When people develop depression or adjustment disorders, the image often comes to mind of "collapsing" or being "crushed." But in reality, there are hundreds of small "disappearances" before that moment.
At my first job out of college, I worked day and night. Even when I faced unreasonable comments or frustrating events, I told myself I couldn't afford to care about every little thing. That was just "society," I thought.
I wanted to be resilient. I wanted to smile even through hardships because that’s how my bosses and seniors seemed to live.
I focused entirely on hitting numbers (sales), without thinking deeply. I believed that if I became someone who could generate revenue, I would find happiness and feel like I was growing. Conversely, I unconsciously felt that failing to do so meant I was unhappy.
Then one day, on my way to work, I collapsed onto the asphalt. I was taken by ambulance and diagnosed with depression. But did I really become depressed at that exact moment?
Back then, I thought I had simply "lost the ability to try hard." But looking back, it feels more accurate to say I lost the ability to believe in my own effort.
For a long time, I kept swallowing things down.
Even when I felt something was wrong at work, I didn't speak up. I pretended not to notice my desire to do things differently.
That wasn't weakness; it might have been an "ability to adapt." But through that accumulation, my sense of self gradually faded.
The process was very quiet. My body didn't suddenly malfunction. My mind kept running under the assumption that "everyone feels down sometimes."
But slowly, I stopped knowing how I felt or whether I was tired.
Actually, worse than that,
I was actively distancing myself from acknowledging my suffering or fatigue. I no longer had the energy to accept those states. Recognizing and accepting your own condition requires specific mental stamina.
I had poured all that stamina into work.
So, even though my physical and mental reserves were empty, I could still function. Like a wind-up toy, I was moving on the momentum of the initial winding. I was only operating on inertia; I had likely been depressed for a long time already.
As the strain accumulated, I was collapsing from overwork. My heart was crushed. It had started much earlier than I realized.
Because I couldn't recognize this state, I spent most of my twenties believing I just wasn't trying hard enough, until I finally broke down with depression and adjustment disorder.
Now, however, I am living my thirties healthily because I started focusing on one specific thing.
That focus is: Not living outside yourself.
When you act based on "how you are seen" rather than "what you want," you gradually start living outside of yourself.
Other people's gazes become more real than your own sensations. Even if your inner world becomes hollow, as long as your outer appearance (others' evaluations) holds together, you think there's no problem.
But eventually, the question of "what do I want?" disappears completely.
You don't even realize you've stopped asking. This, I now believe, is what it means for "the self to disappear."
In our work lives, meeting others' expectations is minimally necessary. But if we remain behind defensive masks—what psychologists call the "False Self"—we may meet those expectations, but the "self" that should be happy about it vanishes.
