That's a common experience in the U.S.A., and not just mental health issues.
I think the only time I had a crisis where I was treated with above-and-beyond seriousness was when I had a heart arrhythmia that was immediately obvious on the EKG. Suddenly it seemed everyone "grocked" what I'd been saying. Too bad there's no machine that can look into someone's brain with such precision.
My grandma had a serious mental illness and eventually had to be removed from her home as a danger to herself and others. It took the paramedics and police several hours to drag her out, and she was still kicking and cussing and trying to bite people as they loaded her into the ambulance. It's a good thing she was a little old white lady, otherwise the cops might have simply shot her.
My grandma's idea of mental health care was to "Be Strong!" which made a lot of sense in her time because mental health care then was absolutely barbaric. You didn't want to be sucked into that system.
That was my mom's attitude as well, but she's changed her mind about that. Unfortunately that wasn't the case in my own troubled youth. That's how I'd end up living in my car and stuff. I must have been some kind of failure at being "strong."
My mind went a little sideways during adolescence and I really didn't find it again until I was 25 years old or so. People sometimes thought I was taking drugs. I wasn't. I didn't need drugs to go on a trip. (Here in the 21st century there are helpful meds that keep me out of that place.)
One thing that has always kept me out of existential crisis is my curiosity. We each have only a very small window of time and space to observe this universe. I actually think that's the purpose of our existence -- we are the universe reflecting on itself. There is no "success" or "failure" in that, and it's not our place to judge ourselves or others in that context.
At my worst there's always a little part of me that's interested in the story of Hunter. How is this chapter in my life going to end? Often I have no idea. A lot of the time it hurts.
Once upon a time I was walking home from a party along the beach next to some steep cliffs, a geography that's common on the West Coast. I was a little buzzed, the tide was coming in, and I didn't want to get wet. So I decided to climb the cliff, in spite of all the stories I'd heard of people, especially drunk people, getting killed by falling off these same cliffs.
Of course I fell, and shifted into my "What happens to Hunter next?" mode as I was tumbling down the rock face. I'm my own favorite action figure! ( A psychiatrist I had attributed this sort of dissociation to PTSD... which is another story. )
Needless to say, I didn't die but damn did it hurt, and I did get very wet.
Is there any point to my story? I don't really know, only that it was an inflection point in the adventure that is my life.
My last adventure like that (which possibly involved me quitting a certain med I didn't like because it made my head fuzzy) landed me in the psych ward with all sorts of interesting people. I got out after a few days, and maybe I'll write a story about that too someday, but I'm still here.
Being "strong" is a painful way to face the world. Simply "being" has taken me a lot further.
I do have some motivations to make the world a better place, but that's not the reason I exist. I can't actually say why the universe dropped me here. Nobody knows that, whatever they say. Even what I say to myself.
While I'm here I'll try to be kind to all the other hapless visitors to this place, which is everyone, human or not, and I'll try to be kind to myself. Being kind to myself helps me be.
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