personality disorder
Personality disorders are as complex as they are misunderstood; delve into this diagnosis and learn the typical cognitions, behaviors, and inner experience of those inflicted.
You Are Not Empty, You Are Overloaded
You are not empty. You are not broken. You are not dull. - You are overloaded. - People often describe certain mental states as “having nothing in their head,” but that description is almost always inaccurate. What feels like emptiness is usually saturation. The mind has not stopped producing content. It has lost spare capacity. The system is busy allocating energy toward coping, regulating, or enduring, and there is little left over for reflection, synthesis, or creativity. This distinction matters, because mistaking overload for emptiness leads people to judge themselves harshly for conditions that are largely structural and biological.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast9 months ago in Psyche
Why Are Psychiatrists, Psychologists, Therapists, and Counselors Called “Shrinks”?
Most of us have heard someone say, “I’m going to see my shrink,” with a shrug or a half‑smile — but have you ever stopped to wonder where that slang word came from? It’s one of those cultural words we have heard, and we begin using them without knowing what they actually mean.
By Margaret Minnicks9 months ago in Psyche
Mirror, Mirror - Who Do You See?
Hey, how are you feeling today? Have you taken some time for yourself today? If you are a trauma survivor, the answer is probably not. As survivors, the last person we think about is ourselves because we have spent years being suppressed into believing that we don't exist, that we are nothing, and that we deserve nothing.
By Elizabeth Woods9 months ago in Psyche
This Show Makes You Suspicious on Purpose
At first, it feels harmless. You sit down to watch His & Hers the way you sit down to watch any thriller. Lights dimmed. Phone face-down. A body on screen. A mystery to solve. Two people telling the same story in different voices. You tell yourself this is entertainment. Suspense. Craft.
By Aarsh Malik9 months ago in Psyche
The Psychology of Losing Interest in Life
I didn't notice when I stopped caring. It wasn't a decision, wasn't a moment. It was a gradual dimming, like someone slowly turning down the lights in a room so incrementally that you don't realize you're sitting in darkness until you can barely see anymore.My bookshelf is full of unread books.Not new books I haven't gotten to yet—books I was excited about, bought eagerly, started reading, and then... just stopped. They sit there, bookmarks still in place from where I lost interest, collecting dust alongside all the other things I used to care about.My guitar leans against the wall in the corner, strings gathering dust. I haven't played it in eight months. I used to play every day, lose myself in music for hours. Now I walk past it without even noticing it's there.My running shoes sit by the door, barely worn. I used to run five miles every morning, needed it to start my day right. Now the thought of lacing them up feels exhausting, pointless.My friends have stopped inviting me places. Not because they're angry, but because I've said "maybe next time" so many times that they've finally stopped asking. I don't blame them. I wouldn't want to hang out with me either.I used to be someone. Someone with passions, interests, hobbies, enthusiasm. Someone who was excited about things, engaged with life, present in my own existence.Now I'm just someone going through motions, waiting for bedtime, counting down hours until I can sleep again and temporarily escape the monotony of being awake.The Erosion of InterestIt didn't happen all at once. That's the insidious thing about losing interest in life—it's so gradual you don't recognize it's happening until you're already deep in it.First, I stopped doing the things that took effort. "I'm just tired," I'd tell myself. "I'll get back to my hobbies when work calms down."Then I stopped doing things that required leaving the house. "It's just easier to stay in tonight. I'll be social next week."Then I stopped doing things that brought me joy, even easy things. Watching shows I loved became too much effort. Reading felt like work. Even scrolling social media—the lowest-effort activity possible—felt exhausting.Eventually, I was doing nothing but the absolute minimum required to keep my life from falling apart: work, basic hygiene, feeding myself (barely), sleep. Everything else fell away.My partner noticed before I did. "You don't seem excited about anything anymore," he said one night. "When's the last time you talked about something you were passionate about?"I couldn't remember. Not because it had been so long, but because I couldn't remember ever being passionate about anything. That person who got excited, who had enthusiasm, who cared deeply about things—she felt like someone I used to know, not someone I'd been.The Questions I Couldn't Answer"What do you enjoy doing?" my therapist asked during our first session.I sat there, genuinely unable to answer. Not because I was being difficult, but because I didn't know. I couldn't remember what I enjoyed. I couldn't access any sense of preference or desire or interest."What did you used to enjoy?" she tried."Reading, I guess. Music. Running. Seeing friends." The words came out flat, like I was reading someone else's biography."Do those things not interest you anymore?""I don't know," I said, and realized I was crying without quite knowing why. "I don't think anything interests me anymore. I don't feel interested. I don't feel... anything about anything."She nodded, unsurprised. "What you're describing is called anhedonia—the loss of interest or pleasure in activities you used to enjoy. It's a core symptom of depression."Depression. The word felt both right and wrong. I wasn't sad, wasn't crying all the time, wasn't unable to function. I went to work every day. I kept my apartment reasonably clean. I wasn't actively suicidal.But I also wasn't living. I was existing. And there's a difference.The Weight of IndifferencePeople don't understand how heavy indifference feels. They think not caring would be light, easy, freeing. But apathy has its own gravity, pulling you down, making every action feel like moving through cement.Every morning, I'd wake up and feel the weight settle over me—the knowledge that I had to get through another day of not caring about anything, including getting through the day.Shower? Why bother. I'd just have to shower again tomorrow.Eat something healthy? What's the point. Nothing tastes good anyway.Call that friend back? For what. I have nothing to say.Work on that project? Why. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.The rational part of my brain knew things mattered. Objectively, logically, I understood that my relationships, my health, my work, my life—these things had value and consequences.But I couldn't feel it. There was a disconnect between knowing something mattered and caring that it mattered. And without the caring, the knowing was useless.The Isolation of ApathyLosing interest in life is profoundly isolating because you're not just disconnected from activities—you're disconnected from other people's enthusiasm, their joy, their engagement with life.I'd watch my coworkers get excited about projects and feel like I was observing an alien species. How did they care? Where did that energy come from? What was the point?My partner would come home excited about his day, wanting to share, and I'd have to perform interest I didn't feel. "That's great, honey," I'd say, while internally feeling nothing. He'd eventually stop sharing because he could tell I wasn't really there.Friends would invite me to things they were excited about—concerts, trips, events—and I couldn't muster even fake enthusiasm. "I'm busy" became my default response, easier than admitting "I don't care about anything anymore, including seeing you."The worst part was feeling nothing about feeling nothing. I'd think, "I should be upset that I'm losing all my relationships." But I wasn't upset. I was just... aware of it happening, like watching a car crash in slow motion that I had no interest in preventing.The Daily PerformanceI became very good at faking normal.I'd smile at appropriate times. Laugh when others laughed. Nod and say "mm-hmm" during conversations. Make comments that suggested I was present and engaged when really I was counting down minutes until I could be alone again.At work, I did exactly what was required, no more, no less. The passion I'd once had for my career, the drive to excel, the satisfaction from accomplishment—all gone. I showed up, performed my tasks adequately, and left. My performance reviews noted I was "meeting expectations," a phrase that once would have devastated my perfectionist tendencies but now barely registered.I maintained the appearance of someone who had their life together. Clean clothes. Basic hygiene. Apartment not a disaster. Paid my bills. Showed up where I was supposed to show up.But inside? Empty. Going through every motion mechanically, feeling nothing, wanting nothing, caring about nothing.The performance was exhausting. Not because it required much energy, but because maintaining even the minimum felt pointless. Why keep pretending? For what? What was I preserving? A life I didn't even want to live?The Questions That Had No AnswersLate at night, unable to sleep despite being exhausted, I'd lie in the dark asking myself questions I couldn't answer:When did I stop caring?How do I care again?Is this just who I am now?Will I ever feel excited about anything again?Does everyone feel like this and just hide it better?What's the point of any of it?Why am I even here?Not suicidal thoughts exactly—more like existential ones. I didn't want to die, but I also couldn't articulate why I wanted to live. I existed because not existing required active effort I didn't have the energy for. So I just... continued. Day after day. Feeling nothing. Wanting nothing. Being nothing.
By Ameer Moavia10 months ago in Psyche
The Psychology of Living in Your Head
I was at dinner with friends when I realized I had no idea what anyone had been talking about for the last fifteen minutes.They were laughing, animated, fully present in the moment. Meanwhile, I was three conversations deep in my own head—replaying something awkward I'd said two hours ago, planning tomorrow's presentation, and simultaneously worrying about whether I'd come across as distant by not contributing enough to this very conversation I wasn't actually having.My best friend touched my arm. "You okay? You seem a million miles away."She had no idea. I wasn't a million miles away. I was right there at the table, but I was also simultaneously existing in seventeen different mental dimensions, none of which were the present moment."Sorry," I mumbled. "Just tired."But I wasn't tired. I was just living in my head again. Like always.The Inner World That Never SleepsFor as long as I can remember, my mental life has been louder, more vivid, and more consuming than my actual life. While my body moves through the world—working, eating, talking—my mind is elsewhere, running a constant stream of thoughts, scenarios, conversations, and narratives that never stop.I live in a perpetual state of analysis. Every interaction gets dissected afterward. Every decision gets examined from forty-seven angles. Every feeling gets intellectualized, categorized, and filed away for future rumination.My therapist calls it "being in your head." I call it my default state of existence.Other people seem to just be—they go to the gym and think about the gym. They watch movies and experience the story. They have conversations and stay in those conversations.I go to the gym and plan my entire week. I watch movies and critique the dialogue while simultaneously thinking about my own life's narrative arc. I have conversations while having three other conversations with myself about the conversation I'm supposed to be having.It's exhausting. But it's also the only way I know how to exist.The Architects of OverthinkingI wasn't born this way. Or maybe I was, but life certainly reinforced it.Growing up, my household was unpredictable. Not chaotic in an obvious way, but emotionally volatile. I learned early that survival meant prediction—if I could think through every possible scenario, anticipate every reaction, analyze every mood shift, I could stay safe.My mind became my refuge and my fortress. When the outside world felt uncertain, I could retreat inward, where I had complete control. I could replay conversations until I found the "right" response. I could plan futures in meticulous detail. I could create entire worlds that made sense in ways reality never did.School rewarded this tendency. Teachers praised my thoughtfulness, my ability to see multiple perspectives, my rich inner life. "She's an old soul," they'd say. "Very introspective."What they didn't see was that I wasn't choosing introspection. I was trapped in it.The Prison of PossibilityLiving in your head means living in infinite possibility—and infinite paralysis.Every decision becomes monumental because I can see every potential outcome. Choosing a restaurant requires weighing seventeen variables. Sending a simple email takes an hour because I'm analyzing every word choice, every possible interpretation, every way it could be misunderstood.My partner once joked that I could turn "Should we get pizza tonight?" into an existential crisis. He wasn't wrong.But it's not funny when you're the one drowning in it. When your brain treats every choice like a choose-your-own-adventure book with infinite pages. When you're so busy thinking about living that you forget to actually live.I've missed so much because I was too busy processing it. Sunsets I didn't see because I was ruminating. Conversations I didn't hear because I was rehearsing what I'd say next. Moments of joy that passed me by because I was already analyzing them, trying to capture and preserve them instead of simply experiencing them.
By Ameer Moavia10 months ago in Psyche
Situational Depression: Causes, Symptoms, Recovery, and How to Heal After Life’s Challenges
Life does not always go as planned. Unexpected events such as academic failure, job loss, relationship breakdowns, or family conflicts can deeply affect emotional stability.
By Daily Motivation10 months ago in Psyche
