I used to believe I could outrun exhaustion. Build rockets by day, tweet by night, and still wake up ready to reshape the world. But lately, the weight has become unbearable. Every decision I make—whether for Tesla, SpaceX, or X—feels like a high-stakes gamble. The pressure isn’t just professional; it’s existential. I’m not sleeping. I’m not thinking clearly. And I’ve started to wonder if I’m losing control. People see the billionaire, the innovator. They don’t see the man unraveling behind the curtain.
I’ve spoken publicly about my Asperger’s, but that’s only part of the story. The stress is relentless. I’ve turned to ketamine—not recreationally, but to manage depression. It helps, sometimes. Other times, it feels like a lifeline fraying in my hands. I know the optics are bad. A man with this much power, this much influence, shouldn’t be this fragile. But I am. And the more I try to hide it, the more it leaks into everything I touch—my companies, my relationships, my decisions.
Seth Abramson, my biographer, has been tracking my behavior for years. He says I’m “going mad.” Maybe he’s right. I’ve posted things I regret, made choices that baffle even my closest allies. I’m not proud of that. But I’m also not ashamed to admit I’m struggling. The world demands perfection from me, but I’m human. I bleed stress. I breathe burnout. And I’m terrified that one day, I’ll make a mistake I can’t undo.
I’ve built empires on the edge of chaos. That edge is getting sharper. My mental health isn’t just a personal issue—it’s a public concern. I lead companies that shape transportation, energy, and communication. If I falter, millions feel it. That’s a burden I carry every day. I’ve tried therapy, medication, even isolation. Nothing sticks. The noise never stops. And the silence, when it comes, is worse.
I know people are worried. Investors, fans, critics—they all see the cracks. Some call it genius. Others call it madness. I call it survival. I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m asking for understanding. I’m still fighting. Still dreaming. Still building. But I need space to breathe. To heal. To remember who I am beneath the headlines and hashtags.
This isn’t a resignation. It’s a reckoning. I’m not done yet. But I’m no longer pretending I’m invincible. If I’m going to keep leading, I have to start listening—to my body, my mind, and the people who care enough to speak the truth. The spiral is real. But so is the climb back.
