I opened and closed this document seven times before I began writing this paragraph. To be honest, I don’t know what’s special about me — what differentiates me, what makes me, me.

I used to think I shouldn’t use my mental illness as something that makes me special. But looking at the blank page, I know nobody can never say he/she knows me without knowing this.

In China, mental illness is not recognized as an actual illness. There are taboos around talking about it. It is considered shameful. It diminishes one’s right to simply be human.

I grew up with issues

I felt intense distress when objects were not arranged precisely, as if the slightest disorder threatened to undo me. I tried to fix them just to feel a fragile grip on a reality that barely felt real.

I stayed in bed for days, unable to feel anything except a heavy, shapeless pain. I remember lying there for hours, motionless, yet somehow still exhausted — as if even existing required more strength than I had.

There was often an unbearable ache in my chest, a pain so physical it frightened me. Later, I learned it had a name: somatization.

This is me — a large part of me — and a part I wanted to hide for years.

I am still working through it, slowly and imperfectly. Along the way, I have begun helping my friends through their own struggles, and I hope one day to help even more people carry theirs.