I ATE A BANANA

Chapter One: You’re Not Broken, Just Slightly Expired

Let’s just get this out of the way: if you picked up this book hoping to be “fixed,” I have bad news.

You are not a car. There’s no mechanic. There’s just you, some emotional duct tape, and maybe a banana if you’re lucky.

You are not broken.

You’re just a little… expired. Like that yogurt in your fridge you keep convincing yourself still smells fine. It doesn’t. But you’re still eating it. And somehow, that’s the vibe of this entire mental health journey: weird, questionable, but still technically surviving.

Now, let me say this loud enough for the people dissociating in the back:

You don’t need to be okay to deserve a snack. Or love. Or oxygen. Or Wi-Fi.

This isn’t one of those pastel Instagram quote books where I tell you to do yoga under the moon and drink water from a mason jar blessed by a Himalayan goat. Nah. I’m here to say: I once cried into a pizza box while Googling “can sadness cause back pain?” and I still made it to tomorrow.

Mental illness is real. It’s not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it looks like staring at your wall for 3 hours, then aggressively organising your spice rack because the chaos must be controlled somewhere.

It’s calling your friend and hanging up after one ring because you suddenly forgot how to be a human being. It’s laughing too loud at a meme about your worst trauma.

It’s existing when your brain is trying to convince you that being a sock would be less stressful.

And the worst part? You can look totally “fine” while everything inside is on fire.

You show up to work. You reply to emails. You say “I’m good, just tired” like you’re auditioning for a role called Emotionally Withered Coworker #3.

Here’s the truth no one likes to say out loud:

Sometimes your brain is a terrible roommate. It talks trash about you constantly, never does the dishes, and keeps reminding you of that one embarrassing thing you did in 2011. It whispers things like, “You’re a failure,” or, “Everyone secretly hates you,” or the classic, “What if you just disappeared and became a barista in a remote village where nobody knows your name?”

And the world doesn’t make it easier, does it?

They say “mental health matters” while simultaneously asking why you’re sad when you have a phone and access to coffee.

Like depression’s supposed to clock out because you got 12 likes on your selfie.

If you’ve ever cried in the shower because it felt like the only safe space in your house—hi, welcome, you’re among your people.

If you’ve ever thought, “I don’t want to die, I just don’t want to do this anymore”—you’re not weird, you’re just tired.

If your brain makes basic tasks feel like defusing a bomb underwater while blindfolded, you’re not lazy, you’re overloaded.

And no, you don’t have to explain that to anyone who doesn’t get it.

If Karen from accounting thinks anxiety is just “worrying too much,” let her think that while you mentally prepare for a phone call like it’s a hostage negotiation.

The point is: you are not alone.

You’re just riding shotgun in a brain that thinks everything is an emergency and also somehow meaningless.

A lovely contradiction.

We’re told to “ask for help,” but no one mentions how hard that is when your brain is the one holding the help hostage.

Ever try explaining your pain and end up sounding like a toddler trying to describe quantum physics?

“I feel… wrong. Like, inside. But also tired. But not sleepy. Just… you know?”

Spoiler: they usually don’t know.

But I do.

I know what it’s like to feel like your emotions are a group project and no one else is contributing.

To feel like your happiness comes with an expiration date.

To feel like you’re faking being a person in public while quietly negotiating with your own brain in private.

Sometimes, healing looks like ugly crying in the car and then going to work anyway.

Sometimes it looks like brushing your teeth and calling it a win.

Sometimes it’s not progress. Sometimes it’s just not quitting.

And that’s enough.

So let’s make a deal.

I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that everything gets better overnight.

That you’ll magically wake up one day and want to run marathons and organise your taxes.

(If that happens, you’re probably possessed. Seek help.)

But I will promise this:

If you keep going—keep waking up, even when you don’t want to, even when it feels like a punishment—you’ll have moments. Moments that matter.

Moments like:

Laughing until you can’t breathe at something stupid online

Feeling seen by a stranger who accidentally says the exact thing you’ve been thinking

Eating a banana and realizing, I could’ve just… not done that. But I did.

This book is about those moments.

The tiny, ridiculous, painfully human things we do to stay alive when living feels like a full-time job with no benefits.

And no, I’m not here to fix you. You’re not a broken lamp. You’re a very tired person with a glitchy brain trying to navigate a chaotic world. That alone makes you impressive as hell.

So welcome to the mess.

Laugh when you can. Cry when you need to.

And when in doubt—eat the banana.

It counts.

I ate a banana once and cried because I thought it was judging me.

It wasn’t. It was just a banana. But I still apologised to it.

Mental illness is weird, man.