I tell you, my mental health journey was not instant. Things like trauma and depression, they do not happen overnight. Many situations piled up over years. Sometimes we know something is wrong, but we avoid talking about it. We believe we can deal with it alone.

I grew up in a pretty strange family. My parents created daily drama. My father’s job was to provide money for the entire village, and my mother was the complete opposite; she wanted the family she married to come first. I observed a lot of fighting. My mom, she went through trauma and abuse herself, so she lost control. I took a lot of heat. Culturally, I had to be the best, but I was the worst in everything. I needed to escape that environment.

I found books, but even that safe place broke. My neighbor let me read books at his home. I was 11 or 12 years old. While I was reading, he was abusing me, pretty much every week for a year or two. I kept this trauma hidden, because telling them would only add more problems to the house drama. I felt the pressure of their dreams. I ran away and stole money, probably seeking attention. My emotional intelligence did not exist.

I finally moved to Australia, thinking I was free. I realized I did not know how to make a single decision. I chased acceptance. That taste of freedom, plus the ADHD and traumas, felt overwhelming. I drank a lot in the bar, buying drinks for everyone. I got into cocaine because I thought that was cool. That addiction destroyed me. It is a miracle I survived those years.

The real breaking point arrived later in France. My father died while I was far away, and I felt guilty. Then, my boss started manipulating me; he was severely insecure and never forgot a critic. Few months later, my daughter was born. Three huge events hit all at once. I felt physically, mentally cooked. I realized I needed treatment immediately, because I did not want to give my daughter the same generous trauma I received. It was time to stop the cycle.

I visited several specialists. I started taking anti-depressants and began retelling therapy. I learned that my hobbies—photography, writing—were just coping mechanisms I used to hide stress. My psychologist suggested I have a conversation with my younger self. I am not suicidal or depressed anymore. But I still have chronic anxiety. I am tired, not the old tired, but the severe fatigue I accumulated over years. The hardest task now is to relearn how to be calm. I am 40 years old, and I don’t know the person I am now.

My body does not forget the trauma or the drug abuse. Sometimes when I talk about these bad memories, I feel like I am lying or talking about somebody else. But my psychologist says I move in the right direction because I feel emotion. I had to pay a big price, but I learned a lot. If you go through this type of crap, know that I am with you. You are not alone.