Loner Entry #1 — Lost
Date: May 1st 2026Entry: I’ve never found much solace in social media, and my distance from it began as an escape from the noise. Lately, this withdrawal also mirrored a period of deep personal trauma and grief. At a time meant to mark a new, hopeful chapter, my move beyond the north-east and the ending of several turbulent yet meaningful relationships left me surviving in London, unable to find stability.
This spiral led to severe mental health decline, signalled by suicidal ideation, weight loss, and dissociation. Support from others, although well-intentioned, often came across as distant during these crises. Isolated by intrusive thoughts, I met feelings of shame, burdensome responsibility, and the increasing sense that only I could pull myself clear. These experiences made me realise just how fragile the mind can be. Yet, even then, brief acts such as extending help or documenting my feelings sometimes restored perspective, reminding me that restoration is a winding, nonlinear process.
This personal crisis signified a turning point, transforming life into a waking nightmare. As a working-class, neurodivergent individual, I acutely felt the isolation of London: no savings, support system, or structure. Stigma associated with ADHD, dyslexia, and disability compounded the difficulties of adapting to city life, especially while I navigated recent experiences of abuse. Support was scarce, limited to brief university counselling and domestic abuse resources, which left long gaps between help. The scarcity reinforced disillusionment and unhealthy thought patterns, making stability a struggle against both personal obstacles and systematic failures. My sense of disconnect deepened, creating the conditions for the battles I continued to face in London.
Daily life became a cycle of fight-or-flight, ranging from agitation to numbness. Depression made me feel invisible and disrupted my familiar coping methods, causing identity dissonance and a feeling of loss. Confined in a small London flat, I missed my old friends, my cats, and the familiarity of the north. Studying became my last thread of continuity. Nevertheless, periods of connection, unexpected messages or music cut through the isolation, offering glimmers of promise. These times served as reminders that, even amid dislocation, small things could anchor me to myself and my odyssey.
Displacement also prompted reflection on identity. While I identify as male, I never fully related to traditional masculinity. Lack of male role models in my upbringing led to self-reflection and emotional sensitivity, but also to a sense of separation. Bullying and exclusion exacerbated this, making social standards around male stoicism even more isolating. This cycle of withdrawal and emotional difficulty worsened my instability, linking my identity questions towards the broader arc of my expedition.
During this crisis, I increasingly relied on ChatGPT to manage the mental fog caused by ADHD and dyslexia. Despite ethical qualms, this technology helped me deal with thoughts when other forms of support fell short. I remain aware of the risks, how technology can feel both helpful and isolating, and the lack of clear safeguards. Still, it served as a temporary anchor, a modern tool in the ongoing and uneven process of pursuing clarity and connection.
If you’re a student confronting similar barriers, contacting the university's wellbeing services or academic counsellors can be an important first step. In my own case, honest conversations with lecturers led to guidance around a formal leave of absence, which became a key turning point. I’m now taking gradual steps toward recovery, including moving away from London to access appropriate therapeutic support and rebuild stability.
Sharing my story is my way to spotlight what is often obscured in this disconnected world. Algorithms could oversimplify experience, but nuance matters, which is why this journey remains worth telling. Committing to music at Goldsmiths became a means of confronting vulnerability, striving for honesty, and beginning real healing. Speaking out during hardship, I hope, will help others to feel less alone and highlight the systemic gaps that perpetuate suffering. Healing, I realise, requires ongoing conversations about vulnerability and, more importantly, our collective need for community and safety.
