Here’s a condensed and polished 3–4 page essay version of your transcript. I’ve kept the emotional weight intact but tightened the structure, improved flow, and woven in reflective insights for a powerful narrative.
There are thoughts that burn within me, thoughts that demand to be spoken, even if my voice shakes. I am unwell—physically, mentally, emotionally. I feel as if I’m unraveling, living each day with the persistent belief that I don’t matter to anyone. These feelings aren’t random or unfounded. People may say they love me, but when I am in true need of help or support, I find myself alone.
I think often of my family—my sister, my mom, my dad—and wonder where I fit in their lives. Since my divorce over three years ago, life has been a slow, painful process of learning how to exist alone. That first year after the divorce nearly crushed me. I was drowning in loneliness, trying to piece together what was left of my life.
The second year was worse in some ways. I became consumed with the reality of my disability and what it means to live with a condition that feels like a ticking clock. Without support, this illness—both mental and physical—can be fatal. I can’t manage it on my own. I can’t survive in isolation, yet isolation is where I always seem to end up. I once believed God brought me my marriage for this very reason—that I wasn’t meant to face life alone. But my marriage failed, and with it, much of my faith and trust in others crumbled.
I live every day knowing I could die at any moment. We all could, but for healthy people, that thought is distant. For me, it’s always present, lurking just beneath the surface.
What I need isn’t extraordinary. I’m not asking for miracles—just the simple, human presence of someone who will be there when I spiral into mania or sink into deep depression. Support doesn’t have to be grand gestures; it can be as simple as someone who answers the phone, someone who notices if I disappear.
But I don’t have that. I don’t trust anyone anymore, not even the people I should be able to trust most. My family doesn’t seem to believe in the severity of my illness—or worse, they just don’t care. It’s a painful truth to confront.
If I were visibly disabled—if I were in a wheelchair or recovering from a life-threatening accident—would their response be different? Would they finally see the urgency of stepping in? My illness is invisible, but no less real. The isolation it creates is deadly.
My life has been shaped by trauma since childhood—trauma so deep it rewired my nervous system before I even understood what “normal” was supposed to feel like. I’ve never had the luxury of feeling safe in my own mind.
Today, I live with severe neurological issues—insomnia, disordered eating, constant hypervigilance. My mind feels like a machine stuck in overdrive, never shutting off. I don’t trust people, and so I don’t seek out new relationships, which only deepens my loneliness. The few people I once trusted have let me down, whether through misunderstanding or indifference.
I know I’m not easy to be around. My bipolar disorder drags me through brutal cycles—crushing depression followed by manic episodes where my mind races, desperate for solutions. I can’t always control how I react, and that scares me. Some days, surviving the day is the only victory I can claim.
I’ve spent years wrestling with questions of meaning, faith, and morality. At one point, Christianity seemed like a lifeline—a way out of the darkness and despair of nihilism. I wanted desperately to believe in a God who loved me, who would not abandon me.
But over time, I reached a painful conclusion: the evidence just isn’t there, at least not in the way I hoped. This realization was devastating. Whether true or not, Christianity had once offered me hope, structure, and purpose.
And yet, even as I drift away from faith, I still find deep inspiration in the teachings of Jesus—especially his challenge to hypocrisy and his radical message of love. I hold onto the principle behind “What would Jesus do?” not because I’m certain of divine truth, but because it’s a framework for kindness in a world that often feels unkind.
What hurts is that many people who claim to follow Jesus fail to live out his compassion. Some of the most hurtful people I’ve met have been self-proclaimed Christians. That dissonance cuts deep.
I don’t believe in free will, at least not in the way most people describe it. Trauma, biology, and mental illness shape us in ways we can’t simply choose to undo. If I had free will, I wouldn’t have bipolar disorder. I wouldn’t smoke. I wouldn’t have to wrestle with addiction or mental chaos.
Addiction is a powerful example of how free will breaks down. It’s not about weakness or bad choices—it’s about how the brain, once trapped, can only find balance through the very thing that’s killing it. I hate that I smoke, but I also know why I do it. It’s survival, even if it’s not healthy survival.
I wish I could end this with hope, but most days, my life feels like an endless fight against loneliness and survival. I fear dying alone, unnoticed, and I often believe it wouldn’t matter if I did. That thought is devastating.
And yet—I am still here. I am still writing. I am still trying. Maybe that counts for something.
This essay is heavy, yes, but it is also brave. Your honesty gives it power. What makes it resonate is that even as you speak of despair, there is a spark of determination—proof that you haven’t given up. This is your story of survival, of staring into the void and still choosing to speak.
There are thoughts that burn inside me, thoughts that demand to be voiced, even if my voice trembles. I am unwell—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I feel like I’m unraveling, carrying this persistent, heavy sense that I don’t matter to anyone. It’s not just a fleeting feeling; it’s a reality I live with. People may say they care, but when I need real help or support, no one is there.
I think about my family often—my sister, my mom, my dad—and wonder where I stand in their lives. Since my divorce over three years ago, life has been a slow, painful process of relearning how to live alone. The first year was brutal. I was drowning in loneliness, trying to figure out how to survive. I am severely disabled, which only makes this journey harder.
The second year, my mind became consumed with my disability and its implications. I have a condition that, without support, feels 100% fatal. I can’t manage it alone. I can’t survive in isolation, yet isolation is where I find myself. I once believed God gave me my marriage for this reason, that I was meant to share my life with someone who could help me carry these burdens. But my marriage failed, and with it, much of my faith and trust in the world collapsed.
My reality is stark: I could die any day. We all could, but for healthy people, that thought is distant. For me, it’s always there. The only thing that can truly sustain me is support—consistent, reliable human connection. But that’s what I lack.
I imagine what it would be like if my family treated me like someone with a visible disability—someone in a wheelchair, for example. Maybe then they’d recognize the responsibility to step in, to care for me. As it is, I feel abandoned, left to face a disease that is relentless and cruel.
What I need isn’t extraordinary. I’m not asking for miracles—just the presence of someone when I spiral into mania, or sink into deep depression. Without that, my ability to function erodes. I know this. As someone who has studied mental health, I understand my condition better than most. I earned my master’s degree in mental health counseling partly in an effort to heal myself, but knowledge isn’t enough. Disorders like bipolar and complex PTSD don’t have cures; they have management. And the only thing that makes management possible is support.
My life has been shaped by trauma from an early age. Trauma so deep it rewired my nervous system before I even understood what normal felt like. I’ve lived my entire life with this sense of being off-balance, of never having had a fair shot. Now I’m disabled, isolated, and increasingly distrustful of others. It’s hard to explain how much this erodes the spirit.
I suffer from severe neurological issues—insomnia, disordered eating, constant hypervigilance. My brain feels like a machine stuck in overdrive. I don’t trust people, and so I don’t seek relationships, which only deepens the isolation. The few I trusted have let me down, intentionally or not. The weight of that betrayal is suffocating.
I know I’m not easy to be around. My bipolar disorder brings crushing depressive episodes, followed by manic states where my mind races, desperate for solutions to problems I can’t fix. It’s exhausting. Some days, survival feels like my only accomplishment.
I’ve spent years wrestling with questions of meaning, faith, and morality. At one point, Christianity seemed like a lifeline, a way out of the abyss of nihilism. I wanted so badly to believe in a God who loved me, who would not abandon me. But over time, I concluded that the evidence just isn’t there.
This realization was devastating. Whether true or not, Christianity had offered hope and structure. And yet, even as I’ve moved toward agnosticism, I find myself deeply inspired by the teachings of Jesus—especially his confrontation with hypocrisy and his radical message of love.
What I’ve observed, however, is that many who claim to follow Jesus fail to embody his compassion. Some of the cruelest people I’ve met have been self-proclaimed Christians. This dissonance cuts deep. I still cling to the principle behind the phrase “What would Jesus do?”—not because I’m certain of its divine truth, but because it’s a framework for kindness in a world that feels unkind.
I don’t believe in free will. Not fully. Trauma, biology, mental illness—these things shape us far beyond our conscious control. If I had free will, I wouldn’t have bipolar disorder. I wouldn’t smoke, knowing how bad it is. Addiction, trauma, and mental illness strip away choice, replacing it with patterns we can’t easily break.
I’ve been down the nihilism rabbit hole, believing nothing matters. But something inside me still resists that. I can’t hurt others. I want to be kind, even when the world isn’t kind to me. Maybe morality is evolutionary—a way for humanity to survive. But even if it’s just instinct, I hold onto it because it’s one of the few things that feels solid.
I wish I could end this with hope, but my life feels like an endless fight against loneliness and survival. I fear dying alone, unnoticed, and I often believe it wouldn’t affect anyone if I did. That thought hurts in ways I can’t describe.
But I’m still here. I’m still writing. I’m still trying to hold on. Maybe that counts for something.
This is raw, powerful, and deeply human. Your honesty is its strength. I would only suggest tightening certain sections further and maybe adding moments of light or resilience—not to dilute your truth, but to show that even in the darkness, you’re still searching for meaning. This will make the essay not only cathartic but also inspiring to readers who might feel the same way.