I have mental health issues, but nothing I’ve had professionally diagnosed. I’ve come to the conclusion my problems are social anxiety and suicidal depression. But I’m not sure they’d meet the clinical definitions, and find I’m wary of openly labelling myself in case it offends others with these conditions who’re worse off than me.

It shouldn’t matter in the confines of my own head. But I wrote a story as a cheap alternative to therapy, and I’m worried about putting it out there and potentially misleading people about these conditions. (As a 50,000 word psychological thriller, it’s unlikely to get out other than being self-published, as it’s in a traditional publishing dead zone, and I can’t see how to pad it out.)

I can function in society (kind of) so it’s likely these are more my neuroses, and others must have it far worse. What I consider social anxiety is basically my inability to initiate communication. I can respond to others relatively okay – though lack of practice makes it awkward – but attempts to initiate communications can leave me anxious for a while thereafter. Even trivial matter with family members can be difficult, and more often than not, I won’t bother.

I’ve gotten worse over the years, allowing myself to retreat from society. It’s left me increasingly isolated, and I’ve fallen out of touch with the few friends I had. It’s taken a while to realise what it is, as I’d always put it down to shyness. And maybe it is. Maybe my neuroses are simply exaggerating it. But others, even those with severe shyness, seem better than me at socialising.

The prospect of any kind of communication with others puts me in danger of a breakdown, but time to prepare and plan out what I need to say makes things easier. Or at least I feel less likely to get stuck not knowing what to say next, which is one of the worries.

This inability to reach out is part of the reason I haven’t sought help for my conditions. The greater part is that I just don’t see the point. I’ve gotten so far through life like this, and don’t see anything ahead, even if I overcome this problem. Why would it matter anyway? It’s not as though anyone wants to talk to me, and running through how attempts to talk to people would likely go makes me see there’s little point to trying.

This distance from society obviously feeds the depression. I can’t remember the last time I was happy. I start to wonder if I even know what it feels like, and simply assume I’d recognise the chemical release from it. I think of it as different from amusement, or the satisfaction of writing . But maybe that’s all it is, and I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist.

I always feel this general weariness, especially when I consider where I am, and where I’m going. The answer to both always seems to be nowhere. I have nothing in life, and never will. I don’t even really have a life. Just an existence. And no sense of agency to escape it. I only see the one, inevitable end to it, and remember considering it from as early as my teens.

The option of suicide has always been there, becoming more enticing over the years. But I’m possessed of sufficient self-delusion to partly fool myself with the lie that things will get better (spoilers: they won’t). That, and obligations to family, are the only reason I’m still here, and I’m certain that one day they won’t be enough.

Some days, often doing certain chores that I can’t escape repeating, the feeling washes over me more strongly and immediately, choking with the need for it to just be over, to be allowed to rest.

I recognise most of the symptoms for social anxiety listed on the NHS website, and many of those for depression. Yet I still feel that my problems don’t deserve those labels. That my suffering must be less than those actually diagnosed with the conditions. And that putting out a work of fiction using my experience of them is inviting abuse (more so than putting anything on the internet does, that is).

I realise these concerns are part of my condition, but that realisation does little to diminish the anxiety. I doubt it’d stop me putting the novel out anyway (the labels aren’t used clinically, so misuse of them is debatable). It’s not as though anyone reads my stuff (because social anxiety makes marketing difficult), so there’s probably nothing to worry about.

Given it’s unlikely to be read by anyone, let alone anyone who could be offended (and if their social anxiety is similar to mine they’d be unlikely to complain aloud anyway), this is probably pure neurosis. But while all labels are made up, the meanings we attribute to them have weight, and a common understanding of ideas is necessary to be able to properly relate to one another. I don’t want to contribute to a misunderstanding, and watering down, of the pain people suffer. I just wanted to clarify my own issues, and having written the story feel the need to release it. At some point.