Somewhere in Germany, 4/9/25
I stood at the door, exhausted from all I had just poured out — the accident, the concussion, the PTSD, the almost-relapse, the long history of depression, borderline, the pain of growing up in a homophobic country, the abuse I endured, and the battles with chemsex. The weight of it all pressed on me, and before I left, the question burst out:
“Why did all this shit happen to me?”
My counselor looked at me with steady compassion:
“Because you are one of those rare people life keeps testing... not to destroy you, but because you have the strength to rise again and again.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“No way... if you say that, I can only cry.”
She leaned in, her own voice soft with emotion:
“Then let me cry with you. Your past has been unbearably hard — growing up where you couldn’t be yourself, leaving your country alone, carrying trauma and pain. And yet, every single time, you rise. Even last night, when relapse was so close, you stood up again. That’s who you are.”
