From Breakdown to Recovery: What Really Happens When You Ignore Your Mental Health

For years, I’ve talked about anxiety and mental health. About the racing thoughts, the panic, the exhaustion. But I’ve never really talked about where it all began — the day everything changed.

It was 2015. I’d just got married, started a new job, and on the surface, life was moving in the right direction. Then, one normal morning at work, my brain suddenly… broke. There’s no elegant way to describe it. Every negative thought I’d ever had — about myself, my worth, my future — started screaming at me all at once. I felt dizzy, detached, like the world had tilted. My body was frozen, my mind on fire.

I left the office in a haze, stumbled through the longest train journey of my life, and collapsed into bed when I got home. That night, I cried harder than I ever had before. It felt like something fundamental in me had gone missing.

Over the next few weeks, things only got worse. I lost weight rapidly, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think. My body felt like it was in constant fight-or-flight mode. The panic never stopped. And the hardest part wasn’t the fear — it was the loss of identity. I’d look in the mirror and not recognise the person staring back.

After months of confusion, misdiagnoses, and doctor appointments that went nowhere, I finally found a GP who took me seriously. It turned out that a steroid I’d been prescribed for eczema — taken in high doses over a long period — had effectively shut down my adrenal system. My body had stopped producing cortisol, the hormone that regulates stress.

In short: I had no ability to handle stress, anxiety, or even basic emotional regulation. My system had completely crashed.

Once I started the right treatment, things began to stabilise. But the psychological fallout was immense. Even when the physical symptoms faded, I was left with the trauma of having completely lost myself. It took months to rebuild any sense of normality. And years to stop being afraid of my own thoughts.

Looking back, I can see the signs that I ignored — the exhaustion, the restlessness, the slow build-up of pressure. But the biggest mistake wasn’t missing those signals. It was waiting almost ten years before getting real, professional help.

I told myself I was fine. That I could manage it alone. That I didn’t need therapy, or medication, or to “make a big deal” out of it. But every time life got stressful, the same patterns returned — two to four weeks of darkness, every six months. I’d white-knuckle my way through it, pretending it would pass. And it always did. But at a cost.

When I finally started therapy and went on medication years later, I realised how much time I’d lost trying to fight it on my own. The difference was night and day. The thoughts didn’t go away entirely — but they stopped controlling me.

If there’s one thing I’d tell anyone reading this, it’s this: don’t wait. Don’t convince yourself you’re fine if you’re not. Don’t wait for a breakdown to become your wake-up call.

You don’t get a medal for enduring silently. Getting help isn’t weakness — it’s the start of getting your life back.

I wish I’d done it sooner.