personality disorder
Personality disorders are as complex as they are misunderstood; delve into this diagnosis and learn the typical cognitions, behaviors, and inner experience of those inflicted.
The Psychology of Losing Interest in Life
I didn't notice when I stopped caring. It wasn't a decision, wasn't a moment. It was a gradual dimming, like someone slowly turning down the lights in a room so incrementally that you don't realize you're sitting in darkness until you can barely see anymore.
By Ameer Moavia5 days ago in Psyche
The Psychology of Living in Your Head
I was at dinner with friends when I realized I had no idea what anyone had been talking about for the last fifteen minutes. They were laughing, animated, fully present in the moment. Meanwhile, I was three conversations deep in my own head—replaying something awkward I'd said two hours ago, planning tomorrow's presentation, and simultaneously worrying about whether I'd come across as distant by not contributing enough to this very conversation I wasn't actually having. My best friend touched my arm. "You okay? You seem a million miles away." She had no idea. I wasn't a million miles away. I was right there at the table, but I was also simultaneously existing in seventeen different mental dimensions, none of which were the present moment. "Sorry," I mumbled. "Just tired." But I wasn't tired. I was just living in my head again. Like always. The Inner World That Never Sleeps For as long as I can remember, my mental life has been louder, more vivid, and more consuming than my actual life. While my body moves through the world—working, eating, talking—my mind is elsewhere, running a constant stream of thoughts, scenarios, conversations, and narratives that never stop. I live in a perpetual state of analysis. Every interaction gets dissected afterward. Every decision gets examined from forty-seven angles. Every feeling gets intellectualized, categorized, and filed away for future rumination. My therapist calls it "being in your head." I call it my default state of existence. Other people seem to just be—they go to the gym and think about the gym. They watch movies and experience the story. They have conversations and stay in those conversations. I go to the gym and plan my entire week. I watch movies and critique the dialogue while simultaneously thinking about my own life's narrative arc. I have conversations while having three other conversations with myself about the conversation I'm supposed to be having. It's exhausting. But it's also the only way I know how to exist. The Architects of Overthinking I wasn't born this way. Or maybe I was, but life certainly reinforced it. Growing up, my household was unpredictable. Not chaotic in an obvious way, but emotionally volatile. I learned early that survival meant prediction—if I could think through every possible scenario, anticipate every reaction, analyze every mood shift, I could stay safe. My mind became my refuge and my fortress. When the outside world felt uncertain, I could retreat inward, where I had complete control. I could replay conversations until I found the "right" response. I could plan futures in meticulous detail. I could create entire worlds that made sense in ways reality never did. School rewarded this tendency. Teachers praised my thoughtfulness, my ability to see multiple perspectives, my rich inner life. "She's an old soul," they'd say. "Very introspective." What they didn't see was that I wasn't choosing introspection. I was trapped in it. The Prison of Possibility Living in your head means living in infinite possibility—and infinite paralysis. Every decision becomes monumental because I can see every potential outcome. Choosing a restaurant requires weighing seventeen variables. Sending a simple email takes an hour because I'm analyzing every word choice, every possible interpretation, every way it could be misunderstood. My partner once joked that I could turn "Should we get pizza tonight?" into an existential crisis. He wasn't wrong. But it's not funny when you're the one drowning in it. When your brain treats every choice like a choose-your-own-adventure book with infinite pages. When you're so busy thinking about living that you forget to actually live. I've missed so much because I was too busy processing it. Sunsets I didn't see because I was ruminating. Conversations I didn't hear because I was rehearsing what I'd say next. Moments of joy that passed me by because I was already analyzing them, trying to capture and preserve them instead of simply experiencing them.
By Ameer Moavia6 days ago in Psyche
Situational Depression: Causes, Symptoms, Recovery, and How to Heal After Life’s Challenges
Life does not always go as planned. Unexpected events such as academic failure, job loss, relationship breakdowns, or family conflicts can deeply affect emotional stability.
By Daily Motivation6 days ago in Psyche
The Emotional Exhaustion of Always Being Alert
I woke up at 3 a.m., heart racing, body drenched in sweat. There was no nightmare. No sound had startled me awake. My brain had simply decided, as it did most nights, that sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. I lay there in the dark, listening to my partner breathe peacefully beside me, and felt a familiar wave of exhaustion wash over me. Not the kind that sleep could fix. The kind that lived in my bones, that made every day feel like I was walking through water, that came from spending every waking moment on high alert for dangers that rarely came. I was twenty-nine years old, and I was so tired of being tired. The Weight of Invisible Armor Most people don't understand what it's like to live in a body that never feels safe. They don't know what it's like to walk into a coffee shop and immediately catalog all the exits. To sit in meetings only half-listening because you're too busy reading everyone's micro-expressions for signs of anger or disappointment. To come home after a normal day and feel like you've run a marathon because your nervous system has been in fight-or-flight mode for eight straight hours. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt truly relaxed. Even on vacation—especially on vacation—I was scanning for problems, planning for disasters, preparing for things to go wrong. My friends would laugh at the beach while I mentally reviewed our emergency contacts and the location of the nearest hospital. "You worry too much," they'd say, not unkindly. But it wasn't worry. Worry is a choice. This was a compulsion, a biological imperative, a survival mechanism that had forgotten to turn off long after the danger had passed. Learning to Live in Threat Mode I didn't always live like this. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't notice until it started breaking me. Growing up, my home was unpredictable. Not violent in the traditional sense, but volatile. My father's moods were weather systems I learned to forecast—a certain tone of voice meant a storm was coming, a particular kind of silence meant I should disappear into my room. My mother's anxiety was contagious, her catastrophic thinking a constant background hum that taught me the world was dangerous and disaster lurked around every corner. I became hypervigilant out of necessity. The girl who could sense tension before it erupted. The child who perfected the art of reading rooms and adjusting herself accordingly. The teenager who never fully relaxed because relaxing meant being caught off guard. It kept me safe then. But now? Now it was killing me slowly, one anxious moment at a time. The Thousand Tiny Calculations People don't see the work that hypervigilance requires. They don't see the constant calculations running in the background of my mind: Is my boss's email shorter than usual? Did I do something wrong? Why did my friend take three hours to respond? Are they mad at me? My partner seems quiet. Is this the beginning of the end? Every interaction becomes a puzzle to solve, every silence a threat to decode. I'm exhausted before lunch because I've already survived a dozen imagined catastrophes that never happened. At the grocery store, I'm planning escape routes. At dinner parties, I'm monitoring everyone's alcohol intake in case someone gets aggressive. During normal conversations, I'm three steps ahead, anticipating conflict and preparing my defense. My therapist calls it hyperarousal. My body calls it normal. The rest of the world calls it anxiety. They're all right. The Body That Remembers The cruelest part of hypervigilance is that it lives in your body, not just your mind. I could intellectually understand that I was safe, that my current life bore no resemblance to my childhood, that most people weren't threats. But my nervous system didn't get the memo. My heart still raced when someone raised their voice—even in excitement. My stomach still dropped when I heard footsteps approaching quickly. My shoulders still tensed when I heard keys in the door, even though it was just my partner coming home from work. Trauma had taught my body that survival meant constant vigilance. And bodies, it turns out, are slow learners when it comes to unlearning fear. I tried everything to calm down. Meditation made me more anxious—sitting still only gave my brain more time to catastrophize. Exercise helped, but only temporarily. Alcohol worked until it didn't, until one glass became three became a problem I didn't want to admit. What I needed wasn't relaxation techniques. What I needed was to convince my nervous system that it was finally, truly safe. The Breaking Point My wake-up call came on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. I was driving home from work, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. My vision tunneled. My hands went numb. I pulled over, certain I was having a heart attack. At the emergency room, after hours of tests, the doctor gave me the diagnosis I'd been avoiding: panic attack. Severe anxiety. Chronic stress. "Your body is in a constant state of crisis," she explained gently. "You're running on adrenaline and cortisol all the time. Eventually, something has to give." I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. Because she was right. Something had given. My body, after years of being ignored, had finally screamed loud enough to get my attention.
By Ameer Moavia6 days ago in Psyche
When Your Thoughts Become Your Enemy
I've never been physically harmed by another person. But for thirty years, I've carried an abuser with me everywhere I go—a voice in my head that knows exactly how to destroy me, that never sleeps, never relents, never runs out of ammunition. The cruelest part? That voice is mine. I'm staring at a text I've rewritten seventeen times. It's just a simple message to a friend—casual, friendly, nothing important. But my mind has turned it into a minefield. Each version gets scrutinized, dissected, rejected. Too enthusiastic. She'll think you're desperate. Too casual. She'll think you don't care. That emoji is childish. She'll think you're immature. No emoji looks cold. She'll think you're mad at her. An hour passes. The text remains unsent. I give up, delete the entire thread, and spend the next three hours convinced I'm a social failure who can't even send a normal text message like a functioning adult. This is what it's like when your thoughts become your enemy. Every moment is a battle you can't win, because the opponent knows every weakness, every insecurity, every past failure. The opponent is you. The Voice That Never Stops I can't remember when the voice started. It feels like it's always been there, a constant narrator providing running commentary on everything I do, say, think, or feel. But it's not a kind narrator. It's a critic. A judge. A prosecutor building a case for why I'm fundamentally defective. You're so awkward. Everyone noticed. That was a stupid thing to say. They're all judging you. You'll never be good enough. Why do you even try? Look at everyone else succeeding while you struggle. What's wrong with you? The voice sounds like me—my tone, my vocabulary, my speech patterns. But it says things I would never say to another person. Things so cruel, so cutting, so relentlessly negative that if someone else spoke to me that way, I'd recognize it as abuse. But because the voice is mine, because it lives inside my own head, I accepted it as truth. For decades, I believed that this constant stream of self-criticism was just realistic self-assessment. I thought everyone's internal dialogue was this harsh. I didn't realize I was being psychologically tortured by my own mind. The Architecture of Self-Hatred The voice didn't appear randomly. It had architects. My father, who responded to every mistake with disappointment and disdain. "Is that really the best you can do?" he'd ask, even when I'd tried my hardest. Nothing was ever good enough. My mother, who loved me but constantly compared me to others. "Why can't you be more like your sister? She never has these problems." The kids at school who found my differences—my quietness, my sensitivity, my interests—worthy of mockery. "You're so weird. No wonder no one wants to hang out with you." Each voice, each message, each moment of criticism got internalized. They became the foundation of my inner dialogue. By the time I was twelve, I'd built an entire internal system dedicated to constant self-surveillance and judgment. I thought this was normal. I thought everyone had a voice telling them they weren't enough, weren't right, weren't acceptable. I didn't realize I'd essentially installed an abuser inside my own head. The Daily Assault Living with a hostile internal voice is exhausting in ways that are hard to explain to people who don't experience it. Every action gets evaluated and found wanting. Making breakfast: You're eating too much. You have no self-control. Going to work: Everyone there knows you're incompetent. You're fooling no one. Talking to colleagues: They're just being polite. They don't actually like you. Every interaction gets replayed obsessively, dissected for evidence of failure. A conversation that seemed fine in the moment becomes, under the voice's scrutiny, proof of my social inadequacy. A work presentation that went well becomes evidence that I'm a fraud who somehow tricked people into thinking I'm competent. The voice excels at worst-case scenarios. A friend doesn't text back immediately? They're done with you. You said something wrong. You always do. A minor mistake at work? You're going to get fired. Everyone will know you're a failure. It's like having a terrorist living in your brain, constantly threatening catastrophe, constantly predicting doom, constantly ensuring you never feel safe or secure or good enough. The Isolation of Internal War The cruelest aspect of this kind of suffering is how invisible it is. People would tell me I seemed confident, capable, successful. They had no idea that inside, I was being shredded by my own thoughts every moment of every day. They couldn't hear the voice telling me I was worthless even as I smiled and nodded in conversation. I couldn't explain it. How do you tell someone, "I'm being abused by my own mind"? How do you articulate that you're in constant psychological pain from a source no one else can see or hear? I tried once, to explain to my partner why I'd been quiet and withdrawn. "My thoughts are really mean to me," I said, and immediately felt ridiculous. It sounded childish, trivial. He looked confused. "So... just think different thoughts?" he suggested, genuinely trying to help. If only it were that simple. You can't just "think different thoughts" when your entire neural architecture is wired for self-attack. It's like telling someone with a broken leg to "just walk normally." The system itself is damaged. So I stopped trying to explain. I suffered alone, in my head, where the voice could continue its assault without witnesses, without intervention, without mercy. The Breaking Point The crisis came on an ordinary Tuesday morning. I was getting ready for work, and the voice was particularly vicious. Criticizing my appearance, my clothes, my body, my hair, my face. Nothing was right. Everything was wrong. I looked in the mirror and heard: You're disgusting. No wonder no one could ever really love you. You're fundamentally unlovable. You should just give up. And something in me broke. Not dramatically—there was no sudden decision or moment of clarity. I just... couldn't anymore. I couldn't carry this voice one more day. I couldn't live in a head that hated me. I couldn't survive this internal war. I called in sick to work, made an emergency appointment with a therapist, and said the words I'd never said out loud before: "I think my thoughts are trying to kill me." Understanding the Enemy My therapist didn't look surprised. She'd heard this before. She had a name for it: "toxic internal critic" or what some call the "inner critic gone rogue." "It's a part of you that developed to protect you," she explained. "When you were young and facing criticism or rejection, this voice internalized those messages to help you avoid future pain. If it criticized you first, you'd be prepared for others' criticism. If it kept you small and controlled, you'd avoid rejection." The voice had started as a misguided protector. But over decades, it had become a tyrant. She taught me about cognitive distortions—the ways anxious and depressed brains systematically distort reality to confirm negative beliefs. My internal voice used all of them: All-or-nothing thinking: "If you're not perfect, you're a complete failure." Catastrophizing: "One mistake means everything will fall apart." Mind reading: "Everyone is judging you negatively." Personalization: "Everything bad that happens is your fault." Understanding these patterns didn't make the voice stop. But it helped me recognize that the voice wasn't telling truth—it was filtering reality through the lens of trauma, fear, and distorted thinking.
By Ameer Moavia7 days ago in Psyche
The Psychology of Overthinking at Night
Every night, the same ritual: I turn off the lights, close my eyes, and within minutes, my mind transforms into a courtroom where I'm simultaneously the defendant, prosecutor, and judge—and I'm always found guilty. It's 2:47 AM, and I'm mentally replaying a conversation from three days ago. Not an important conversation. Not a fight or a confrontation. Just a casual exchange with a coworker where I said something that might have sounded stupid. Probably didn't. But might have. My mind dissects every word, every pause, every facial expression I can remember. What did she mean when she said "interesting"? Was that genuine interest or polite dismissal? Did I talk too much? Did I sound arrogant? Should I have asked more questions? Round and round the thoughts spiral, each loop adding new layers of anxiety, new evidence of my social incompetence, new reasons why everyone probably thinks I'm insufferable. By 3:30 AM, I've catastrophized that one unremarkable conversation into proof that I'm about to be fired, that I have no real friends, that I'm fundamentally unlikeable and everyone's just been too polite to tell me. By 4:00 AM, I'm mentally composing an apology email for something that probably didn't even register as awkward to anyone but me. This is my nightly reality. And I know I'm not alone. The Midnight Court There's something uniquely cruel about the thoughts that arrive after midnight. They're not the same thoughts that visit during daylight hours. They're darker, meaner, more convincing. During the day, I can recognize irrational anxiety for what it is. I can talk myself down, use coping strategies, distract myself with work or conversation or movement. But at night, alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts, those same anxieties become undeniable truths. The rational part of my brain goes offline, and suddenly every fear seems valid, every worst-case scenario seems inevitable, every mistake I've ever made seems unforgivable. I've replayed conversations from twenty years ago. I've worried about things that haven't happened yet and probably never will. I've mentally prepared for catastrophes that exist only in my imagination. I've solved problems that don't need solving and created problems that don't exist. My husband sleeps peacefully beside me while I lie awake, convinced that some minor misstep I made during the day has irreparably damaged my entire life. "Why do you do this?" he asked once, after finding me crying at 3 AM about something I couldn't even articulate. "Why do you torture yourself like this?" I didn't have an answer then. But I do now. The Science of the Spiral Our brains are fundamentally different at night. This isn't just psychological—it's biological. As my therapist explained it, the prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain responsible for rational thinking, perspective, and emotional regulation—starts to power down as you get tired. Meanwhile, the amygdala, your brain's fear center, stays wide awake. It's like the adult supervisor leaving a room full of anxious children. Without the rational brain to provide context and perspective, your anxieties run wild, unchecked by logic or reason. Add to this the fact that nighttime naturally triggers our evolutionary threat-detection systems. For thousands of years, darkness meant vulnerability. Our ancestors who stayed alert at night, scanning for predators and dangers, were more likely to survive. We've inherited those vigilant, worried nighttime brains. But instead of scanning for predators, we scan our memories for social threats, professional failures, relationship problems, and existential fears. The isolation of night amplifies everything. During the day, we're distracted by a thousand stimuli—work, conversations, movement, light, noise. At night, there's just you and your thoughts. No distractions, no escape, nowhere to hide from the anxieties you've been outrunning all day. The Anxiety I've Carried I can trace my nighttime overthinking back to childhood, to nights spent lying awake listening to my parents fight, trying to predict whether the argument would escalate, rehearsing what I'd do if things got worse. I learned to be hypervigilant at night. To problem-solve in the dark. To mentally prepare for catastrophes while everyone else slept peacefully. That hypervigilance never left. Even though I'm safe now, even though there's no real threat, my brain still performs the same nightly ritual: scan for dangers, replay interactions for hidden meanings, prepare for worst-case scenarios. By the time I was thirty, nighttime overthinking had become so routine I barely questioned it. I thought everyone spent hours awake analyzing their day, worrying about tomorrow, catastrophizing about everything that could go wrong. It wasn't until my doctor suggested my chronic insomnia might be anxiety-related that I realized: this wasn't normal. This was my nervous system stuck in a loop, treating everyday life like a constant threat. The Topics That Haunt Us The content of nighttime overthinking follows predictable patterns. We don't lie awake thinking about our successes or the things that went well. We fixate on: Social interactions. Every conversation becomes evidence of our inadequacy. "Why did I say that? What did they think? Did I sound stupid? Do they hate me now?" Past mistakes. Things we did years ago, mistakes we've already apologized for, embarrassments that probably no one else even remembers—they all resurface at 2 AM with fresh urgency. Future catastrophes. Our minds spin elaborate disaster scenarios. What if I lose my job? What if my partner leaves? What if I get sick? What if everything falls apart? Existential dread. Who am I? What's the point? Am I wasting my life? Have I made all the wrong choices? Physical symptoms. A headache becomes a brain tumor. Fatigue becomes a serious illness. Every bodily sensation becomes potential evidence of imminent death. The darkness amplifies everything, stripping away the perspective and proportion that daylight provides. A minor awkwardness becomes social catastrophe. A small worry becomes existential crisis. The Exhausting Performance What makes nighttime overthinking so damaging isn't just the lost sleep—it's the way it bleeds into the next day. I'd wake up exhausted, my mind still heavy with the previous night's anxieties. I'd drag myself through the day, caffeine-fueled and barely present, already dreading the moment I'd have to go to bed again and face another night of mental torture. The overthinking created a vicious cycle. The anxiety kept me awake, which made me more tired, which made my prefrontal cortex even less effective the next night, which led to even worse overthinking. I started avoiding sleep. I'd stay up late scrolling my phone, watching TV, doing anything to delay the moment I'd have to turn off the lights and face my thoughts. Which of course made everything worse. My relationships suffered. I'd be irritable and withdrawn, too exhausted to be present. My work suffered—it's hard to focus during the day when you've spent the night catastrophizing about everything that could go wrong. But the worst part was the shame. I felt weak for not being able to control my own thoughts. I felt ridiculous for losing sleep over things that seemed so trivial in the morning. I felt alone, convinced that everyone else had figured out how to turn off their brains at night while I remained broken. The Breaking Point The crisis came during a particularly bad week when I'd averaged maybe three hours of sleep a night. I was sitting in a meeting at work, and my boss asked me a direct question. My mind went completely blank. I couldn't remember where I was or what we were discussing. I excused myself, went to the bathroom, and had a panic attack in a stall. This couldn't continue. The nighttime overthinking wasn't just stealing my sleep—it was stealing my life. That afternoon, I called a therapist who specialized in anxiety and insomnia. "Tell me about your nights," she said. I described the spiral—the replaying of conversations, the catastrophizing, the inability to shut my brain off, the shame of lying awake while everyone else slept peacefully. "You're not broken," she said. "Your brain is doing exactly what anxious brains do at night. But we can teach it something different." The Work of Quieting the Mind Healing nighttime overthinking wasn't about thinking my way out of it—it was about changing my relationship with my thoughts. My therapist taught me that thoughts at 3 AM aren't truth—they're just thoughts, colored by fatigue, darkness, and an offline prefrontal cortex. I didn't need to believe them or solve them. I just needed to acknowledge them and let them pass. We practiced cognitive defusion—learning to observe my thoughts without getting caught in them. Instead of "I'm going to get fired," I'd think "I'm having the thought that I'm going to get fired." Small shift, massive difference. It created space between me and the anxiety. I learned the "worry window" technique—setting aside 15 minutes during the day to deliberately worry about everything on my mind. When nighttime anxieties appeared, I could tell myself, "Already addressed this during worry time. Moving on." I established a wind-down routine that signaled to my nervous system that it was safe to sleep. No screens for an hour before bed. Gentle stretching. Reading something light. Making my bedroom a sanctuary rather than a courtroom. I practiced grounding techniques when the spiral started. Five things I could see, four I could touch, three I could hear. Counting breaths. Anything to bring me back to the present moment instead of the catastrophic future my mind was creating. The Unexpected Discoveries As I worked on the nighttime overthinking, I started noticing patterns. The spiral was worst on days when I'd ignored my feelings, when I'd pushed through stress without acknowledging it, when I'd said yes when I meant no. The nighttime overthinking wasn't random. It was my psyche's way of processing things I hadn't dealt with during the day. All the feelings I'd stuffed down, all the concerns I'd dismissed, all the stress I'd tried to outrun—it all surfaced at night when my defenses were down. I started addressing things in real-time instead of stockpiling them for the 3 AM review. If a conversation bothered me, I'd process it during the day instead of waiting for my exhausted nighttime brain to catastrophize it. If I was stressed, I'd acknowledge it instead of pretending I was fine. The less I suppressed during the day, the less my brain had to process at night.
By Ameer Moavia7 days ago in Psyche
The Weight of Words Never Spoken: What Happens When We Bury Our Emotions Alive
For years, I smiled through the pain, convinced that silence was strength. It wasn't until my body started screaming what my mouth refused to say that I learned the true cost of swallowing my truth. The panic attack hit me in the middle of a Tuesday morning meeting. One moment I was nodding along to quarterly projections, and the next, my chest tightened like someone had wrapped steel cables around my ribcage. My hands trembled. The room spun. I couldn't breathe. Twenty faces stared at me as I mumbled an excuse and stumbled out, convinced I was dying. The ER doctor's words still echo in my mind: "Physically, you're fine. But your body is trying to tell you something." I wanted to laugh. My body had been screaming at me for years. I just hadn't been listening. The Art of Pretending I learned early that emotions were inconvenient. Crying made people uncomfortable. Anger made me difficult. Sadness was selfish when others had it worse. So I became an expert at the smile that didn't reach my eyes, the "I'm fine" that meant anything but. When my father left without saying goodbye, I swallowed my abandonment and wore a brave face for my mother. When my best friend betrayed my trust, I pushed down the hurt and pretended it didn't matter. When my boss belittled me in front of colleagues, I buried my humiliation under layers of professional composure. I told myself I was being strong. Mature. Rising above it all. What I was actually doing was building a pressure cooker inside my chest, adding more heat every time I chose silence over honesty, more tension every time I said "it's okay" when it absolutely wasn't. When the Body Keeps Score The human body is remarkably honest. It will express what the mouth refuses to say. My suppressed emotions didn't disappear—they just found other ways to speak. The chronic headaches that no medication could touch. The insomnia that left me staring at the ceiling at 3 AM, mind racing with thoughts I wouldn't let myself think during daylight. The digestive issues that doctors couldn't explain. The inexplicable fatigue that made even simple tasks feel mountainous. I visited specialist after specialist, searching for a physical explanation for what was actually an emotional rebellion. My body had become a museum of unexpressed feelings, each symptom a exhibit of something I'd refused to process. The panic attacks became more frequent. My immune system weakened. I'd catch every cold, every flu, as if my body was too exhausted from managing my emotional lockdown to defend against anything else. The Breaking Point The Tuesday morning panic attack was my breaking point, but it wasn't the beginning. It was just the moment I could no longer ignore what had been building for decades. That night, alone in my apartment, I finally let myself feel. Not just the fear from the panic attack, but everything I'd been storing in the vault of my chest. The grief. The rage. The disappointment. The loneliness. The hurt.
By Ameer Moavia8 days ago in Psyche
The Night I Understood Football
I didn’t go to the game expecting hope. It was a cold November Thursday. My brother had just lost his job. My nephew hadn’t spoken in days after a school incident. The world felt heavy, and the last thing I wanted was to watch a mismatch—our hometown team facing a dynasty that hadn’t lost in months.
By KAMRAN AHMAD9 days ago in Psyche
When Love Feels Like Anxiety
Caleb loved Iris so much he couldn't sleep. Not in the romantic, staying-up-talking-all-night way. In the lying-awake-at-3-a.m.-heart-racing-mind-spiraling way. In the checking-his-phone-every-five-minutes-when-she-didn't-text-back way. In the can't-eat-can't-focus-can't-function-unless-he-knew-she-still-loved-him way. People said he was in love. And maybe he was. But it didn't feel like the love depicted in movies or described in songs. It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, constantly terrified of falling. It felt like his entire nervous system was wired to one person, and if she withdrew even slightly, his whole world collapsed. It felt, more than anything, like anxiety. They'd been dating for eight months, and Caleb had never felt this way about anyone. He thought about Iris constantly. Needed to know where she was, who she was with, whether she was thinking about him. When they were together, he felt euphoric. When they were apart, he felt like he was suffocating. "You're so intense," Iris said one evening after he'd texted her fourteen times because she hadn't responded for two hours. "I was just at dinner with my sister. I'm allowed to not text you for a few hours." "I know. I'm sorry. I just... I worry when I don't hear from you." "Worry about what?" Caleb couldn't articulate it. That he worried she'd realize he wasn't enough. That she'd meet someone better. That she'd wake up one day and wonder why she was with him. That every moment she wasn't actively choosing him felt like she might be about to leave. "I don't know," he said instead. "I just love you a lot." But it didn't feel like love. It felt like drowning while pretending to swim.
By Ameer Moavia10 days ago in Psyche
