I’m Asking for Help Because I Have No One Left to Ask (Pt. 2) | by Higgor Araújo de Souza | Oct, 2025

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but every time I tried, my hands froze. I didn’t know how to begin, how to explain the mix of gratitude and pain that has been living inside me. My first post, “I’m Asking for Help Because I Have No One Left to Ask,” came from one of the darkest places I’ve ever been in. I was scared, desperate, and uncertain if anyone would care enough to read my words. But you did. Some of you not only read, you reached out, you helped, you sent donations, you shared kind messages. And because of that, I want to begin by saying thank you.

Your support has been the small light keeping me from disappearing completely. Every single person who tipped me, who sent even one dollar, who took the time to comment something kind, you have no idea how much you matter to me. I read your words when I’m in pain. I reread your messages when I feel like giving up. You’ve become part of the reason I’m still here, still trying.

I wish I could say things have gotten easier since the last time I wrote. The truth is, they haven’t. I’m still struggling to afford my psychiatric medication. I’ve had to change my meds recently, and the new prescription is even more expensive than before. My psychiatrist says this new combination might help me regain a bit of balance, but the price of stability feels impossibly high when you can barely make it through the month.

Recently, I went through another evaluation with my psychiatrist and received my updated diagnosis: OCD, Autism Spectrum Disorder (Level 1), and a note declaring that I’m not capable of working full-time under regular conditions. Reading those words was strange, a mix of validation and sadness. It confirmed what I already knew deep down, but also reminded me how fragile my situation really is.

Right now, I work under a PCD quota, a system in Brazil that allows people with disabilities to work, but I don’t receive the adaptations I need. My environment isn’t built for someone like me, someone who processes everything too deeply, who burns out easily, who lives in a body that feels everything all at once. I often have severe headaches, ear pain, and moments when my brain simply shuts down. Burnouts and shutdowns have become part of my daily life. And even though I try to stay quiet, even though I try to hide it, the truth is I’m tired. I live with pain that doesn’t always show on the outside.

There are days when I feel like I’m fading into silence. I wake up with that tightness in my chest, that invisible weight pressing down on me, and I wonder how long I can keep going like this. I try to remind myself that I’ve survived before, that maybe I’ll survive this too. But sometimes surviving feels like standing still in a storm, hoping not to break.

My dream hasn’t changed. I still want to live from my writing. Writing is the one thing that makes me feel alive, like my voice actually matters. It’s the one place where I can exist without pretending, where I can be honest about who I am and what I feel. Whenever someone reads my words and tells me they felt understood, it reminds me why I keep doing this.

I know I’m not the only one who struggles. There are so many of us living quietly with invisible pain, trying to make sense of a world that feels too loud, too fast, too indifferent. But I still believe that words can connect us, even in the darkest places. And that’s why I keep writing, because I need to believe that somewhere out there, someone might see me and feel less alone.

My main goal at the moment is still to save enough to buy a new notebook. The one I have is dying slowly, and writing has become a fight against constant crashes and freezes. I haven’t reached the full amount yet, but I’m not giving up. Each little contribution gets me closer to stability, to being able to write without worrying that my words will vanish with the next system error.

But beyond that, I’m still asking for help with my medications. These aren’t optional for me. They’re the difference between functioning and collapsing, between being able to write and not even being able to get out of bed. I wish I could say I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. My meds are what keep me from spiraling into panic, what help me sleep, what quiet my brain enough for me to breathe.

Some days, I think about the future and it scares me. I hope to one day receive government support for autistic adults, something that could allow me to live with dignity, without constantly worrying about how I’ll afford the next month’s medication. I know it’s not an easy process, but it’s the only path I see that might bring me some peace. To have the right to rest. To heal without guilt.

Until then, I’m here, writing, asking for help, and holding on to faith that things will change. Maybe not overnight, but slowly, in small steps.

If you’ve helped me before, please know that your kindness hasn’t been forgotten. You’ve already done more for me than you probably realize. And if you’re reading this for the first time and feel moved to help, even the smallest donation helps me stay afloat. Every little gesture is a reminder that I’m not completely alone in this fight.

There’s something I’ve learned through all of this. Pain can isolate you, but gratitude can bring you back. And even though I’m still in the middle of my struggles, I don’t want to let go of gratitude. So, to everyone who has supported me, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You’ve helped me believe that maybe I still have a place in this world.

I often imagine the life I want to build. A quiet place, full of books and light, where I can write every day and live peacefully. No noise, no panic, no fear of losing everything because of a missed paycheck. Just calm. That’s what I dream of.

Until then, I’ll keep writing here on Medium, pouring my heart into these words, hoping they reach the people who are meant to read them.

I’m still fighting. I’m still here. And I’m still grateful, for you, for this space, for every kind soul who’s taken the time to see me. Thank you for helping me survive another chapter.