The Weight of Coping in Silence

There are parts of my past I don’t talk about often, mostly because they were built in silence. I didn’t grow up learning how to express my fear or confusion; I learned how to hide it. So when life became heavier than I could manage, I found ways to mute the noise instead of facing it. Substances. Overworking. Isolating myself. Late-night breakdowns disguised as “I’m just tired.” It didn’t matter what it was – if it created distance between me and my mind, I clung to it.

It’s strange how survival can look so much like self-destruction.

I wasn’t trying to ruin myself. I wasn’t trying to rebel. I was just trying to breathe without feeling like my own thoughts were suffocating me. But when coping turns into escaping, it leaves a trail of damage you don’t even notice at first.

I remember snapping at someone who only asked if I was okay.

I remember walking out on conversations because I couldn’t explain why I was overwhelmed.

I remember shutting off my phone for days, not because I didn’t care, but because I couldn’t handle one more message asking me to “talk about it.”

I remember drinking to feel normal for a few hours – not high, not reckless, just normal.

And when the high faded or the distraction ended, reality hit twice as hard.

The regret.

The guilt.

The realisation that the people I hurt weren’t the ones who caused the pain in the first place.

I have watched my own behaviour confuse the people I love. One minute I was withdrawn, unreachable; the next minute I was defensive, angry, impossible to approach. They were trying to understand me, and I was too busy trying not to fall apart. So our conversations became battlegrounds, even though we were all standing on the same side.

It’s painful to admit that my coping mechanisms didn’t just harm me – they exhausted others. People who were patient. People who cared. People who stayed even when I made it difficult.

But as much as it hurts to remember, it also teaches me something:

Pain explains behaviour, but it doesn’t justify harming others.

Healing, for me, has been the slow and uncomfortable process of acknowledging the truth:

I wasn’t a bad person.

I was a hurting person who didn’t know how to survive without breaking everything around me, including myself.

I’m learning now to reach out before I spiral.

To speak when something hurts instead of shutting down.

To notice when stress pushes me toward old patterns.

To understand that the people who try to help are not threats – they’re anchors.

I still have days where I relapse into silence. Days where numbing myself feels easier than honesty. Days where I’m afraid that the worst version of me is my real one. But every time I catch myself choosing differently, even in the smallest ways, I realise I am changing.

Maybe slowly. Maybe clumsily.

But changing.

And maybe that’s what matters most – not that I used to cope in ways that hurt me, but that today, I’m learning how to cope without losing myself or the people I love.