Health and Wellness Failures Stories - page 2

It was a sunny day when I first found myself under the water, feeling the panic rise in my chest like a tidal wave. Just a regular swim day, you know? But then I slipped. The water enveloped me, and for a brief moment, everything turned dark. I thought I was going to die, honestly! My thoughts just raced—what does it feel like to drown? Is it like suffocating? Or is it calm, like falling asleep? I could feel my lungs screaming for air, yet all I could do was flail and hope for someone to pull me up. Every desperate grasp for air felt hopeless, and I realized in that instant how fragile life truly is. You never think it'll happen to you until it does... right? 😨

But wait! Not all was lost, as if by some miracle, I felt a strong arm wrap around me and pulled me to the surface. It was the most incredible feeling, breaking through the surface and gasping for air! The pure relief was overwhelming. I choked, sputtered, and took in the bright sunshine that I had been missing. Suddenly, every struggle I faced under the surface felt worth it, somehow. It’s like I got a second chance, you know?! I learned to appreciate each breath as if it were my last! The water that had once terrified me now felt like a strange friend that taught me a lesson about resilience. Isn’t it funny how life throws stuff at you that you never expect? 🌊

Looking back, drowning wasn't just about feeling fragile; it was also about emerging stronger. I mean, now I look at water differently. I respect it, yes, but I also embrace it. I’ve taken swimming lessons since then, and I’m no longer afraid. Instead of seeing it as a threat, I’ve learned how to navigate through the waves! Each splash reminds me of my near-drowning experience, but it also fuels my desire to conquer my fears. So, isn’t it something? To feel new life after a near-death experience? 🌈 Do you think we can emerge stronger after facing our fears, or does it leave us more cautious? I hope everyone out there can find their path to recovery like I did! Keep swimming, because life’s currents may be rough, but we are stronger than we think!!! 💪

Every morning, I wake up with the same thoughts swirling around in my mind. I drag myself out of bed, caught in the battle between wanting to feel good about myself and being overwhelmed by a sense of inadequacy. I walk to the bathroom, avoid looking in the mirror, afraid that this reflection will echo the familiar voice doubting me—“You don’t fit into those jeans anymore, do you?” “How did you end up here?” I know I’m not technically “overweight” according to the BMI charts or what society deems as the standard, but God, do I feel heavy. It seems every little thing weighs me down. I don’t understand; I eat relatively well, have an exercise routine, and yet my mind still holds onto the narrative that I’m not enough, that I’m not the fit and vibrant version of myself that I used to be.

The kicker? Social media. I scroll through impossibly perfect images of other women who seem to have it all figured out—gorgeous outfits, flawless skin, flawless abs. Meanwhile, I’m over here in sweatpants, scrolling through my feed at 11 p.m., munching on a bag of chips. I know rationally that these posts don't reflect reality, but I can't help but measure myself against them. Every “like” I didn’t get feels like a reminder that I’m somehow less desirable or less worthy. Sometimes, I find myself wondering, do other women feel this way? Am I alone in thinking I should look like that, feeling this constant sense of dissatisfaction with my appearance? It’s exhausting. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but the feeling keeps creeping back in—an unwelcome visitor that never really leaves. In those quiet moments before sleep tugs me under, I find myself asking, why do I feel fat? Am I simply a victim of society's skewed standards, or is this really about something deeper within me?

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and to be honest, I’m a bit confused. I’m a 28-year-old guy who identifies as bisexual, but I keep hearing people talking about pansexuality and it’s making me question what I really know about my own identity. I mean, I’ve always thought of bisexuality as being attracted to two or more genders, while pansexuality seems to be more about being attracted to people regardless of gender. But does that mean pansexuals are more open, or am I just overthinking this? Like, can you even clearly define the difference between the two, or are they just different labels people use to describe similar feelings? I’ve had friends tell me that it really comes down to personal choice and how someone relates to their own attractions, but I don’t want to assume that my experience as bisexual is the same as someone else’s experience as pansexual. It’s honestly exhausting, and maybe I need to just chill out a bit, but these identities feel so fluid and I just want to understand them better.

I remember talking to this girl I met at a party who identified as pansexual, and it was kind of an enlightening experience. She talked about how she feels attracted to people based on their personality over their gender. It made me think about my own preferences and if I truly limit myself, or if I'm just as open as she is but with a different label. Sometimes I catch myself questioning if there’s a right way to identify, like should I be more fluid or should I stick to how I’ve identified for years? It’s frustrating because I certainly don’t want to misrepresent myself, but it also feels like there’s this constant pressure to define myself in a way that makes sense to others. Are these labels helping us connect, or are we just complicating things? If you’re reading this, what do you all think? Is there really a significant difference between being bisexual and pansexual, or is it just a matter of semantics? What’s your experience with these identities?

Have you ever sat in your room, staring at the blank wall while the world outside continues its relentless pace, and wondered why you even bother to wake up each day? I mean, seriously, I'm nineteen and still asking myself this elementary question: What’s the point? Life, as I see it, feels like one stacked disappointment after another. Sometimes, I can’t help but feel like I’m just a ghost wandering through a living nightmare. Friends? Yeah, apparently I have a couple, but how many of them actually care? It’s like playing a game of pretend where everyone’s wearing masks, and I’m trapped inside my own. We laugh; we talk about pointless things that mean absolutely nothing. But deep down, I know that beneath the surface of those smiles is a sea of apathy, drifting quietly past as time ticks on. Like, do you ever get the sense that everyone is as lost as you are, but we’re just too scared to admit it? Days bleed into nights, and what do I have to show for it? A collection of half-finished projects and dreams that crumble every time I actually muster the courage to pursue them. Take school, for instance. I’m pushing through it, but I honestly can’t fathom why it matters. The grades, the pressure, the endless cycle of studies and exams—it all feels so trivial when you think about it. Not to mention the regrets that linger like smoke in the air, taunting me over lost opportunities and things I wanted to say but never did. How did I let it get this far? This overwhelming feeling of inadequacy weighs on me like an anchor, making it hard to even get out of bed some days. I mean, am I the only one who feels like I’m screaming in a crowded room and no one hears me? Sometimes the silence feels deafening. The moments between the chaotic noise of everyday life are filled with self-doubt, pulling me down into thoughts that spiral like a roller coaster out of control. Relationships are complicated, aren’t they? I see my friends dating, laughing, living lives full of passion, and I can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I find that spark, that fire that lights up the mundane? I scroll through social media, each post a reminder of what I lack. Life looks perfect through a screen, but in reality, it’s just a highlight reel, right? Are we all just actors in our own stories? I keep waiting for the moment when I finally feel alive, yet every time I think it might happen, it slips through my fingers like sand. What if all I am is a name on a list, an afterthought in someone else’s tale? I try to fill my days, consuming content, watching movies, playing videos games—it’s like I’m escaping into different universes where my real life feels even more distant. The thrilling escapades and heroic quests completely contrast the mediocrity of my existence. Yet, when the screen fades to black, I’m left alone again, confronting the echoing reality of my confusion and despair. Do you feel this way too? Like a spectator, just watching your life go by? I thought adulthood came with the promise of freedom and adventure, but here I am trapped in an existence I didn’t sign up for. At times, I think about the possible paths I could take—the ones I didn’t choose, the risks I was too scared to take. So many “what ifs” floating in my head. What if I had gone after that girl I liked in high school? What if I had taken a year off to travel? What if I actually pursued what I loved instead of what everyone else expected? We live our lives pretending to follow a script, but what’s written doesn’t reflect who we are inside. And here’s the kicker; despite all that feeling, I still wake up every day. I won’t lie and say that the night doesn’t sometimes stretch endlessly and leave me feeling hopeless, but a part of me clings to the thought that maybe, just maybe, it could get better. There’s still a glimmer of hope buried somewhere under all this confusion that tells me there has to be a reason for my existence, but for now, I’m just lost in the chaos. Who knows if I’ll ever find my way? Do you ever feel the same, or am I just rambling into the void? Why are we here? It’s a question I’m still struggling to answer.

I fucked up my maths exams today. It’s finals I can’t believe I made so made fucking small mistakes and it’s literally decreasing my marks. I EVEN TOLD MY PARENTS IT WAS WELL. I’m the only one who messed up my exams like this. I just wanna kill my self. I really wanna cry. I’m so scared to show my face to my parents.

i’ve been holding a lot in for a long time. i don’t always know how to say these things out loud, but maybe you’ll understand. maybe you’ve felt some of this too.

i’ve always been different. even when i was little, i noticed it. i had meltdowns at school and sometimes i would run out of the classroom. everything got too loud and too confusing. kids stayed away from me. some were scared. i got bullied a lot. it made me think something was wrong with me.

i wanted friends. i wanted to be like everyone else. but i didn’t know how. it felt like i missed out on learning something everyone else just knew. people tried to help. i got put on meds and into therapy. i know they were trying their best. but it didn’t fix how alone i felt. it just made me feel guilty for being a problem.

growing up, i barely had any friends. most of the time, i was by myself. even in high school, when it seemed like everyone had groups and plans and people to count on, i had maybe two or three people i could really trust. and even then, i was scared. i felt like if people ever knew the real me, they might leave too. and if they did, i would have no one.

and the truth is, i love people. i love hard. i act fine because i don’t want anyone to worry about me. i laugh things off, i ignore my problems, and i show up for everyone else. because somewhere deep down, i’ve always felt like i can’t be loved just for existing. i feel like unless i achieve something, or do something for you, i don’t deserve to be cared about. i help so many people, and no one really asks how i’m doing. but that’s fine. that’s just who i am, right? i take care of others. i make people smile. i stay strong so no one has to worry. i guess i thought maybe if i gave enough, it would be enough to keep people around.

the only place where i ever felt like i belonged was baseball. when i played, i wasn’t different. i was just part of a team. i didn’t have to hide anything. all the stress, all the burden, all the overthinking — it would just disappear. for those couple of hours, all of my problems were gone. it was one of the only times in my life i could breathe and just be. no worrying if i was too much or not enough. no second-guessing every word i said. just playing the game i loved. it made me truly happy in a way nothing else did. i’ve played since i was a kid. no vacations, no parties, no normal stuff. just baseball.

when i played baseball, i felt like i had a purpose. it was the only place where things made sense. i had a job to do, and i knew how to do it. i didn’t have to guess what people were thinking or try to be something i wasn’t. i could just play. i belonged there, even when nothing else in my life felt right.

but i’ve also realized something. ever since i was 10, it’s all i did. every day. i practiced. i lifted. i threw. i hit. i spent every summer on the field while other kids went on vacations or hung out or just lived. i was out there in the middle of july, 100-degree heat, full catcher’s gear, sweat pouring off me, pushing my body harder than i probably should have. i was 15 years old, catching doubleheaders in the sun, going home sore and waking up to do it all over again. i told myself it was worth it. i told myself i was chasing something important.

but it also made me feel behind. and lost. because no matter how much i worked, i would see kids who were just better. they had the talent. they made it look easy. i’d put in hours and hours and hours, and they’d show up and still be ahead of me. i’d tell myself to keep going, to work harder, that it would pay off. but deep down, i started to wonder if hard work was ever going to be enough. if maybe i was just running in place, wearing myself out chasing something i could never catch.

and i think part of me knew that. but i was too scared to stop. because if i stopped, then what? without baseball, i didn’t know who i was. it wasn’t just a game. it was the thing that made me feel like i had value. without it, i was just that weird kid again. the one who didn’t fit. the one who didn’t know how to be normal.

so i kept going. even when it hurt. even when it felt hopeless. because being exhausted and left behind still felt better than being nothing at all.

now i know i’m probably not going to make it. i’m not getting drafted. i’m not going to play pro. and i don’t know what to do without it. it was never just a game to me. it was my whole life.

now i’m studying accounting. i’m good at numbers, maybe because of my autism. people say it’s a smart choice. they say it will get me a good job. but i don’t like it. it’s just surviving. working and paying bills and doing it all again the next day. i hate it. i hate that dreams don’t matter unless they make money.

i thought about coaching, but it doesn’t pay enough. so i have to give that up too.

i feel stuck most days. like i missed too much already and now i’m building a life that won’t make me happy. people told me i was going to do great things. and now if i’m not the best at something, i feel like i’m nothing.

i don’t know where i go from here. i don’t know what it looks like to build something new from nothing. i just know i’m tired of running from myself. tired of chasing things that were never meant for me. tired of believing that i have to earn the right to be okay.

i’ve been asking myself that question for a while now and i don't want to talk about that with my friends. like, i don’t do the stuff you see on tv or in movies, i’m not cutting or bleeding or anything like that. but sometimes when i get really anxious or angry or just... overwhelmed, i scratch at my arms or the back of my neck or even my legs, usually when no one’s around. i tell myself it's nothing, that it’s not serious. but then i look at my skin and it's red and sometimes raw, and i start wonderin if it does count. maybe i’m just being dramatic. or maybe i’m scared to admit that something's not okay with me. cause if i admit that, then what? do i tell someone? what if they think i’m just looking for attention? what if they don’t take me seriously cause i’m not “hurting myself the right way,” if that even makes sense.

i started doing it more during exams last year. the pressure just got to me and i felt like i was gonna explode. i didn’t even think about it at first — it was just a way to deal with the stress. dig my nails in, press hard, breathe, repeat. sometimes it helped me feel like i was in control, like i could focus my brain on that instead of everything else spinning around. but then one of my friends saw a mark on my wrist and was like “dude what happened there?” and i panicked. made up a story about my cat scratching me. i don’t even have a cat. i laughed it off, and he didn’t push, but afterward i felt so ashamed. like what the hell am i doing to myself? why can’t i just deal with life like a normal person?

it’s not like my life is that bad. i mean, i got a roof over my head, food, i’m doing ok in school, my parents are around even if we don’t talk much. but i just feel... numb half the time. and then randomly i’ll feel too much, like someone plugged my brain into an amp and cranked the volume up to 100. that’s when i start scratching. i guess it’s my way of trying to feel something real, or maybe it’s just a distraction. i don’t even know anymore. sometimes i do it and then sit there staring at the red marks, thinking “wtf is wrong with me.” other times i do it and just move on like nothing happened. like it’s normal. but it’s not, right? this can’t be normal.

i googled it one night and found people asking the same question. “is scratching yourself a form of self-harm?” and the answers weren’t super clear but most said yeah, it can be. self-harm isn’t always about blood. it’s about intention. and that kinda hit me. cause even if i’m not trying to “hurt” myself, i am trying to punish myself in a way. or escape something. or maybe both. i don’t know how to talk about it tho. i don’t even know if i want help or just someone to sit with me and say “i get it.” not fix me, not judge me, just get it. cause honestly the silence in my own head is sometimes the scariest part. i keep wondering if anyone else around me is going through this and just hiding it like i am.

so yeah, maybe scratching is a form of sh. maybe it’s not about what you’re using to hurt yourself but why you're doing it. i don’t want to keep doing this forever. i want to find a better way to cope. but for now, writing this is a start, i guess. if you're reading this and you’ve done the same thing — if you’ve ever sat in your room scratching at yourself and feeling like a freak — just know you’re not alone. i’m out here too, still figuring it out. still asking the same questions. and maybe, just maybe, that means we’re not as broken as we think.

i hate my body right now. i don't know if there's any way out besides starving myself. it's the way I was able to lose fat in the past. working out or eating healthy takes too long and too much discipline. i hate hating my body. i want to love my body. i have before. i used to be in love with it, but suddenly I get a little bit bigger on literally JUST MY WAIST AND I HAT E IT> how is that possible. how is it possible that I only grow in one spot. it's making me so upset. it's not fair. nothing else growns. my hips don't grow, my arms don't grow, my legs don't grow JUSt my waist. it's so upsetting. it's so upsetting. it's so upsetting. i just wish I could personify my torso and then hurt it. i don't want to hate any part of myself. i want to love myself as I am .

For so many years, I've been so totally horrible to everyone around me. People that I call my friends, my family, people I don't even really like, everyone. I don't know how to control my temper, or my tone, and I lash out at people for no reason. No wonder he doesn't want to talk to me. I've been so horrible, so mean to him the two years I've known him. No wonder he doesn't want to be my friend anymore. He didn't say it, but I know it's true. Nobody deserves to have a "friend" as horrible as me. Especially him. He deserved better than to be forced to deal with me for two straight years. I don't know how I didn't notice before now.

I'm kinda supposed to be practicing for Solo and Ensemble right now. But I can't. I just can't. I don't know why. I don't want to, or can't, do anything. I'm not that good at my solo, and the event is tomorrow, but I don't really care. I don't care if I go up there and get the lowest rating, a 0 out of 30. Honestly? I don't even want to be on this earth anymore.

So we have been on a roller coaster with my epilepsy. But as a separate issue, I also struggle with incontinence at night. I haven't told anyone this because I know it's due to my autism and my body being so relaxed at night that I don't get the proper cues that I need to go. Well my mom finally found out when doing the washing, but now she thinks it's linked to my epilepsy, which means it will be brought up at every appointment. Even though that's not true. I've tried to tell her I didn't pee myself during a seizure, but she doesn't believe me and now she's going to expect that for every seizure.

I feel like today was a day of hell. Everything was so disorganized. I felt like I was skipping work since I only showed up two out of three days this week. I don't want to show up on other days, but I feel a very uncomfortable level of responsibility, especially when it comes to birthday celebrations and other things. I don't want to attend celebrations; I'm there to do a great job, not to integrate in such a friendly way. I like my solitude.

I feel like I regained my solitude today. I don't know, I felt like I was getting my life back after a long time. I don't like the country I live in; there are difficulties and so on, but I feel like everything is bearable. I had to manage the psychiatrist in detail; she was influenced by my father, as I thought. She took it seriously, thank goodness, that I didn't stop the treatment; I feel good because she's attentive and also, she admits, the effect of my routine on the healing of the issue. I feel very valued by the psychiatrist, but it's difficult for her; nevertheless, we're on the journey together. It's not the best I ever hoped for.

For some reason, I feel like I've returned to normal because I feel like I can tolerate the world as it is, imperfect from my perspective and like everyone else's. I feel like I can tolerate everything now, and I'm happy about it. I was also happy to see my stepmother and her father. I don't know, all in all, I had a normal day and I was able to tolerate it well; I didn't expect that. Maybe it's because I was also able to get away from the psychiatrist and her influence. Seeing that we were able to handle ourselves, I feel like everything is fine now. It was always my life's goal to be able to manage with a psychologist, or a psychiatrist. I felt welcomed back into the world, into society itself.

I have to confess, out of all this adventure I went through, I feel like I finally got what I wanted. To be able to deal with a therapist, to work as a team in some way, not just one person on one side and me on the other. That's why, I confess, my dental treatment didn't work, in any way, that was it. Since I left my therapist, I felt like the world had turned its back on me because there was no way out of my environment; that's how I understood it. Feeling like I've finally entered, entered the world, is simply fantastic, sensational. I feel like I can walk the streets again completely normally, tolerate the day, write many things, many ideas, but always with the feeling that my efforts in mental health, if they're welcomed by anyone, well, actually by everyone now, but mainly by those who consist of the mental health aspect. That support, that verification, makes me feel like I'm on the right track, or at least, seen by someone beyond myself, and I like that, I have to confess.

I have to confess it. I feel like that was the cure for my entire illness. Just that. I feel like I'm finally believed, taken seriously, that I see beyond, that I can handle the treatment. That I can finally handle treatment, that I'm taken into account within it, that I, as a patient, deserve respect for myself and my processes—I finally achieved that. I have to confess: The only cure was having someone check on me with my mental health, working as a team. That was it. I can't do that with anyone in my circle, because no one takes care of their mental health, that's the pure truth. So, it's feeling an immense burden.

I feel that the cure, moreover, was always returning to a mental health professional, but one that truly exists. That they don't abandon you, that they're not a scam, that they don't leave you stranded, that they don't act on behalf of others but on behalf of you, that there is a therapy given for me, given by another, that you can be supported by another. Not help, I didn't want help, support, support to keep me going. That was all I needed to get back to life, to go back to my life as before. That was it. Not someone coming and doing my job. The fact that I can't do it, that was the worst part. That's why dental treatment became pure hell for me. I understand everything now.

How difficult was this for those around me? A little support, so I could do my thing my way, without changing my routine unless it was for support. This, I insist, and I think it sums it all up, was the cure. A feeling that my life could be accepted by others based on my well-being and not theirs, and even so, it produces well-being for them, perhaps not giving them what they want, but by setting an example of being in context and not unconsciously destroying a world in unrecognizable ways. How difficult was it for everyone to see that? It was too simple. How hard was it to find a psychiatrist? Too hard. In the end, he was the only savior of everything because he was the only one around me who could do that. Does that make sense? That he's the only one? The problem with the psychiatrist is that everyone had the blessed humility to say they didn't know how to treat me. But was there any? Barely one and a half people, although my mental health was pushed aside during treatment. How difficult was it for others to see that? Honestly, the dental treatment was the least of my worries, from every point of view. Rightfully so, and I understand wholeheartedly, I ended up exploding at everyone.

Ironically, right now, the psychiatrist is the one putting the pieces together. She barely does six minutes of treatment, and she does so much more than the others. In addition to one person, whose example lifts heaven and earth and changes my life. From the smallest details, I categorically say, these people saved my life. In the dental service too, listening to me for a while, playing for a while, caring for me, being present, making the effort. That also did something very meaningful for me, and I'm not going to just give up. I can't do it. Also, damn, another doctor who supported me with the psychological aspect took it seriously, and in a way that I didn't get carried away with illusions. That one also deserves my award. These people, who did something, because those who operated didn't do a thing, except move some teeth with sophisticated and useless methods because they didn't attack anything, I can't let them be left aside in any way.

I'm currently running on two hours of sleep, and not per night. Literally I have gotten two hours of sleep in the past like four days.

I don't know why. I'm really freaking tired. But no matter what, I just can't sleep.

I can hardly keep my eyes open in class, but I can't go to sleep either; believe me, I've tried.

I just don't know what to do because I'm afraid that if i tell my parents or my doctor, they'll dismiss it as the sleep problems I've had since forever and yes it's probably those sleep problems and if it is they've gotten a LOT worse.

How do I get help when all the doctors/ nurses and that don’t help or understand me and what I feel and need for myself my mental health and it’s driving me mad and my anxiety and depression is driving me mad

I’m 14 and my dad pays a lot of money for my counsellor after he realised I was cutting myself last year (I mostly let him know as I’d been doing it a while without him noticing). I feel really guilty because I’ve been seeing her for a while and I still feel the same, which is a constant sick, sad kind of feeing, and I plan to die as soon as I’ve moved away. I felt so guilty that I’ve been lying to her and my dad about feeling better, and now it’s gotten too a point where I’m too embarrassed and ashamed to confess that I’m still feeling this way. How do I tell my counsellor that I still feel bad? I don’t know if this website is appropriate for this but I don’t have any real people who I can ask right now and I feel the urge to cut.