How Streaming has Helped Me
This post is a pseudo-continuation of Issue 7 of Musings of a Streamer. That didn’t go into much detail. And while I’m not confident that I’m ready to dive super deep, I do want to share more… And This is more. More context. More honesty. A clearer picture of the manic emotions that gnaw at me, and the quiet ways streaming has helped me hold them at bay.
So, here goes.
I hit “Go Live” because I needed to feel like I existed somewhere outside my head. When I am not writing or streaming, my inner dialogue often runs at a thousand. My mind races in every direction, my mood swinging wildly from one extreme to another. I’m manic. Depressed. Empty. Full of energy. I struggle to connect, to stay focused, sometimes even to breathe. Silence feels like it can swallow me whole, while noise can overwhelm me to the point of shutting down. My head is not always a safe place to linger, and so I turn outward, trying to anchor myself in a space where I can feel seen and grounded.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder not too long ago. I haven’t talked about my diagnosis openly. It rarely comes up, not because I’m ashamed, but because it feels unreal, like something that belongs to another version of myself. Sometimes I convince myself that if I don’t say it aloud, maybe it isn’t there. Maybe I can just keep moving forward without the weight of labels. But silence carries its own kind of burden, and I’ve realized that holding it in doesn’t make it vanish. If anything, it isolates me further.
So here I am, speaking to you. Sort of.
It’s odd to put this into words, to let it exist outside of my journal or my private thoughts. But to keep us focused, I want to share how streaming on Twitch, and content creation has become one of the most important tools I’ve had for processing my mental health.
Depression is a frequent companion of mine. It creeps in like fog, soft and unrelenting, making it harder to move or even imagine movement. I’ve written about it before, and I’ll write about it a thousand more times, because depression is rarely a single story; it’s a recurring theme that shifts shape but never disappears. Streaming, though, offers me a kind of counterpoint. It doesn’t erase the depression, but it gives me a space where I can meet it with company, creativity, and connection. I write for the same reasons I sit down in front of a camera to play video games.
When I go live, my depression, or more manic moments, seeps through the cracks from time to time. Along with it comes anger, or frustration, or that restless energy that can feel like too much for me and maybe too much for others. But in those moments, I’m not hiding it. I’m not pretending to be anything other than what I am that day. And, people respond, not by turning away, but by leaning in. Some share their own struggles, their own days where everything feels impossible. Others just hang out, bringing lightness to the room with no need to fix me like some folks I’ve known in my real life throughout the years. Some are just there to listen and reflect along with me. Either way, I’m reminded that I don’t have to be alone in the weight of it.
Streaming has also given me moments of joy. I can be moody and dark, yes, but I can also be filled with energy as I chat with anyone who stops by. There are days when laughter flows freely, when conversations spiral into absurd tangents, when the act of playing a game becomes less about the game and more about the shared experience. Those moments matter. They remind me that my emotions are not fixed in place, that joy is still possible, that I am capable of connecting with others even when my brain insists otherwise.
What I didn’t expect when I started streaming was how much structure it would bring into my life. On the days I schedule a stream, I know I have to show up. I have to prepare in some way—choose a game, make sure OBS is going to act weird, make sure the mic works. That small ritual of preparation becomes an anchor. Even if I’ve spent the day spiraling, by the time I hit “Go Live,” I’ve given myself something to hold on to. And once the stream begins, the act of being present with others helps me step out of the loop in my head, if only for a little while.
Of course, it’s not always easy. There are times when my mood swings mid-stream, when my energy crashes suddenly, when the act of being “on” feels unbearable. Those moments are difficult, and I’ve had to learn how to navigate them with honesty—sometimes by ending the stream early, sometimes by admitting that I’m struggling. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and I think that honesty is part of what makes the experience meaningful both for me and for the people who watch.
Content creation more broadly has given me a language for processing my mental health. Writing, in particular, allows me to shape the chaos of my thoughts into something tangible. Even if the words don’t always make sense, they create a map of where I’ve been, a record that helps me notice patterns and shifts I might otherwise miss. Streaming, then, becomes the live version of that—less polished, more immediate, but equally necessary.
Together, writing and streaming form a kind of dialogue with myself and with others. They remind me that I’m not just a passive subject of my mental health, but an active participant in how I navigate it. They don’t cure me—there’s no cure for bipolar disorder—but they give me tools, practices, and connections that make living with it more bearable.
Looking back, I realize that what began as a way to distract myself has become a way to ground myself. Twitch might not be therapy in the traditional sense, but it’s a kind of community therapy, a reminder that even in the darkest moods, I can reach out and be met with laughter and connection.
So yes, I hit “Go Live” because I wanted to exist somewhere outside my own head. But I keep going live because it works. Because it gives space to me and others. Because it gives me connection on the days I feel cut off, structure on the days I feel scattered, and joy on the days I’ve forgotten it’s possible. And in that way, streaming hasn’t just helped me process my mental health; it’s helped me live with it, one session, one conversation, one moment at a time.
Streaming isn’t the end all be all. There have been downsides that have hurt my mental health in many ways, but this is meant to highlight one of the ways I have found positivity in the wild waters of content creation.
Musings of Streamer is a monthly series that highlights reflections and commentary from my streaming and content creation experience. I am neither an expert nor a large streamer. All advice and content are meant to provide a perspective for you to consider, not to blindly follow. Join me every month to explore the wild waters of streaming on Twitch. I hope you find these insightful in your own journey.
Jesús M. Rivera 