If I’m a Success, Why Do I Still Feel So Bad Sometimes?

04.17.2025

If I’m a Success, Why Do I Still Feel So Bad Sometimes?

by Peter Roff

You can’t escape your demons, not completely. They live inside your head and, try as you might, you cannot run away from yourself.

I know this because, for most of my life, I have tried. I’ve lived with depression, anxiety, and ADHD for as long as I can remember. My family was full of healthcare providers: my father was a psychiatrist; my mother and stepmother were nurses. Many of their friends worked in the mental health field. They all recognized, early on, that I wasn’t just different from the other kids who had trouble sitting still in class. My problems ran deeper.

I needed – and got – interventions at an early age.

When you’re six, you don’t understand the stigmas that can arise when you have a diagnosis involving mental health. And when your Dad, your idol in life and role model, works in the business and you think of him as a hero who helps people, you tell the other kids things you shouldn’t.

Having independent, outside confirmation you’re different helps in some ways and hurts in others.

It can add to your sense of isolation, which makes the depression and anxiety worse. Your anxiety about fitting in, about relating to other people grows. You become convinced you don’t know how to make or keep friends or deal with people. You question every interaction. You overthink things, ultimately entering a downward spiral that never seems to stop.

All this sounds like a lot. It is, and can continue for a lifetime. Not until I was in my early 50s did I begin to understand, on an intellectual level that the demons in my head were bigger and scarier than almost anything I regularly faced in the real world. But recognizing something to be true in your head doesn’t automatically change what goes on in your heart.

Nowadays, I manage my illness a lot better than I ever expected I’d be able to. I graduated from a somewhat prestigious university, I married and, after we divorced, single-parented two of our four children for a decade. I recently became a grandfather several times over.

Professional, I worked in politics for what they call “names you would know.” I’m also a successful journalist, having earned bylines at United Press International, U.S. News & World Report, and Newsweek. I’m asked on a regular basis to share my views on the events of the day on news channels and media outlets in- and outside the United States. What I have to say about them matters to some people; at least it’s of interest. I’m probably as surprised by that as you are, if not more. (That’s not an expression of humility. It’s an example of my demons reminding me I’m not good enough).

I could edit that out (but won’t) because I want everyone reading this to have a sense of the mental health challenges that have plagued me almost my entire life and still do. Sometimes I take it all in and wonder, like The Talking Heads’ David Byrne in “Once in a Lifetime” – “My God, how did I get here?”

Even before I started school, I was given Dexedrine to manage the impulse control issues associated with my hyperactivity. I took the pills because I trusted my parents – they were healthcare providers – they knew what was best. The need to take medication to be “normal,” however, reinforced my belief I was “broken” my depression and loneliness amplified.

I trusted my parents. They tried to help me understand that early intervention, care and treatment, compassionate support, and being open about my struggles were things that would help me. But I was six and, as I alluded to earlier, I took the openness part a little too far. The difficulties I had making friends once I started school were intensified when they found out (from me) that I went to the school office every day at lunch to take a pill. I had no real friends and was excluded from social situations. I was “the weird kid” the adults enjoyed that the other kids called “Mental Case” and worse on the.

Did I waver? Plenty of times. I was honest with myself, but when you overthink things, as people with depression and anxiety issues often do, you lose perspective. I've incorporated, or at least accepted, my condition as part of the life I’ve created for myself. When I go through periods short or extended – and you do go through them – where I’m having trouble controlling my depression and anxiety, I can work them out or work around them.

I think I’ve unconsciously worked to establish a lifestyle that works with rather than in conflict with my illness. That makes me lucky. Not everyone can do that but each of us can try to make modifications in how we live and work to make it easier. As a writer, I have a home office. I don’t have to leave the house if I can’t. I don’t have to interact with people if I’m not feeling up to it. And I’m still embarrassed to admit it openly but, sometimes, the only way to make it through a day is to crawl back into bed, pull up the covers, and go back to sleep for a few hours.

You might do that too. Don’t worry and don’t be ashamed. If you had any doubt you were the only person who needed to do that, you now know you’re not.

Even when we push ourselves, when we vow not to give in to the impulse to withdraw, to pull back, it’s important to keep trying to find a balance. If I write off a Monday, I know or can at least hope Tuesday will be better, I will be more productive, and whatever I am feeling will have passed. Even if it doesn’t, experience has taught me it will pass, eventually.

I’m fortunate. I know many people out there – it might be you who’s reading this right now – who can’t make the kind of accommodations I’ve managed to. Your situation, your brand of illness may be more severe or challenging than mine. (And when I say “challenging,” I don’t mean in the financial, physical, or socio-economic sense). The internal anguish your mental health issues can cause are the worst in the world because they happen to you.

That’s not selfish. It's rough. Each of us only knows what it’s like to live inside our own skin. Remember, even if it seems you’re just not going to get through the day, you can. There is help available for everyone in some form or another. You get through those dark periods when the demons have outstayed an invitation they were never issued by reaching out for the support that is available.

Mental illness, anxiety, and depression aren’t character flaws or signs of weakness. The people who say and think they are can be more damaging to our health than our disease. I have learned to admit to myself that I have a chronic condition, incurable but treatable. It can flair up from time to time in unfortunate and inconvenient ways that sap my strength and destroy my desire to do anything. I’ve learned it’s okay to be okay with that. It’s taken a long time but I accept that sometimes I need to sit in a chair or lie on the couch without being productive for a while, not talking to anyone.

Sometimes though, it’s important to speak with someone. It might be my therapist, my partner, or a good friend. Sometimes, attending a support group composed of virtual strangers can be helpful. It’s helped me more than once. The people didn’t know me but knew I was going through something and sometimes the reassuring touch of an unfamiliar hand on your shoulder means the difference between reorientation and ruin.

Learn, as I have, to give yourself grace, to find connection, and continue to educate yourself.

Educating yourself about your illness and identifying your options are essential components of mental health self-care. Ultimately, we’re responsible for ourselves, but we can—and should—help each other. I’ve spent most of my adult life in therapeutic relationships with someone: psychologists, a psychiatrists, social workers, or support groups. They’ve helped me recognize one very important thing: feelings aren’t facts. Feelings pass, depression and anxiety pass, if you give them the chance to.

I wrote a column about after Robin Williams took his own life. I never met him but he made me laugh and lifted my spirit. His creativity and imagination made the world more beautiful. He was unique. His death stunned me. I suspect it hit even harder for fans who understood or empathized with the pain it was suddenly so obvious had taken control of his thinking.

I’ve always tried to be open and honest about my mental health journey, some would say “too open” as my days on the elementary school playground attest. Still, I’ve never shied away from it in my personal or professional life. Williams’ decision to end his life was a wake-up call. I realized I had a platform, not a very large one, but I could reach out and offer a hand to others suffering people and say, “Yeah – me too.”

My demons haven’t disappeared and probably never will but they don’t come around as much. That’s because I’ve discovered they don’t have to scare me as much as they once did. I know who and what they are. They don’t get to win. I do. And because I do, I must help others by giving back.

That helps me too. I feel less alone, gain a sense of purpose, and keeps things in perspective. Somewhere in my experience the solution to someone else’s might lie. We’ll never know unless we open up and talk about what’s going on. Communication is key, which involves both talking and listening. To do so with organizations like ADAA means my story can reach those who might profit from knowing it. Share yours. Be open, Be optimistic. We’re in this together and those of who know the way to sanctuary shouldn’t keep it to ourselves.

An experienced journalist and commentator who has contributed to various media outlets and is a highly regarded political analyst, Peter Roff is a former UPI and U.S. News columnist who is now affiliated with several public policy organizations.