I learned to become unwell very quietly, not because I wanted to be mysterious and not because I thought no one would understand, but because I heard, once too often, how exhausting it can be to love someone who is struggling, and the sentence stayed with me long after the person who said it had probably forgotten.
Before that, someone I loved had once asked me to change when, from where I was standing, I had only been trying badly to communicate. I did not yet know how to say I am scared without sounding angry, or I need reassurance without feeling ashamed of needing it, so everything came out misshapen and too sharp around the edges. I remember thinking that if the truest version of my pain was already too difficult to receive, perhaps the kinder thing was to make it smaller before offering it at all.
After that, I began editing my pain before handing it to anyone. I would say I was tired when what I meant was that I could feel myself disappearing a little. I would say work was busy when really work had become the place I went so I would not have to sit still long enough to hear myself. I became very good at answering I’m okay quickly enough that no one had time to look too closely at my face.
There is a strange instinct in people who are already drowning to worry about getting everyone else wet.
So you stop reaching for the hand because you imagine the weight of your body pulling them under too and eventually even your needs begin to embarrass you. You give people the version of the story that requires the least from them and call it consideration.