I am a mental health patient from East Africa, and one of the hardest parts of my illness has been watching how it affects the people who care for me.
There are days when I need help with simple things—reminders, conversations, or just company. Each time I ask for support, I feel a quiet guilt. I see the tiredness in my caregiver’s eyes, even when they try to hide it. Knowing that my condition places a weight on someone else is painful in its own way.
In my community, mental illness is often misunderstood. Because of this, my family carries the burden with me. They face questions, judgment, and unsolicited advice. Sometimes, people blame them for my condition, as if it were caused by poor care or lack of discipline. This makes me feel responsible for their suffering.
Depending on others has challenged my sense of independence. I struggle with feelings of shame and frustration when I cannot function the way I want to. I want to contribute, to be useful, to be seen as more than my illness. But serious mental health conditions do not always allow that.
Treatment has helped, but recovery is slow and uncertain. There are moments of improvement and moments of setback. Through it all, I have learned that accepting help does not mean I am weak. It means I am human and in need of care.
Living with serious mental health challenges has taught me the importance of compassion—both toward others and toward myself. Patients like me do not choose to depend on caregivers, and we do not choose this illness. What we need is understanding, patience, and support that respects our dignity. My story reflects the experience of many mental health patients in East Africa who live with the fear of being a burden. Healing becomes possible when care is shared with empathy, and when patients are seen as people—not problems.
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