This powerful essay illustrates what it's like to live with an 'invisible' mental illness.

"Everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always."

While this quote is true for anyone you may come in contact with, it may be especially true for those of us with "high-functioning" mental illnesses.

You come in contact with people in this category every day, even if you don't know it. In fact, you might be one of these people yourself.


Despite a handful of mental health diagnoses, I have a steady job, am working part-time on a master's degree, have a social life, and in general seem to be a functioning adult. I am glad to be moving through life, and I refuse to let my disorders define me or even limit me. However, struggling with these demons while also being an over-achiever can be isolating and frustrating.

Being "high-functioning" does not make disorders or battles any less overwhelming.

Sometimes it feels like I'm swimming in the ocean, caught in a riptide and getting pulled in over my head all while fighting with every ounce of strength to reach the surface for a breath of air. It is a constant struggle to keep my battles from drowning me or pulling me under.

Many people understandably do get pulled under to the point of not getting out of bed or going to work or functioning. But others' highly active survival instincts keep them struggling to reach the surface of the water so they can breathe. Their current is just as strong, and the threat and pain of these struggles is just as real. Their instinct is just different — to fight as hard as they can and not ever stop.

It may seem like this makes high-functioning people's struggles "easier," "less severe," or "less real."

In reality, my instinct is just to tread water and maintain appearances while many other people's is to not fight the ocean quite so hard. Neither response is wrong — people just fight their battles differently.

Of course, mental illnesses and trauma are awful and isolating no matter what. Being "high-functioning," though, can feel extremely isolating and confusing in a different way. Most of the time, the people I love are not aware of how much I am struggling. They see me achieving, they see me living, and they figure I am OK. I have an active sense of humor and tend to minimize my fight. People assume I'm managing just fine.

Even those closest to me are sometimes confused by the juxtaposition of my mental illness and my functional life.

Unless I specifically tell my family and friends that I am absolutely not OK in explicit terms, it is all too easy to assume that everything is fine. I realized about nine months ago that my own parents, whom I am very close to, had no idea how severe my PTSD was or how anxious and depressed I felt.

A couple of times a week, I go to bed having to actively battle thoughts like everyone would be better off without me and that I should just make myself disappear. These thoughts aren't rational, and they aren't visible to anyone (other than my therapist who always seems to know).

When I get up in the morning, I put on a brave face and tackle the day while my brain and body scream at me that it would be better, safer, and easier if I just stayed in bed all day. Every moment of every day, I fight the current that is trying to pull me under and fight the desire to just stop. I want to give in. I want to let the pain and depression wash over me. More than anything I want peace and rest for a little while because fighting this and putting on my brave face is exhausting. I still fight, though, because that is the only way I can find to manage life.

Being "high-functioning" is a gift at times, and it allows me to be a productive adult.

It comes at a cost, too, as fighting to remain functioning drains me. In all likelihood, someone in your circle, someone you know and love, is fighting this same battle. Smiles and laughter and "I'm doing well!" answers can lie about the pain and exhaustion that may be completely invisible to others.

So remember, as much as you can, be kind always with everyone. Sometimes your gentleness might just be the lifeline someone needs to get through the day.

If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or text "START" to 741-741.

This story originally appeared on The Mighty and is reprinted here with permission. If you or someone you know needs help, visit The Mighty's suicide prevention resources page.

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