The Line Is Too Damn Long

A piece on surviving the system that’s failing me

It’s hard not to lose myself in the chaos.

Harder still not to lose control and spiral into someone I barely recognize — a “mean” person. Not evil, just someone with a nasty attitude, sharp tongue, short fuse. I don’t even like me when I get that way. But it’s one of my many masks. The kind of mask you’re supposed to learn about in therapy. You know — coping mechanisms, emotional regulation, understanding your triggers.

Yeah, I’ve never had that.

And honestly? I don’t think I ever will.

Not because I don’t want it — God knows I do.

But because those were the cards I was dealt.

And this system? This system doesn’t give a single fuck about me.

I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to figure out who I am, and why I am the way I am. I’ve only ever gotten answers from the parts of my subconscious willing to talk — and only after ripping through layers of pain I’d buried long ago.

Ten years. Almost ten years of searching for a doctor.

A therapist. A support group.

Something.

Someone.

And I’m just about ready to give up.

How can you “get better” when the system is designed to keep you sick, keep you waiting, keep you standing in line for help you may never receive? Do they know how long that line is?

I’m a strong supporter of advocacy. I believe in speaking up.

If you don’t speak up, no one listens.

But what happens when you do speak up, and you’re still invisible?

What if I’m not strong enough?

I show up every damn day. I smile. I do what’s expected of me — parent, clean, survive, manage my own spiraling mental state like it’s just part of the daily to-do list. I’m not asking for a pat on the back.

I just want a fucking therapist!

And the kicker? In order to get one, I have to walk into an ER, threaten my own life, and be on the brink of collapse before anyone takes me seriously.

This is the world we live in.

They tell me there are “walk-in clinics.” First come, first served.

But who the hell has time to sit all day, only to be told the person ahead of you is more broken — so your brokenness has to wait?

And then they wonder why people turn to drugs.

To forget. To numb. To quiet the noise and the screaming in their own minds.

They get treated like trash, so eventually, they believe they are trash.

People give up on them. The system gives up on them.

So they give up on themselves.

It’s a domino effect.

It just keeps falling.

There’s a massive mental health crisis going on.

In our world. In our homes. In our heads.

And it’s sad to think I may never get better.

That I’ll never free my mind, my body, my soul from the heaviness that keeps me stuck.

Fake it till you make it — but make it where?

The grave?

Prozac can only do so much before it stops doing anything at all.

Then what?

I’ve been trying to cure myself like I’ve got some kind of infection that just won’t go away. But the symptoms amplify. And all I want is a moment — just one — where I don’t feel like I’m shattering.

Would I do drugs? Probably.

But I can’t afford it.

Would I drink? I would.

But my body won’t let me.

So what do I do?

Try again tomorrow?

Hope I don’t snap?

Hope I don’t leave my family because I can’t anymore?

Or maybe I’ll just stay in bed and rot. Let my kids see me disappear inch by inch.

Because no one is coming to check on me.

Because I am the one who has to keep proving that I won’t let myself fall.

And that’s exhausting.

When will the people I’ve cried out to actually take care of me?

Am I not sick enough because I’m not threatening to hurt anyone?

Am I not valid because I’m “still functioning”?

So I keep going. Like I don’t hate myself sometimes.

Like I don’t hate being a parent sometimes.

Like I don’t hate my partner some days and don’t want him even looking at me.

This is what’s normal now.

Suck it up and deal.

Smile. Function. Repeat.

I am convinced I will die miserable.

Because who wants to live in a body that doesn’t feel like theirs?

In a mind that lies to them?

In a world where they scream and no one hears?

This is me being “mean” to myself.

Because part of me knows I’m changing — and not for the better.

But I can’t stop it. I can’t reverse it. I’m trying, but nothing works anymore.

Walking doesn’t help.

Journaling only scratches the surface.

Sitting outside and meditating?

Not enough.

I’m tired.

So tired.

And it feels like I’m stuck in a rerun of a shitty show —

one I never even chose to watch in the first place.

Each day I survive is a quiet revolution.

I am not weak for struggling — I am strong for staying.

I am here holding space for you, always —Tai 💜