A Brief Note
This essay is part of a series about mental health under prolonged instability and war. While many examples come from Afghanistan, particularly from 2001 to 2021, the experiences described are not unique to any one place or people.
They reflect what happens to the human mind when danger becomes ongoing, unpredictable, and unresolved.
These essays are not memoirs. This series is not a clinical guide. The language of psychology is used carefully, not to pathologize, but to give form to experiences that were often normalized, misunderstood, or endured without words.
Throughout the series, the word "we" appears often. Sometimes it refers to Afghans. Sometimes to civilians. Sometimes, to people shaped by trauma more broadly. The meaning shifts; take what fits, and leave what doesn’t.
You will come across references to trauma, grief, and coping. If you need to pause while reading, do. Come back when you’re ready.
This is a story about people who didn’t always get help or therapy, and still found ways to keep going.
Some examples in this essay are composite or illustrative, drawn from patterns observed over time rather than single individuals.
This writing can’t speak for everyone, but if something here feels familiar, you’re not being diagnosed. You’re being recognized.
If you’d like more context, Essay 0 sits at the beginning of the series.
This essay is part of a series about mental health under prolonged instability and war. While many examples come from Afghanistan, particularly from 2001 to 2021, the experiences described are not unique to any one place or people.
They reflect what happens to the human mind when danger becomes ongoing, unpredictable, and unresolved.
These essays are not memoirs. This series is not a clinical guide. The language of psychology is used carefully, not to pathologize, but to give form to experiences that were often normalized, misunderstood, or endured without words.
Throughout the series, the word "we" appears often. Sometimes it refers to Afghans. Sometimes to civilians. Sometimes, to people shaped by trauma more broadly. The meaning shifts; take what fits, and leave what doesn’t.
You will come across references to trauma, grief, and coping. If you need to pause while reading, do. Come back when you’re ready.
This is a story about people who didn’t always get help or therapy, and still found ways to keep going.
Some examples in this essay are composite or illustrative, drawn from patterns observed over time rather than single individuals.
This writing can’t speak for everyone, but if something here feels familiar, you’re not being diagnosed. You’re being recognized.
If you’d like more context, Essay 0 sits at the beginning of the series.
This essay touches on difficult but real experiences related to life in a warzone, including depression, self-harm, addiction, and both passive and active thoughts about death.
Please read gently. Take your time, and step away if needed.
Please read gently. Take your time, and step away if needed.
When Staying Alive Becomes Heavy
Sometimes the wish is not to die. It is simply to stop hurting.
For the thoughts to quiet.
For the tightness in the chest to ease.
For one full night of sleep without negotiation.
In lives shaped by prolonged instability, that difference matters.
People do not always want life to end. Most of the time, they want relief. But when exhaustion stretches across years, the line between wanting rest and wanting escape can begin to blur.
In Afghanistan, these experiences were rarely described in clear language. They lived in what was said indirectly or not at all. Pain was managed, compared, softened, or folded into faith. What could not be resolved was often carried.
Most people did not wake up wanting to die. They woke up tired. Tired of uncertainty. Tired of holding families together. Tired of absorbing fear, loss, and humiliation without space to process any of it.
Some coped by narrowing their lives:
withdrawing from what once brought joy,
avoiding stillness,
letting go of plans they once held.
Others stayed fully functional on the surface, while something quieter shifted underneath: a reduced sense of connection, a thinning sense of meaning, a growing distance from the effort it takes to keep going.
These responses did not all look the same. Some moved outward. Others turned inward. Some simply went quiet.
And they did not all lead to the same place.
But they often began in the same way:
not with a wish for death, but with the weight of continuing.
In such conditions, the question is not always why would someone want to die?
Sometimes, it is quieter than that.
It is: how long can a person keep carrying this?
Sometimes the wish is not to die. It is simply to stop hurting.
For the thoughts to quiet.
For the tightness in the chest to ease.
For one full night of sleep without negotiation.
In lives shaped by prolonged instability, that difference matters.
People do not always want life to end. Most of the time, they want relief. But when exhaustion stretches across years, the line between wanting rest and wanting escape can begin to blur.
In Afghanistan, these experiences were rarely described in clear language. They lived in what was said indirectly or not at all. Pain was managed, compared, softened, or folded into faith. What could not be resolved was often carried.
Most people did not wake up wanting to die. They woke up tired. Tired of uncertainty. Tired of holding families together. Tired of absorbing fear, loss, and humiliation without space to process any of it.
Some coped by narrowing their lives:
withdrawing from what once brought joy,
avoiding stillness,
letting go of plans they once held.
Others stayed fully functional on the surface, while something quieter shifted underneath: a reduced sense of connection, a thinning sense of meaning, a growing distance from the effort it takes to keep going.
These responses did not all look the same. Some moved outward. Others turned inward. Some simply went quiet.
And they did not all lead to the same place.
But they often began in the same way:
not with a wish for death, but with the weight of continuing.
In such conditions, the question is not always why would someone want to die?
Sometimes, it is quieter than that.
It is: how long can a person keep carrying this?
Depletion
In war-affected lives such as those of many Afghans over recent decades, depression did not always look the way it is often described.
It did not always arrive with visible sadness.
It didn’t mean withdrawing from life or staying in bed.
Most people did not have the option to stop.
Life and work continued.
Responsibilities did not pause.
So, for many, depression took on a quieter form.
It showed up as a loss of color.
Days moved forward, but without texture.
Things that once mattered felt distant. Music flattened. Laughter required effort. Even good news passed quickly, without staying long enough to be felt.
We were present, but not fully there.
Attention slipped. Conversations blurred. We walked into rooms and forgot why we had entered. Sleep came late, or stayed light, and mornings began already tired.
The body felt heavier than it should have. Small tasks took more effort than they seemed to deserve.
We snapped at people we cared about, then withdrew, not because we did not care, but because pretending to be okay was exhausting.
On the outside, this did not always look like suffering. It could look like seriousness, responsibility, or even strength.
Inside, something was steadily going quiet.
This was not a lack of faith. It was depletion.
When stress continues for years, the nervous system does not remain on high alert indefinitely. It adapts.
Energy is conserved.
What is not essential is reduced.
Fear dulls.
But so does pleasure.
What remains is a narrower emotional range; enough to function, but not enough to feel fully alive.
In these conditions, depression formed slowly, through accumulated strain: unresolved fear, repeated loss, interrupted plans, and a future that could not be relied upon.
For many, it was also grief for what was lost, and for what never became possible.
Grief that could not be fully named, because naming it might have unraveled too much.
In a society that values endurance, this kind of depression hides easily. If you are still standing, still working, still providing, you are called strong.
But in these conditions, strength often meant continuing while something inside was fading.
When Numbing Becomes Regulation
When pain cannot be processed or expressed, it does not disappear.
It looks for another outlet.
The nervous system is not built to carry fear, humiliation, and grief indefinitely. If these cannot be expressed or processed, something else begins to absorb the pressure.
Sometimes that something is a substance.
Sometimes it is a behavior.
Sometimes it is a gradual narrowing of life itself.
In Afghanistan, addiction is often imagined in its most visible forms: opium dens, men collapsed under bridges, lives already undone.
But in reality, it is different.
Cigarettes that move from occasional to constant.
Naswar pressed under the lip throughout the day.
Chelam passed between friends in long evenings that stretch later than planned.
Opium or opioids used first for physical pain, then for something harder to name.
Sedatives, to force sleep when the mind refuses to rest.
And then there are the less visible forms.
Work extended late into the night, because silence feels heavier.
Scrolling to avoid lying still.
Eating more or less than needed as a way to manage something internal.
Cleaning or organizing, because order outside feels safer than what is happening inside.
These patterns do not begin as problems.
They often begin as solutions.
They lower the volume and make the day more manageable.
They make tomorrow feel reachable, at least for a while.
What matters is not the object itself, but the role it begins to play.
When emotional balance depends on something external, it becomes a form of regulation.
And under prolonged pressure, regulation can slowly become reliance.
***
He was not falling apart.
He went to work. He provided for his family. If you asked how he was, he said, “Alhamdulillah.” And he meant it; in the way people mean it when survival is the standard.
But he did not feel much anymore.
Sleep came with pills. Cigarettes multiplied. Evenings stretched longer, often with chelam and company, because going home too early meant sitting with thoughts that felt too loud.
Work filled the rest.
Being busy felt safer than being still.
He knew the habits were not good for him.
He also knew they worked.
They kept him steady enough.
Kept him from snapping most of the time.
Kept him from thinking too far ahead.
No one called it addiction.
There was no collapse.
No moment where everything broke.
Just a gradual narrowing of how relief was found.
The goal was not pleasure.
It was enough calm to get through the day.
***
He was not falling apart.
He went to work. He provided for his family. If you asked how he was, he said, “Alhamdulillah.” And he meant it; in the way people mean it when survival is the standard.
But he did not feel much anymore.
Sleep came with pills. Cigarettes multiplied. Evenings stretched longer, often with chelam and company, because going home too early meant sitting with thoughts that felt too loud.
Work filled the rest.
Being busy felt safer than being still.
He knew the habits were not good for him.
He also knew they worked.
They kept him steady enough.
Kept him from snapping most of the time.
Kept him from thinking too far ahead.
No one called it addiction.
There was no collapse.
No moment where everything broke.
Just a gradual narrowing of how relief was found.
The goal was not pleasure.
It was enough calm to get through the day.
***
Over time, these strategies can become limiting.
What once offered relief begins to define its boundaries.
Fewer things feel calming.
Fewer ways of coping remain available.
This is not a failure of will.
It is the nervous system trying to solve a problem it was never meant to carry alone.
What once offered relief begins to define its boundaries.
Fewer things feel calming.
Fewer ways of coping remain available.
This is not a failure of will.
It is the nervous system trying to solve a problem it was never meant to carry alone.
When Pain Turns Inward
Not all pain moves outward.
Some of it turns inward.
There were those who hurt themselves, not to die, but to feel something, to interrupt numbness, or to release pressure that had nowhere else to go.
This is referred to as non-suicidal self-injury (NSSI).
This was not about wanting to end life.
In environments where emotional expression is limited, where distress has little language and less space, the body can become the outlet.
Pain that cannot be spoken is sometimes enacted instead.
For some, it was a way to feel anything at all when everything else had gone quiet.
For others, it was a way to redirect overwhelming internal pressure into something more immediate and controllable.
These acts did not appear in isolation.
They emerged in lives already shaped by prolonged strain; by silence, by expectation, by the need to continue functioning without visible collapse.
From the outside, this behavior is often misunderstood.
It may be seen as attention-seeking, instability, or weakness.
But in many cases, it is an attempt at regulation, a way of managing internal states when other options are unavailable.
This does not make it safe or a solution. It carries risk, and it can deepen over time.
It often exists alongside other forms of distress that remain unaddressed.
In places where such behaviors are heavily stigmatized, they are rarely spoken about openly.
They are hidden, minimized, or explained away.
Which means those who struggle with them often do so alone.
Without language, recognition, or support.
Not all pain moves outward.
Some of it turns inward.
There were those who hurt themselves, not to die, but to feel something, to interrupt numbness, or to release pressure that had nowhere else to go.
This is referred to as non-suicidal self-injury (NSSI).
This was not about wanting to end life.
In environments where emotional expression is limited, where distress has little language and less space, the body can become the outlet.
Pain that cannot be spoken is sometimes enacted instead.
For some, it was a way to feel anything at all when everything else had gone quiet.
For others, it was a way to redirect overwhelming internal pressure into something more immediate and controllable.
These acts did not appear in isolation.
They emerged in lives already shaped by prolonged strain; by silence, by expectation, by the need to continue functioning without visible collapse.
From the outside, this behavior is often misunderstood.
It may be seen as attention-seeking, instability, or weakness.
But in many cases, it is an attempt at regulation, a way of managing internal states when other options are unavailable.
This does not make it safe or a solution. It carries risk, and it can deepen over time.
It often exists alongside other forms of distress that remain unaddressed.
In places where such behaviors are heavily stigmatized, they are rarely spoken about openly.
They are hidden, minimized, or explained away.
Which means those who struggle with them often do so alone.
Without language, recognition, or support.
A Thinning Attachment to Life
Not all forms of despair are loud.
Some do not announce themselves at all.
There were those who did not want to die, but no longer felt strongly attached to staying alive.
Not: I will end my life.
But: I don’t know how long I can carry on like this.
For some, this showed up in quiet thoughts, often at night, when everything else slowed down:
If something happens to me, it happens.
I’m just tired of everything.
May God just take me.
No planning, preparation, or immediate intent. But, a gradual softening of the instinct to keep going.
This is sometimes described as passive suicidality.
Many who live through it do not name it.
They may call it exhaustion or fate.
These states are often overlooked because they are not seen as visible crisis.
People continue to function.
They work and care for others. They meet expectations.
But the effort required to remain engaged with life grows heavier.
The future feels less relevant.
And, the connection to one’s own existence begins to thin.
Not all forms of despair are loud.
Some do not announce themselves at all.
There were those who did not want to die, but no longer felt strongly attached to staying alive.
Not: I will end my life.
But: I don’t know how long I can carry on like this.
For some, this showed up in quiet thoughts, often at night, when everything else slowed down:
If something happens to me, it happens.
I’m just tired of everything.
May God just take me.
No planning, preparation, or immediate intent. But, a gradual softening of the instinct to keep going.
This is sometimes described as passive suicidality.
Many who live through it do not name it.
They may call it exhaustion or fate.
These states are often overlooked because they are not seen as visible crisis.
People continue to function.
They work and care for others. They meet expectations.
But the effort required to remain engaged with life grows heavier.
The future feels less relevant.
And, the connection to one’s own existence begins to thin.
***
She did not want to die.
She also did not feel particularly attached to staying alive.
She woke up before everyone else. Prayed, prepared breakfast, and managed the house. She appeared steady, while underneath, something had gone quiet.
When asked how she was, she said, “I’m fine.” Or, “I’m just tired.” If pressed, she smiled: “God knows.”
She never made plans to harm herself. But some nights, lying awake, she thought: If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, at least the thinking would stop.
The thought did not feel dramatic to her. It felt like rest.
What held her in place was not hope.
It was faith.
And responsibility.
The knowledge that her absence would wound people she loved.
So, she stayed and tried to push the thoughts away.
But she did not feel fully there.
***
She did not want to die.
She also did not feel particularly attached to staying alive.
She woke up before everyone else. Prayed, prepared breakfast, and managed the house. She appeared steady, while underneath, something had gone quiet.
When asked how she was, she said, “I’m fine.” Or, “I’m just tired.” If pressed, she smiled: “God knows.”
She never made plans to harm herself. But some nights, lying awake, she thought: If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, at least the thinking would stop.
The thought did not feel dramatic to her. It felt like rest.
What held her in place was not hope.
It was faith.
And responsibility.
The knowledge that her absence would wound people she loved.
So, she stayed and tried to push the thoughts away.
But she did not feel fully there.
***
In environments where suicide is condemned and heavily stigmatized, even these quieter thoughts carry weight.
They are rarely spoken directly.
They are softened into acceptable language, wrapped in faith, or kept entirely private.
Which means they are easy to miss.
Because they are silent.
They are rarely spoken directly.
They are softened into acceptable language, wrapped in faith, or kept entirely private.
Which means they are easy to miss.
Because they are silent.
When Life Is Actively Ended
There are also those who reach a point where life is actively ended.
Suicide exists in Afghanistan, as it does everywhere.
It does not belong to one type of person or one kind of life. It appears in homes shaped by violence, in families under financial strain, in young people carrying shame or conflict they cannot resolve, in women with no visible path out of abuse, and in men whose sense of dignity has eroded under years of instability.
These are not the only conditions in which it occurs.
But they are among the pressures that can narrow a person’s sense of possibility.
Such deaths are often explained away quickly.
Family problems.
Financial stress.
Weakness.
Lack of faith.
But these explanations are simpler than the realities they relate to.
What often remains less visible are the layers beneath:
Untreated depression.
Chronic trauma.
Substance dependence.
Isolation.
A nervous system stretched beyond its limits.
No single factor explains suicide.
Not poverty alone.
Not conflict alone.
Not personal character.
But when psychological depletion meets sustained pressure, and when there is little space to speak or seek help, risk can increase.
In many communities, suicide is not only feared but also condemned.
It is named as haram.
In some cases, funeral prayers are refused.
Families grieve in private and defend in public.
This response reflects deeply held beliefs.
It also shapes how openly suffering can be acknowledged.
When despair is framed only in moral terms, it becomes harder to recognize in its earlier forms.
And harder to respond before it reaches a breaking point.
This does not mean that every act can be predicted or prevented.
But it does mean that what precedes it is often more complex than what is later said about it.
There are also those who reach a point where life is actively ended.
Suicide exists in Afghanistan, as it does everywhere.
It does not belong to one type of person or one kind of life. It appears in homes shaped by violence, in families under financial strain, in young people carrying shame or conflict they cannot resolve, in women with no visible path out of abuse, and in men whose sense of dignity has eroded under years of instability.
These are not the only conditions in which it occurs.
But they are among the pressures that can narrow a person’s sense of possibility.
Such deaths are often explained away quickly.
Family problems.
Financial stress.
Weakness.
Lack of faith.
But these explanations are simpler than the realities they relate to.
What often remains less visible are the layers beneath:
Untreated depression.
Chronic trauma.
Substance dependence.
Isolation.
A nervous system stretched beyond its limits.
No single factor explains suicide.
Not poverty alone.
Not conflict alone.
Not personal character.
But when psychological depletion meets sustained pressure, and when there is little space to speak or seek help, risk can increase.
In many communities, suicide is not only feared but also condemned.
It is named as haram.
In some cases, funeral prayers are refused.
Families grieve in private and defend in public.
This response reflects deeply held beliefs.
It also shapes how openly suffering can be acknowledged.
When despair is framed only in moral terms, it becomes harder to recognize in its earlier forms.
And harder to respond before it reaches a breaking point.
This does not mean that every act can be predicted or prevented.
But it does mean that what precedes it is often more complex than what is later said about it.
When Faith Holds You In Place
In places like Afghanistan, faith is not only belief. It is structure.
For many, it defines what can and cannot be done, even in moments of extreme distress. The conviction that taking one’s own life is forbidden has held people in place when nothing else could.
It has stopped action.
That matters.
But restraint is not the same as relief.
Many lived with exhaustion that did not lift, held in place by faith and responsibility. They did not act. They endured.
And endurance, without support or release, can grow heavy.
In such conditions, distress often shifts in how it is expressed.
Instead of direct statements, it appears in language that feels more acceptable, such as “I’m tired of this life.”
Such phrases do not always signal acceptance or peace. Sometimes, they carry fatigue, surrender, or a quiet wish for relief.
Because suicide is both condemned and stigmatized, even indirect expressions of despair can feel risky. So, they are softened, redirected, or left unsaid.
What remains is often carried privately.
In such, faith does not cause suffering. For many, it is what prevents irreversible decisions. It provides meaning, continuity, and a reason to stay when other reasons feel distant.
But when distress is understood only in moral terms, it becomes harder to recognize early, name, or share.
The result is not the absence of despair.
It is its quiet containment.
In this way, faith often held people in place.
But it did not always make the weight easier to carry.
When understood and shared with care, faith can also offer something more than restraint.
It can create space for compassion.
For patience, and for staying with one another through difficulty.
In places like Afghanistan, faith is not only belief. It is structure.
For many, it defines what can and cannot be done, even in moments of extreme distress. The conviction that taking one’s own life is forbidden has held people in place when nothing else could.
It has stopped action.
That matters.
But restraint is not the same as relief.
Many lived with exhaustion that did not lift, held in place by faith and responsibility. They did not act. They endured.
And endurance, without support or release, can grow heavy.
In such conditions, distress often shifts in how it is expressed.
Instead of direct statements, it appears in language that feels more acceptable, such as “I’m tired of this life.”
Such phrases do not always signal acceptance or peace. Sometimes, they carry fatigue, surrender, or a quiet wish for relief.
Because suicide is both condemned and stigmatized, even indirect expressions of despair can feel risky. So, they are softened, redirected, or left unsaid.
What remains is often carried privately.
In such, faith does not cause suffering. For many, it is what prevents irreversible decisions. It provides meaning, continuity, and a reason to stay when other reasons feel distant.
But when distress is understood only in moral terms, it becomes harder to recognize early, name, or share.
The result is not the absence of despair.
It is its quiet containment.
In this way, faith often held people in place.
But it did not always make the weight easier to carry.
When understood and shared with care, faith can also offer something more than restraint.
It can create space for compassion.
For patience, and for staying with one another through difficulty.
When Suicide Is Condemned And Praised
There is another layer to this landscape, one many notice but rarely talk about.
In Afghanistan, where suicide linked to personal despair or mental health struggles is widely condemned, certain forms of self-inflicted death have, in more recent decades, been framed differently in specific ideological contexts.
The difference is not in the act itself.
It is in the meaning attached to it.
When suicide is understood as an escape from pain, it is treated as disgraceful.
When it is framed as defense of faith, it is called martyrdom by some.
The same act.
A different story.
This contradiction does not stay contained.
It enters the moral atmosphere.
It shapes how suffering, dignity, and meaning are understood, especially by those still trying to make sense of their place in the world.
This does not mean that such acts are necessarily driven by personal despair, nor that they can be explained through mental health alone.
They are shaped by political, power-driven, and ideological forces that involve conditioning and the controlled use of belief, often at a young age.
But the way they are described still matters and carries consequences.
When suicide is condemned in one context and elevated in another, what would otherwise be clear becomes less so.
And in that confusion, vulnerability deepens.
Especially for those still forming their understanding of life, meaning, and worth.
There is another layer to this landscape, one many notice but rarely talk about.
In Afghanistan, where suicide linked to personal despair or mental health struggles is widely condemned, certain forms of self-inflicted death have, in more recent decades, been framed differently in specific ideological contexts.
The difference is not in the act itself.
It is in the meaning attached to it.
When suicide is understood as an escape from pain, it is treated as disgraceful.
When it is framed as defense of faith, it is called martyrdom by some.
The same act.
A different story.
This contradiction does not stay contained.
It enters the moral atmosphere.
It shapes how suffering, dignity, and meaning are understood, especially by those still trying to make sense of their place in the world.
This does not mean that such acts are necessarily driven by personal despair, nor that they can be explained through mental health alone.
They are shaped by political, power-driven, and ideological forces that involve conditioning and the controlled use of belief, often at a young age.
But the way they are described still matters and carries consequences.
When suicide is condemned in one context and elevated in another, what would otherwise be clear becomes less so.
And in that confusion, vulnerability deepens.
Especially for those still forming their understanding of life, meaning, and worth.
When Despair Enters the Home
For some families, danger was not only outside.
It entered the home.
Through habits that began as relief and became dependence.
And through the changes brought by that dependence.
Addiction did not erase love.
But it altered presence and connection.
A parent might still provide. Meals were cooked. Responsibilities were met. To those outside, the family could appear intact. But it was different inside.
Emotional presence became inconsistent.
Irritability appeared and disappeared without warning.
The atmosphere of the home began to depend on one person’s internal state.
Children also learned how to respond by listening for doors and footsteps.
They measured tone before they spoke.
They adapted.
Some grew quiet.
Some became responsible too early.
Some tried not to be noticed at all.
Childhood narrowed.
Because stability was no longer reliable.
For some families, danger was not only outside.
It entered the home.
Through habits that began as relief and became dependence.
And through the changes brought by that dependence.
Addiction did not erase love.
But it altered presence and connection.
A parent might still provide. Meals were cooked. Responsibilities were met. To those outside, the family could appear intact. But it was different inside.
Emotional presence became inconsistent.
Irritability appeared and disappeared without warning.
The atmosphere of the home began to depend on one person’s internal state.
Children also learned how to respond by listening for doors and footsteps.
They measured tone before they spoke.
They adapted.
Some grew quiet.
Some became responsible too early.
Some tried not to be noticed at all.
Childhood narrowed.
Because stability was no longer reliable.
***
He learned not to ask too many questions.
At first, his father still worked. Came home. Paid for what was needed. But evenings belonged to cigarettes and silence. Then chelam. Then pills. Then days that blurred.
When his father said, “What kind of life is this?” the little boy pretended not to hear.
But he did.
Later, his father began to leave for longer stretches. Days. Then weeks.
The house grew quieter, but not calmer.
His mother stretched money in ways that bent dignity. The boy started working after school. Then, missing school.
He learned that adulthood meant carrying what others dropped.
No one explained what was happening.
He only knew that something had taken his father’s place.
And that something had taken his childhood with it.
***
He learned not to ask too many questions.
At first, his father still worked. Came home. Paid for what was needed. But evenings belonged to cigarettes and silence. Then chelam. Then pills. Then days that blurred.
When his father said, “What kind of life is this?” the little boy pretended not to hear.
But he did.
Later, his father began to leave for longer stretches. Days. Then weeks.
The house grew quieter, but not calmer.
His mother stretched money in ways that bent dignity. The boy started working after school. Then, missing school.
He learned that adulthood meant carrying what others dropped.
No one explained what was happening.
He only knew that something had taken his father’s place.
And that something had taken his childhood with it.
***
When distress remains unaddressed and when coping becomes dependence, the effects rarely stay contained within one person.
They move through the household.
And when instability exists both outside and inside the home, there is little space left to rest.
They move through the household.
And when instability exists both outside and inside the home, there is little space left to rest.
War, Violence, Poverty, and Invisible Illness
Sometimes, despair turns outward.
War does not wound only through explosions. It reshapes daily life. Work becomes uncertain. Education is interrupted. The future becomes difficult to plan.
And over time, this uncertainty affects almost every aspect of life.
Men raised with the expectation of providing and protecting may find themselves unable to do so. Women facing violence may have no safe way out. Debts accumulate. Roles strain. Dignity is tested in ways that are not always visible, but deeply felt.
These pressures do not lead to a single outcome.
In some homes, strain becomes tension; shorter tempers, harsher words, control, and, at times, violence.
In others, it turns inward; withdrawal, silence, or thoughts of no longer wanting to continue.
Sometimes, it moves between both.
These situations are often explained in simple terms that do not capture what lies beneath the surface.
The range of unaddressed psychological strain and chronic exposure to stress. The resulting emotional isolation and a nervous system that has been carrying too much for too long all go unrecognized.
None of this removes responsibility. Harm remains harm. Violence inside the home is violence.
But in warzones, such harm does not emerge in isolation.
It builds gradually, through pressure that is not understood or supported.
In prolonged instability, mental health struggles are often minimized or overlooked. Survival takes priority. Language is limited. Suffering is compared.
“You are alive. Be grateful.”
Gratitude and distress can exist at the same time.
And when distress has no place to be expressed, it does not disappear. It may change form.
Sometimes quietly.
Other times destructively.
Often, across generations.
Sometimes, despair turns outward.
War does not wound only through explosions. It reshapes daily life. Work becomes uncertain. Education is interrupted. The future becomes difficult to plan.
And over time, this uncertainty affects almost every aspect of life.
Men raised with the expectation of providing and protecting may find themselves unable to do so. Women facing violence may have no safe way out. Debts accumulate. Roles strain. Dignity is tested in ways that are not always visible, but deeply felt.
These pressures do not lead to a single outcome.
In some homes, strain becomes tension; shorter tempers, harsher words, control, and, at times, violence.
In others, it turns inward; withdrawal, silence, or thoughts of no longer wanting to continue.
Sometimes, it moves between both.
These situations are often explained in simple terms that do not capture what lies beneath the surface.
The range of unaddressed psychological strain and chronic exposure to stress. The resulting emotional isolation and a nervous system that has been carrying too much for too long all go unrecognized.
None of this removes responsibility. Harm remains harm. Violence inside the home is violence.
But in warzones, such harm does not emerge in isolation.
It builds gradually, through pressure that is not understood or supported.
In prolonged instability, mental health struggles are often minimized or overlooked. Survival takes priority. Language is limited. Suffering is compared.
“You are alive. Be grateful.”
Gratitude and distress can exist at the same time.
And when distress has no place to be expressed, it does not disappear. It may change form.
Sometimes quietly.
Other times destructively.
Often, across generations.
Not Failure
The responses described in this essay did not appear without reason.
They formed under pressure, in lives where pain had to be managed quietly while responsibilities did not pause.
Where falling apart felt dangerous, or simply not permitted.
What sometimes followed were ways of continuing.
Depression.
Addiction.
Non-suicidal self-injury.
Passive and active suicidality.
It is important to understand the distinctions here.
Wanting relief is not the same as wanting death.
A thinning attachment to life is not the same as a decision to end it.
Without them, suffering is misunderstood and often judged instead of recognized.
What many carried was not failure.
It was accumulated strain, held over time, often without language, support, or space to release it.
Understanding this does not undo what has happened.
But it changes how it is seen, and that matters.
Because what is understood can be named.
And what is named no longer has to be carried alone.
The responses described in this essay did not appear without reason.
They formed under pressure, in lives where pain had to be managed quietly while responsibilities did not pause.
Where falling apart felt dangerous, or simply not permitted.
What sometimes followed were ways of continuing.
Depression.
Addiction.
Non-suicidal self-injury.
Passive and active suicidality.
It is important to understand the distinctions here.
Wanting relief is not the same as wanting death.
A thinning attachment to life is not the same as a decision to end it.
Without them, suffering is misunderstood and often judged instead of recognized.
What many carried was not failure.
It was accumulated strain, held over time, often without language, support, or space to release it.
Understanding this does not undo what has happened.
But it changes how it is seen, and that matters.
Because what is understood can be named.
And what is named no longer has to be carried alone.
By Sadia Fatimie
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