My early twenties, particularly the years leading up to my current age of twenty-six, were marked by a significant transformation and eventual collapse of my identity as I had always understood it. Recently, I found the strength to confront this reality. You might be curious about what I mean by the "collapse of identity." To clarify, let's delve into the intriguing realm of personality disorders.

At twenty, my ongoing battle with anxiety prompted me to consult a psychiatrist, where I received a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety.

Fast forward a year: instead of making progress, I began experiencing unsettling feelings I had never encountered before. I found myself in episodes where I felt foreign in my own skin, as if I were an outsider looking at another person's life, devoid of any emotional ties to that past.

During my second year at NYU, academic pressures mounted. The anxieties compounded: from tuition and bills to assignments and body image issues, not to mention the complexities of relationships. I felt lost. My doctor was at a loss as well, increasing my antidepressant dosage. A few months later, I found myself in a psychiatric ward for the first time.

This was merely the start. I still lacked clarity on my situation, as did my medical team. I was in a state of depression but wasn’t responding to medication or therapy. Occasionally, I felt normal, but most of the time, I felt like a soulless puppet, devoid of agency. In moments of crisis, overwhelming thoughts and feelings would engulf me, akin to torture—yet it was all in my mind. How do you convey to someone without mental illness the experience of enduring prolonged mental anguish? It’s an unseen affliction, a pain that is invisible to the outside world. If you dare to express your suffering, two outcomes are likely: people may label you as "crazy" and sever ties, or they might