My Story

There are two ways to tell my story.

There's the version the world saw.

And there's the version I lived.

For years, those two stories couldn't have been further apart.

The world saw a 13-year-old starting secondary school.

Teachers smiled and told my parents I'd be supported with my dyslexia. They said I would flourish.

Behind closed doors, I had already started self-harming.

I was writing suicide notes before most people even realised I was struggling.

The world saw a quiet student.

A little shy, but engaged in lessons. Someone who worked hard, excelled at sport and seemed to be doing well.

Inside, I was disappearing.

My relationship with food became another way of trying to cope with emotions I didn't understand. I became dangerously underweight, convinced that if I could just become smaller, maybe everything else would hurt less.

The world saw someone going to university.

"You're going to make so many friends."

"These will be the best years of your life."

Everyone was excited for me.

I wasn't sure I'd live to see the New Year.

I had already planned how my life would end.

The world saw excellent grades.

Even when my attendance began to slip, people focused on my results.

"She's clever."

"She's doing really well."

What they didn't see was that my flatmate found me unconscious after another attempt to end my life.

What they didn't see was the battle happening every single day before I even left the house.

I couldn't understand why life felt so much harder for me than it seemed to be for everyone else.

Simple things—answering a text, washing my hair, replying to an email, making a phone call, cooking dinner—felt impossible some days.

Not because I didn't want to do them.

Not because I wasn't trying.

But because my brain simply... wouldn't let me.

I spent years believing I was lazy.

That I wasn't trying hard enough.

That if everyone else could do these basic things, why couldn't I?

Every unfinished task became more evidence that I was failing.

I didn't know there was a reason.

I only knew I hated myself for it.

The world saw me start my Year in Industry at a respected engineering company.

It looked like everything was finally falling into place.

Inside, everything was falling apart.

I developed severe Harm OCD.

Every intrusive thought convinced me I was becoming someone I wasn't.

My own mind no longer felt safe.

Then something else started happening.

I began losing my ability to speak.

Not all at once.

Just little pieces at first.

Words stopped coming when I needed them most.

Conversations became exhausting.

Sometimes I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but it was as though the connection between my thoughts and my voice had simply been cut.

The more overwhelmed I became, the quieter I became.

I couldn't understand it.

How could someone who loved learning, who had so much going on inside their head, suddenly struggle to get even the simplest sentence out?

I thought I was breaking.

I thought I was losing myself.

I didn't know then that I was experiencing autistic shutdowns.

I only knew that every time I couldn't speak, I hated myself a little more.

Before I turned 21, I had been admitted to hospital multiple times because of my mental health.

One admission changed everything.

After self-harming, I lost the use of one of my legs.

When I was discharged, I didn't have anyone who could collect me.

A receptionist quietly handed me £3 for the bus.

I climbed onto that bus wearing the same blood-soaked pyjamas I'd arrived at hospital in.

There was dried blood on my face.

Nobody looked twice.

That night I returned to my flat.

The bathroom was exactly as I'd left it.

Blood on the floor.

The metallic smell still hanging in the air.

For the first time in years, I realised something had to change.

I picked up my phone.

And I called my mum.

The hardest phone call I've ever made.

"Hey darling... it's so nice of you to call. How have you been?"

I couldn't pretend anymore.

A few months later, I deferred my final year of university.

I moved back home with my parents.

I felt like I'd failed.

I felt like a burden.

Not long afterwards, my mum found me beside empty pill packets and I was admitted to hospital again.

Looking back now, that admission probably saved my life.

Because one doctor looked at me differently.

He didn't just see depression.

He didn't just see anxiety.

He saw something that nobody else had.

Three months later, everything finally had a name.

Autism.

ADHD.

For the first time in my life, I stopped asking,

"What's wrong with me?"

And started asking,

"What if there was never anything wrong with me at all?"

Suddenly, my entire life made sense.

Why I could excel academically but forget to eat.

Why making a phone call could feel harder than sitting an engineering exam.

Why I became overwhelmed by changes that everyone else seemed to cope with.

Why I masked for so long that I forgot who I really was.

Why I lost the ability to speak when I was overwhelmed.

Why the simplest everyday tasks could leave me feeling completely defeated.

None of those things made me broken.

They made me autistic.

That understanding didn't erase everything I'd been through.

It didn't magically heal years of pain.

But for the first time in my life, I stopped blaming myself for surviving in a world that my brain experienced differently.

And in its place, I found something I'd never truly had before.

Compassion for myself.

Why Muted Mayhem Exists

Muted Mayhem exists because I know what it's like to live two lives.

The one people see.

And the one you're desperately trying to survive.

For years, people saw good grades, achievements and smiles.

They didn't see the panic attacks.

The hospital admissions.

The self-harm.

The eating disorder.

The obsessive thoughts.

The autistic shutdowns.

Or the exhaustion of masking every single day.

I didn't spend years trying to become someone else.

I spent years trying to become the person everyone else seemed to be naturally.

If sharing my story helps even one person realise they're not alone...

If it starts one conversation...

If it gives one person the courage to ask for help...

If it helps someone replace "What's wrong with me?" with "Maybe I just understand myself differently."

Then every difficult chapter has become part of something meaningful.

That's what Muted Mayhem is.

It's more than clothing.

It's a reminder that behind every smile, every achievement, every "I'm fine", there may be a story the world cannot see.

And maybe, together, we can help people feel safe enough to unmute it.

🖤