The Diagnosis Dilemma: Seen, Categorized, Or Misunderstood

Arrival (2016) A Great Movie

Diagnosis as a Demand

I'm not shattered, just reacting rationally upon actions and events that have occurred throughout the life on Earth. That's the truth I keep coming back to. I haven't been diagnosed, not officially or rather to be more accurate, not clinically. But I feel the pull, not because it's gonna cure me, but because other people need the label to believe me. No diagnosis? Then maybe I'm fine, Maybe I'm being dramatic. Maybe I'm making it all up.

It’s not about fear. It’s about mistrust. Diagnosis isn’t just medical, it’s social. It changes how people look at you, listen to you, categorize you. Suddenly everything you’ve been saying turns real, but only because someone else said so. That rubs me the wrong way. My struggle isn’t new. It didn’t begin in a clinic. It won’t end in one.

Still, I think about it. Maybe the only way to shut everyone up, the skeptics, the gaslighters, the polite doubters, is to have a piece of paper that says, “Yep, it’s real.”

The Social Transaction of Labels

People don’t want to understand, they want to label. That’s the game. Say “I have anxiety” or “I’m on the spectrum” and suddenly it clicks for them. You’re not just being weird or intense, you’ve got a reason. A file; A permission slip, if you will. A word they’ve heard on a podcast. That’s the trade: give them a label, and maybe they’ll stop picking apart your behavior.

I don’t hate labels. I hate how lazy people get once you hand them one. It’s not the start of curiosity, it’s the end of it. I’ve had people ignore everything I say, until I mention something that sounds clinical. Then, boom, they’re listening. Like now they know where to file me.

It’s frustrating. But it’s tempting too. If throwing out a buzzword gets me peace, maybe I’ll play along. Even if it feels like selling out. Then again, isn't that just giving into the masses. Another one shattered by the system?

A Disorder or a Defense Mechanism?

I don’t think I’m disordered. I think I adapted. Call it trauma. Call it survival. Call it whatever, but don’t call it a glitch. My so called symptoms, shutting down, lashing out, zoning out, didn’t just happen. They were trained into the brain to evolve surrounded by the chaos I live in.

But that doesn’t count unless someone official agrees. Otherwise, I’m “too much.” “Negative.” “Sensitive.” People don’t ask what happened to me. They just want me to be easier to deal with. Diagnosis could be a shield, sure. But it also risks cutting out the story that made me who I am.

Masking Is the Real Illness

What’s killing me isn’t the condition, it’s the cover up. Pretending to be fine. Talking like everything’s okay while my brain is screaming. Performing stability just to get through a day without raising concern. That’s the real sickness, and I’ve been fluent in it for years.

People reward normalcy. They want clean, controlled emotions. Not the mess, not the full story. So I mask. And yeah, some days I wish I had a diagnosis just so I could drop the act. Just so I could stop auditioning for basic understanding. That’s not healing. That’s surviving the judgment.

The Risk of Being Defined by a File

Here’s what freaks me out: being reduced to a diagnosis. Not seen, not understood, just managed. Just categorized. Every word I say, every boundary I set, filtered through a medical lens. Not “me” just “the one with that thing.”

People stop seeing the person. They start seeing a walking condition. You say no, and suddenly you’re being “avoidant.” You get angry, and now you’re “borderline.” It’s like you lose your name and gain a chart instead. But being misunderstood sucks too. That’s the current dilemma. Pick your poison.

The Temptation of Being Believed

There’s something addictive about being believed. That’s what diagnosis promises. Not a fix. Not freedom. Just the basic dignity of not having to explain yourself all the time.

If a piece of paper makes people finally get it, maybe it’s worth it. Maybe I can stop softening my words. Stop justifying every mood. Maybe I could just exist.

But that’s a trap too. Because if people only believe me when it’s been signed off by a doctor, then they never really believed me. They just accepted the system’s word over mine.

When Surveillance Wears a White Coat

Diagnosis isn’t just care. It’s control. It’s a system that wants to track you, file you, make you predictable. Schools, jobs, insurance, none of them want your full story. They want your code.

And that code follows you. It shapes what people expect of you, what support you get, what doors stay shut. So yeah, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want help. But because I know help can come with strings.

This isn’t just about healing. It’s about power. And I don’t trust every hand that claims to hold it.

What I Actually Want

I don’t want a label, I want language. Something real. Something that holds my experience without flattening it. I want someone to sit with me, not try to diagnose me halfway through the story.

I want context. Nuance. Dialogue. Space to say “this is hard” without needing a certificate of suffering. Somewhere I can be human, not a condition.

That’s what makes places like Alpha Healing Center different. They don’t rush to name you. They stay with you. They offer care without turning you into a project. That’s the kind of healing I hope people end up receiving.

Button: What If I Stay Undiagnosed

So maybe I never get diagnosed. Does that make me less real? Less worthy of care? Less understandable?

Or maybe it means I’m free. Free to name my own experience. Free to write the story without fitting into a template. Free to exist without needing to be decoded first.

I’m not anti-diagnosis. I’m anti-reduction. Until the world can see us fully, messy, complex, unclassified, I’ll keep living in that in-between. Unlabeled. Unapologetic. Still out here. Endure & Survive.

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Resources:

• Must be Thursday