I’m here, I’ll always be here.
Tell me if you need me,
and call me if you feeling alone.
The fault in caring
In what may initially seem juxtaposed to the previous; A disproportionate chunk of me was dedicated to caring for other people, I was consistently and obsessively concerned with the safety, security, and wellbeing of those closest to me, to the edge of paranoia. This was probably the remnants of my security and wildlife protection careers– some symptom of C-PTSD. I’d sit awake all night next to my partner watching the door incase some imaginary demons came to hurt her. Hell was knocking on the door, but only in my mind. Towards the end I had given everything I had left, and there was no concern for myself, no room for self care, and no place for help. I volunteered myself to get damaged in an attempt to help others.
I had stretched myself so thin that I became a shadow of the person I once was. My own needs and well-being were buried beneath exhaustion as I constantly tried to prioritise everyone else, often beyond any rational need. I told myself that this was what it meant to love someone—to give until there was nothing left to give, and nothing left to love. But in reality, I was running on empty, it was a matter of time.
The irony was that, in trying to be everybody’s everything, I became nothing for myself. I was so consumed with ensuring that everyone else was okay that I didn’t realise how much I was falling apart. My health, both mental and physical, started to deteriorate. I was perpetually tired and on a comedown, emotionally drained, ate awfully, and became increasingly resentful, though I didn’t want to admit it; I was so bitter. I felt like I was drowning, but I was too proud—or maybe too stubborn—to reach out for help.
Not only was there no room for self-care; I had convinced myself that I didn’t deserve it. I thought that taking time for myself was selfish, that my value was solely what I could do for others. I didn’t realise that in neglecting my own needs, I was actually doing a disservice to those I cared about. How could I truly support them when I was barely holding myself together?
Eventually, I hit a breaking point. I had nothing left to give, and the people around me could see it, even if I couldn’t. Some were concerned, urging me to focus on myself. Others were frustrated, overwhelmed with the strain of my constant self-neglect. It took awhile for me, but after leaving I began to understand that caring for myself wasn’t an act of selfishness— it was necessary if I wanted to be there for the people I loved in the long term.
I had to learn the hard way that you can’t pour from an empty cup. Self-care isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. I started to make small changes. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, I began to replenish what I had lost. I began to find a balance between caring for others and caring for myself, realising that both were essential to living a healthy, fulfilling life. Only then can you offer the kind of support and love that is sustainable and genuine.
Looking back, I realise that those I lost along the way gave me the hardest lessons I had to learn, but the most important.
