Experts estimate that over 83 million people suffer from some form of diagnosable mental illness. Some generalize it as anxiety. Some generalize it as depression. Some generalize it as bulls**t. The media romanticizes suicide attempts and self-harm because they make a touching story about someone overcoming struggles by finding “the one” or through some feat of their own strength. But the very real truth is that these conditions are not fun. They are not sexy. They do not come with a tearful confession at just the right moment or a swell of dramatic music when you make a breakthrough. They wound those who have the resources and support to get through them, and they cripple or kill those who don’t. Many people don’t know what mental illness is, or what it looks like. So I guess I’ll have to try to explain it. Listen up.

Having low self-esteem is a tricky beast. It’s one of the more subjective aspects of mental illness, so it can’t really be diagnosed. There are no numbers out there about how many people have low self-esteem; just a general understanding that if you don’t like yourself, it’s not good.

When I was in fourth grade, my math teacher called me “Obi-Wan Kenobi” because my last name is O’Brien. He called me Obi-Wan when handing a test back, and I deflected imaginary blaster bolts with my imaginary lightsaber all the way from my desk to his. Nobody thought it was funny.

When I was in fifth grade, I played Little League baseball. After grounding out for the fourth consecutive time, I slammed my helmet to the ground in frustration. Both my father and my coach scolded me, and the umpire threatened to eject me from the game if I did it again.

When I was in high school I used to wear track pants to school every day because it was easier than bringing a change of clothes for PhysEd. And a t-shirt that was too big. And a fedora. Every day. It was a dark time.

Just last year, I was hosting a “Senior Showcase” on campus. Just in the middle of one performer singing “All of Me,” I stepped on the cord for the electric piano and unplugged it, cutting out all accompaniment. As if I didn’t know, the accompanist announced “you unplugged the piano” to everyone as I scrambled to get it working again.

Later that year I participated in a singing competition despite my better judgement. During a brutally long lyrical break in my song, I improvised by gesturing toward the audience, judges, and cameras with my microphone as if to say “you ready for this shit?” while not placing in the competition.

I remember these all vividly. They were all moments of embarrassment and self-hate. I skimmed over this last section while proofreading it because I didn’t want to think about these times again.

I don’t see the good parts. As far as I’m concerned, there are so few good parts that there might as well be none.

People tell me that I should start paying more heed to the legions of compliments I can get. I usually write them off in one of two ways: either they’re lying to boost my ego, or they’re just flat-out wrong. What other explanations are there?

It bothers me especially when romantic interests compliment me. Hearing a girl I was interested in tell me how much she likes me used to make me bubble up with joy. Now it just makes me uncomfortable as I ask myself why she would feel that way.

I performed in a musical during my sophomore year of college, and was cast as the lead. All of my songs were far above my singing range. One note caused me to make a noise akin to three cats in a blender every time I sang it. On the closing night of the show, I planted my feet and belted that last note. It sounded good at the time.

I accidentally heard it months later when trying to send a video clip my dad had taken of the show. It wasn’t good. It was more akin to just one cat that night.