Mindscapes - Adolescent Expression | [Essay] Back from the Edge: A Journey Through Darkness, Despair, and Survival

It looked perfect from the outside. I was smart, driven, and surrounded by a loving family and friends. I seemed to have it all. 

People saw the trophies. The grades. The smile. 
But they didn’t see the cracks. 
They didn’t hear the voice in my head that said, 
"Not enough. Never enough." 

No one saw the truth. I hadn’t been okay for a long time. 

Even as a child, I felt different. My mind never slowed down — always overthinking, overanalysing, trying to be the best. I craved praise and validation. I held myself to impossible standards. I didn’t know that wasn’t normal. I thought that was how people were wired. 

And long before the perfectionism or anxiety arrived, there was something deeper, which shaped everything. 

When I was just 18 months old, I was in a severe accident. I was in the ICU for two months, and they weren’t sure if I was going to make it. I survived. But I had the scars. 

By the time I was four, I started realizing how other kids used to stare at me and look at me differently. 

So, I made a conscious decision at four. I wanted people to look at me because of the things I could do, not how I looked. I always felt this need to prove my worth. The amount of pain a 4-year-old would’ve felt to make this kind of decision is unimaginable.  

When I look back, I just wish I could hug her and tell her “YOU ARE ENOUGH”. 


I worked hard. 

Sports. Academics. Singing. Dancing. Speaking. 
I chased every gold medal, every applause, every title like it was oxygen. 

But here’s the truth: 
Perfection is a beautiful cage. 
And I had locked myself inside it. 


By 10th grade, I had achieved the dream. I had become head girl and exceled at everything I did. But my relationship with success was toxic — 99 didn’t make me happy; That 1 mark lost made me sad. 

I was addicted to achievement, and I played life like a competition I couldn’t afford to lose. Even fun activities, like sports, became battlegrounds. 

But I didn’t know that underneath, everything was falling apart. 

It didn’t make sense. I had everything I had ever wanted — yet I felt the worst I’d ever felt. 

I started questioning my entire existence. There was sadness I couldn’t explain, anger I couldn’t comprehend. It felt like everything I had worked for was slipping away. 

There were moments I’d just be studying when this wave would crash over me. I’d cry uncontrollably, heart racing, chest tightening. I knew these were panic attacks; had experienced them before, but never this intensely. 

Still, I kept going. I kept trying to do it all. I stopped feeling joy in the things I used to love. My mind was constantly spinning with fear and thoughts that I wasn’t good enough. 

And slowly, that voice in my head — the one I’d always had become louder. Crueller. 
And this time, it didn’t whisper, it screamed. 

"You’re a burden." 
"You’ve ruined everything." 
"They’d be better off without you." 

I felt so helpless. I wanted to be better for my family but I couldn’t bring myself to be. I had lost the will to live. 

Many people came and told me how I shouldn’t cry and get stressed over small things, to have willpower and think about people around me.  It just made me feel weak. 

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I cried every day. I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. The voice got so loud it felt real. I was trembling constantly, shutting my ears and screaming without memory of doing so. 

My parents noticed how I had become quiet, frail, disconnected. When I finally told them the truth about the thoughts, the pain, the self-harm, they were terrified. But they stood by me. 

We saw doctors, neurologists, psychiatrists. I started medication and therapy. But nothing seemed to help. I was spiralling deeper, faster. 

I was hospitalized in a psychiatric care center just before my board exams. No one knew if I’d be able to give them. It was one of the hardest months of my life. 

But with the support of everyone around, I did it.  

I thought that once the pressure of exams was gone, everything would be fine again. But I still didn’t feel ok. 

I scored 96%. People around me said it was incredible, especially after everything I had been through. They were proud. But I wasn’t. All I could focus on was how far I’d fallen from the impossibly high standards I had set for myself. 

I didn’t see resilience — I saw failure in disguise. 

I started 11th grade in a new school. I had new subjects, new friends, and was even studying psychology. I loved it not just because of my journey but because I realized how unaware we were. 

It felt like a second chance. 

But slowly, the darkness returned.  

Sometimes, the scariest thing isn’t the breakdown. 
It’s when the darkness sneaks back in — quietly, slowly, until one day you realize: 
You’re back in that place. 

The weight returned. Heavier. 
I didn’t want to die. 
But I couldn’t live with that pain anymore. 

And so, I crossed a line. 
Not once, but twice. 
I came dangerously close to not being here at all. 

I felt like I was drowning and no one could hear my cry for help. 

It was terrifying. For me and for the people who loved me. Then one day, I completely dissociated from reality. I was paranoid, unrecognizing, lost.  

When I came out of that dissociation after a month, I knew I couldn’t keep going like this. I spoke to my parents, therapist, and doctor. We agreed I needed a break, a REAL one. I had already missed school anyway. This break became a turning point. 

I stayed consistent with my medication. and therapy. For the first time, I started understanding myself — not just my symptoms, but why they were happening. We explored my thought patterns and started learning how to interrupt them. 

Now I was doing everything I used to, study, sing, dance, play.  

I returned to school, changed. 

I was smiling again, genuinely smiling. I felt like the version of me I hadn’t been in a long time. 

I was still driven, still ambitious, but I wasn’t ruled by it.  

I slowly, gently, reclaimed my life. 

I finished 11th grade strong without breaking down. I lost a few marks but I was at peace with it. 

Finally, I truly feel ok. 

There are still anxious days, ups and downs. Not every moment is easy. But I handle it better now. I take my meds and talk about what’s on my mind. It has made all the difference.  

Therapy has helped me realize that I don’t have to be perfect to be worthy, that it’s okay to fall apart sometimes.  It taught me how to break free from the patterns that were holding me back and how to be more self-compassionate. 

This journey changed me. It made me softer, more empathetic, more aware. 

If sharing my story can make an impact in how people view mental illness, if it can make anyone feel less alone, it is worth it. 

Mental illness is not a weakness. It’s a part of who I am, but it does not define me. Recovery is not a straight path. It’s messy, it’s hard. But it’s possible. 

The goal isn’t perfection. The goal is peace. And finally, after everything, I’m starting to find it. 

This fight is not about never falling. 
It’s about learning how to rise back up. 

~ By Anahita ~