I tell strangers on Reddit about my depression while pretending to my family that everything’s fine.
Last night, posted three paragraphs about feeling empty, purposeless, like I was watching my own life from outside. Got supportive comments from usernames I’d never recognize again.
This morning, Happy asked how I was. “Fine,” I said. Smiled. Made breakfast.
Digital distance creates psychological safety for radical honesty. The anonymous username shields identity from consequence. Strangers can’t disappoint with their response, can’t use vulnerability against me later, can’t fundamentally alter relationships that don’t exist.
Face-to-face friends carry too much context. They know my history, my patterns, my previous struggles. Admitting current problems feels like confirming their suspicions about my inadequacy.
Happy knows me as competent husband, reliable father, stable provider. Admitting I’m barely holding it together feels like betraying those expectations.
Easier to tell Reddit user throwaway_7493 that I cried in my car before work yesterday. That user doesn’t know the confident person I performed last week. Can’t contrast current struggle with previous success.
Online strangers receive truth without baggage. Their judgment feels abstract rather than personal, temporary rather than permanent.
The screen creates confessional space—physical separation enabling emotional proximity. Can share intimate details while maintaining literal distance. Their reaction can’t contaminate my physical environment, can’t follow me into tomorrow’s interactions.
“You seem distracted lately,” Happy said last week.
“Just work stress.”
Not a lie. But not the truth either. The truth was darker—that work stress triggered something deeper, older. Depression I thought I’d managed years ago had returned, heavier this time.
But telling her meant conversations about therapy, medication, checking in on me. Meant making my internal struggle her external problem.
Online, I could just… say it. No follow-up required.
Posted on r/depression: “Back in the hole after five good years. Feels worse knowing I’ve been here before.”
Got responses within minutes. “I know that feeling.” “Here if you need to talk.” “You survived it once, you’ll survive it again.”
Simple validation. No emotional labor required in return.
Perhaps most importantly, online honesty doesn’t demand ongoing relationship maintenance. Real friends require navigation of their responses, management of their concerns, reassurance that I’m handling whatever I’ve revealed.
Anonymous strangers receive information without expecting emotional labor in return.
My friend Karim called yesterday. “How are you, man?”
“Good! Busy, but good.”
Could have told him. Should have told him. Twenty years of friendship should mean I can be honest.
But Karim would worry. Would check in constantly. Would tell his wife, who’d tell Happy, who’d realize I’d told him before telling her.
Easier to tell username u/lost_in_dhaka who responded with empathy and disappeared back into the internet.
The irony deepens: people I should trust most—those who know and love me—become precisely the people I must protect from truth. Curate happiness for those closest while revealing pain to those furthest away.
Arash asked this morning, “Baba, are you sad?”
Kids notice things.
“No, beta. Just tired.”
“You’re tired a lot lately.”
“Work is busy.”
He accepted this. Went back to breakfast.
But I’d lied to my eleven-year-old son. Protected him from truth he sensed anyway.
That night, posted about it on Reddit. “Lied to my son today about being okay. Feel guilty but don’t know how to tell him the truth.”
Got thoughtful responses about age-appropriate honesty, protecting children while being authentic. Actually helpful.
But still from strangers. Still anonymous. Still safe.
My therapist—yes, I have one, secretly—asked about my support system.
“Strong. Family, friends.”
“Do they know you’re struggling?”
“They know I’m in therapy.”
“Do they know why?”
Long pause. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because then it becomes real. And their problem too.”
She suggested this avoidance might maintain the depression rather than protect relationships.
Uncomfortable insight I wasn’t ready to accept.
Online honesty often feels incomplete without offline integration. Support from strangers validates experience but can’t replace face-to-face connection. Virtual understanding doesn’t translate automatically into actual relationships.
I know this intellectually. Practicing it is different.
Last week, almost told Happy. We were on the balcony, quiet evening, moment felt safe.
“I’ve been struggling lately,” I started.
“With what?”
Lost my nerve. “Just… work-life balance.”
“We can figure that out together.”
Could have gone deeper then. Should have. But pulled back.
Posted about it later on Reddit. “Almost told my wife about my depression. Chickened out.”
Comments split between “take your time” and “she deserves to know.” Both valid.
But neither as hard as actually doing it.
The courage to be vulnerable with strangers might teach how to be vulnerable with friends. Maybe Reddit is practice ground for real honesty.
Or maybe it’s avoidance disguised as courage. Hard to tell.
Abba called yesterday. “How’s my son?”
“Good, Abba. Everything’s good.”
He’s seventy-eight. Do I burden him with this? Make his remaining years worry about my mental health?
But he might understand. He’s hinted at his own struggles. Could be connection point.
Instead, I kept it surface. Then posted on r/depression_help about hiding from aging parent.
Got mixed responses. Some said protect him. Others said he’d want to know.
All from people who don’t know him, don’t know me, don’t know our relationship.
Their advice felt simultaneously helpful and hollow.
Tonight, Happy found me on the balcony at 2 AM. “Can’t sleep?”
“Mind’s busy.”
She sat beside me. Long silence.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.
Real question. Not casual how-are-you. Actual concern.
This was the moment. Tell her. Be honest. Let her in.
“I’ve been depressed,” I said.
Words felt strange out loud. Easier typing them to strangers.
She wasn’t surprised. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I’ve known for weeks. Was waiting for you to tell me.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“Because you needed to choose to share it.”
We talked then. Really talked. About the depression, the Reddit posts, the fear of burdening her, the safety of strangers.
“I want to be your safe person,” she said. “Not your protected person.”
Made sense. But years of curation don’t disappear instantly.
“I’m trying,” I said.
“I know. That’s enough for now.”
The relationships that sustain us require truth that only proximity can fully hold. Reddit provides validation. Real people provide support.
Started practicing: one honest thing per day with someone who actually knows me. Not everything at once. Just honesty in small doses.
Told Karim I was struggling. He didn’t panic or pity. Just listened. Offered to be there.
Told Abba in careful terms. He shared his own history with depression. Forty years of hiding it. Wished he’d talked about it sooner.
Told Arash age-appropriate truth—that Baba’s been feeling sad but getting help and it’s okay to feel sad sometimes.
He hugged me. “I feel sad sometimes too.”
“What do you do about it?”
“Tell you and Amma.”
Simple wisdom from eleven-year-old. Tell people who love you.
Still post on Reddit sometimes. Still find value in anonymous community. But it’s supplement now, not replacement.
The courage I practiced with strangers taught me how to be vulnerable with family. Digital honesty became preparation for physical honesty.
Not perfect. Some days still easier to type than talk. Some struggles still shared with usernames before humans.
But progress. Movement toward integration instead of division.
Tonight I shared something real with Happy instead of Reddit. Harder. Scarier. Better.
The strangers validated me. The family sustains me.
Both have place. But priority matters.
And finally, slowly, I’m getting the order right.