severe depression looms again, ready to steal what little hope I have left.

Tears come easily these days.

Today, I went to see a potential home for my daughter, a supported-living place that on the surface seemed ideal. But the area held too many painful memories for me. And the thought of her moving away, of leaving the only family she’s ever known, broke me. The decisions I have to make rest so heavily on my shoulders.

For context, my daughter is twenty-three. She has severe learning disabilities and autism. She cannot read or write, she needs one-to-one support all the time, has no awareness of danger, and needs to be kept safe. She lives at home with me and her brothers, but her attachment to me is so intense that she struggles to let anyone else close. She doesn’t tolerate her brothers being near me. They can’t sit on my chair, touch my phone or computer, or hug me. We live in a constant state of anxiety, fear, and stress. A move is urgently needed, but she’s my daughter. It has to be as positive as possible, and the transition will be so hard.

Tonight, I sit here trying to find the words, but they feel out of reach. My creativity feels distant, like a friend who’s stopped answering the door. I’m left questioning myself again, wondering whether I still have something worth saying.

Music has been my thin blanket tonight, fragile but comforting all the same. I’ve been listening to All I Ever Am by The Cure. Their music evokes so much emotion; it always seems to mirror exactly what I’m feeling, the struggle to find a sense of self. There’s a song for everything, every mood, every emotion. I speak to people through music. The power it holds is immense. Without it, I don’t think I’d survive. It’s the only thing that can lift me from a depth of no return.

So tonight, I sat alone. Music playing, tears flowing. Somewhere deep inside, I wished the pain spreading through me would stop before it consumed everything. The thought of going on brought fresh tears, fresh pain.

Another day.

But we only ever have one day, today.

Yesterday has already gone. Tomorrow hasn’t yet happened.

Today is the beginning, not the end.

And so, I write. Even through the doubts, even when the words feel small. I write in the hope that reflection might offer a little light. A flicker of something that still believes that maybe, just maybe, I can keep going.

If you’re reading this and any of it feels familiar, please know you’re not alone. There is always someone willing to listen, even when it feels impossible to reach out.

In the UK, you can call Samaritans on 116 123 (free, 24 hours a day), or text “SHOUT” to 85258 to message with someone who will listen quietly, without judgment.

Sometimes the smallest act, a message, a word, a song, can keep the light alive a little longer.