I´m not perfect and yet I can still help

I don't know the exact moment I started to change.

I suppose it was the day I stopped running from myself and stood still for the first time in many years. Still… and terrified.

Because when you stop running, everything you'd swept under the rug resurfaces.

Even today, I still have entire nights without sleep.

Not out of whim or poor sleep hygiene.

But because my mind wakes up before I do and starts spinning at a speed I can't control.

Sometimes I think I have a broken emotional thermostat: one day it regulates well, the next it goes haywire as if it were programmed to set me on fire from the inside.

And yes, I still have impulses.

I still have that absurd feeling that "something's missing," although I don't know exactly what it is.

Then I get the urge to eat chocolate like it's a national emergency, to buy things on Vinted that I don't need, or to drink four cans of Coke in a row to soothe an emptiness that shouldn't be there… but it is.

My psychologist, who's been putting up with my battles for over three years, told me recently:

"If you're going to help others, you'll have to learn not to do crazy things like spending twenty hours alone, without eating, creating a website."

And yes… he's right.

But I have my own reasons too.

I can't stop being this way, at least not entirely. And that's precisely why I can help.

Because I know what it's like to feel overwhelmed by the intensity.

I know what it's like to feel anguish that leaves you breathless.

I know what it's like to not sleep because your child is having anxiety attacks.

I know what it's like to protect Lobo while the world stands still.

I know what it's like to learn to live with symptoms that don't go away, even after years of therapy.

I know what it's like to sit down at the computer at three in the morning because if you go to bed, the thoughts will devour you.

I know what it's like to want to be well and not be able to.

And yet still get up the next day… and keep going.

During these three years, I've been through it all: psychiatry, psychology, ARVIL (a drug rehabilitation program), support groups for recovering alcoholics, therapy at the health center, emergency rooms, endless nights, days that felt like months, and months that felt like centuries.

I've cried from rage, from fear, from relief, and from exhaustion.

I've felt shame, guilt, pride, hope, and an absurd amount of love for my son, who sustained me even when I couldn't sustain myself.

And there's something I want to make very clear:

I haven't drunk a single drop since.

Never.

Nor have I wanted to.

Because my battle isn't against alcohol.

My battle is learning to live without anesthesia.

And that's infinitely harder.

I'm not perfect.

I'm intense.

And vulnerable.

And emotional.

And sensitive to levels that sometimes overwhelm me.

But I'm also someone who doesn't give up.

Someone who, even though I'm broken, still has the strength to be there for others.

Someone who can look at another person who is afraid and say:

“I know. I’ve been there too. And you can keep going.”

People think that to help, you have to be cured.

That’s not true.

To help, you have to be alive.

And willing to look at the other person without judgment.

And honest with who you are, not with who you should be.

If you’re reading this and you feel that your life is too chaotic to fix…

if you feel that your symptoms are winning…

if you see yourself as incapable, inadequate, or flawed…

I’ll tell you the same thing I tell myself every day:

You don’t have to be perfect to begin.

You don’t have to be stable to deserve a good life.

You don’t have to be cured to move forward.

You just have to keep going. Even if it’s clumsily.

I’m still here.

With my sleepless nights.

With my erratic thermostat.

With my impulses.

With my wounds.

With my small victories.

With my will to live. With my son.

With my fears.

With my strength.

And if you're here too, even if you're a little shaky…

welcome.

This is a place where you don't have to be perfect to belong.

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