Stigma Strings and Structural Stigma as Puppeteer

 

There’s a unique shame in trembling on the wire when you’re the one expected to stay balanced. 

I was supposed to help others find steadiness — yet I couldn’t hold onto my own. 

What made it worse? No one else seemed to be shaking the way I was. 

There was definitely an internal storm, but I was too embarrassed to share it because of some silent expectation that told me I wasn't supposed to be feeling that way. And because I didn't see others suffering in the same way, I questioned my own feelings. 

When I shared glimpses of my struggle, I was met with an empty kindness or a confusing concern that seemed to say "really?". So I stopped reaching out. Sort of a 'oh yeah, this is officially a me problem'.

I started to hide too because I stopped telling the truth.

I don’t know if I ever told the full truth to anyone. The risk of judgment felt too great. I was already losing my sense of self, and one more blow might’ve sent me down.

I carried internal stigma, too — believing a therapist should be above the struggle. So when I needed help, I felt like a failure. I felt worthless and wondered if I was beyond repair.

And the hardest truth? I did it to others too. When someone came to me in their own storm, I couldn’t face it. I was barely holding on, contorting on the wire in every way just to stay upright — the last thing I could risk was another gust of wind.

I felt very alone in this experience most of the time. 

Always wishing there was another way...

Structural Stigma as Puppeteer

There is a reason you have struggled, it's because I see MH as less urgent and less real. 

This means MH organizations starve because I don't value them, and their funding simply reflects that. 

Policymakers and political leaders often prioritize other issues when deciding where money goes because of me, even though mental health needs are massive.

Thanks to me many people suffer in silence, the true scope of the problem stays hidden — making it a whole lot easier for systems to underfund care without public outrage.

Because of the underfunding, you will suffer with overload, overwhelm, and little support, and then the others will use me against you. Oftentimes, they don't know they are doing it. 

I kept things uneven on purpose. I made you feel responsible for everything—even the weight that was never yours. I gave you no way to offload it, no space to question it, no permission to step back. You adapted, because you’re good at carrying. That worked for me.

You grew, but not because I supported you. Your clarity came from outside—from research, self-work, boundary-setting, others insights, and daring to say things I never wanted said out loud. That rage you felt? That was you waking up to the fact that I never had your back.

I trained you to stay silent, to equate over-producing with purpose. I embedded the message that you needed to fix everything—and when you stepped in, I tightened the loop. Your pain from your personal history made you vulnerable to my demands. You didn’t see how deep it ran. That was the design.

I gave you more plates than anyone could carry. And when some inevitably fell, I didn’t offer support—I offered shame. I made you feel like a liability. I tied your worth to your performance, then raised the bar until it broke you. And when you broke, I whispered: You’re the problem.

And because you're connected to my strings, you also perpetuate the problem. You know those statements - when you've said: "it's just the way it is" or "welcome to CMH". You saw it as normal and trained each other.

You powered through time and time again, but eventually you started to blame - and then you turned the blame inward. You started to hate yourself for your inadequacies. And that served me. 

You didn’t name me as the source—you just tried harder, hurt deeper, punished yourself for my imbalance. I told you that struggle meant weakness and care was indulgent. And you believed me. 

Eventually, the part of you that used to protect you, gave out. The healthy ego was ground down and buried, and because of that your boundaries blurred and your instincts dulled. You knew you needed change, but I had drained you of the very energy it takes to claim something better.

You kept walking. Even as I watched you unravel, I never stopped you—I just stayed quiet. I only respond to collapse, not because I’m cruel, but because I’m indifferent. 

And that is what makes me dangerous. Not my aggression—my neglect.