The Fight Stories

My name is Rinna Pera, and I’m a fighter. I grew up with a supportive family and strong support system. But even though I was always surrounded by people who love me, I always felt a sense of loneliness, or in reality that I actually didn’t belong anywhere. I have struggled with anxiety and depression from a very young age, but like many other people who grew up in an Asian American household, I didn’t know how to handle it or address it. This led to constant insecurity, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and accepting of toxic relationships that followed me into adulthood. I found Muay Thai in my early 20’s. Being in the gym was the first time I felt really empowered and strong, where I was able to walk around and be myself without judgment being passed at me. The community built around the sport was unique in the fact that we were always constantly challenging each other to be better and do better, be that in the gym or in life. The idea of having grit, a growth mindset, and the perspective of always being open to being a student was instilled in my everyday values. My coaches at the time, Dave Engel and Joe Chernay, pushed me to compete in my first bout in 2018. I had always identified as the awkward and uncoordinated girl that wanted to stay in the shadows, but Dave and Joe made sure I recognized I was better than that and more than the mediocrity I was settling for in life at the time. For a period of time, the worst part of the day was waking up, because it meant that I was still here. Some days felt like I couldn’t breathe, other days all I wanted was to stop breathing entirely. Days felt like I was constantly spiraling, like I was stuck in the corner of a ring and I couldn’t pivot out, but I had to bite down on my mouth piece and just take the hits. I knew my therapist, friends, and family were trying to figure out what was the best way to get through, but I couldn’t hear anyone. I felt like I was alone, and that I needed to isolate myself before it was acceptable to be around people. No matter what anyone said, I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I have a very clear memory of my brother sitting me down at his dinner table and asking me to “please come back”. I knew what he was talking about, I knew who he was asking me to be, and the only thought running through my head was “I don’t want to fucking be here”, I didn’t want to be anywhere, I wanted to stop existing. I thought that the world wouldn’t accept me if I had fallen back into mediocrity, if I had admitted that I wanted to give up. Everything I did, everywhere I went, it didn’t matter. I knew I didn’t want to die, but I knew I didn’t want to be alive anymore. I had continuously told myself I wasn’t suicidal, rather, the thought of not wanting to be alive wasn’t real unless I had said it out loud. This led to me calling the suicide hotline multiple times, and sitting with an operator in silence. I carried sleeping pills with me in my bag in case I ever just said “fuck it”. I drove by cliffs at night seeing if there was somewhere I could disappear to. I thought I couldn’t talk to my friends out of embarrassment, these were the friends who love and care deeply about me, but I felt like I was letting everyone down if I admitted how crippling my anxiety and depression were. It felt like the entire weight of the world was on my shoulders, and I was just waiting for the moment to shatter. I would sit at my desk juggling homework and emails from my job with my eyes swollen from exhaustion. I would read books with tears running down my face trying to still articulate the text while simultaneously reminding myself to breathe. Everytime I felt like breaking, I had the thoughts of knowing that I could not give up and I had to keep going. I spent my class breaks in the bathroom crying so my colleagues wouldn’t see me. I deleted all my social media, I cut contact with most people from home, I couldn’t admit to anyone how much I was struggling, and I felt like I was an absolute disappointment because I did not want to keep going. I wanted to disappear, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror because I would just call myself pathetic over and over again. If I wasn’t crippled from the depression, I was in a constant state of anxiety. I couldn’t sleep because as soon as my head hit the pillow, my mind would start racing with all the tasks I needed to do, and how even if I complete all those tasks, I still had to wake up and do it again. There was always something, there was always something I could do better, or something I should be doing. “How long can you hold on, is any of this actually worth it? Are you even going to be happy when all of this is over? You’re just going to fuck up the next thing. Would anyone be proud of you if they saw you right now?”, this is a glimpse of the thoughts I was fighting. I started writing post-it notes to myself to combat all my negative self-talk. I was fighting myself, and this round felt like it would never end. The only place that felt like home, the only place where I left safe at the time was in the gym. There were days where I would sit in my car before training sobbing, there were days where I would finish training and cry on the mats to my teammates. I felt lost but when I was with Muay Thai, I knew I was in the right place. Muay Thai was always there for me, good days and bad days, and I always felt better after hitting something, depression never won inside the gym. My coaches didn’t know what was really going on, in my personal life, or what to say, but they knew how to be there for me through days and nights of training, drilling, and pad work. I had felt so lost and displaced, my depression was screaming at me constantly, and I remember during certain sessions the only thought going through my head was “if you keep moving your depression won’t catch you”. Sometimes your friends from the gym just know you, and those days they ask you to get a snack after training is their way of telling you that your presence and your life is worth spending time with (especially when they’re cutting weight, and offer to buy you fries while they get a salad, special shout out to Selina Flores). Healing is not linear, like footwork, it’s lateral. No one is ever necessarily healed from depression. Healing and growth is a constant fight, and it’s pretty much a guarantee that you’re going to eventually get hit with something. But we cannot let the blows from life knock us out of the fight entirely. We are defined by how we rise when we get knocked down, and how much heart we show when we make a comeback. I’ve debated heavily on sharing my story publicly, but when I saw FightStory I felt deeply connected to Angela and Victoria Lee’s vision and purpose of the organization. Ultimately the decision to share my story came from the realization that I wish there was something like this when I couldn’t see the light. At times I still find myself embarrassed about the depression, and find it difficult to address mental illnesses, but the embarrassment is subjective. Shame is something that society has taught us, and something we all must unlearn and destigmatize when it comes to things like mental health. I am not a psychologist, again I went to business school. However, the more I talk about it with people, the more I recognize the normality and need to bring attention to the depths that depression can take a person. It’s important to speak on our experiences and normalize struggles with mental health regardless of anyone’s background or upbringing. The hardest part of depression is talking about it, and trusting the people you choose to surround yourself with. But understand that the people you choose, will always choose to have you here, even if they don’t know what to say. A new day always begins at midnight, and when it’s dark, it’s the people who care about you who are the ones who will sit with you until we see the light of the new day together. Following my diagnosis of severe anxiety and MDD, I finished my grad program, and have gotten back into fighting. I currently train out of Pacific Roots Muay Thai in San Diego, and recently competed at the US Muay Thai Open in December. While I never see myself as ever becoming a professional fighter, I’m always going to identify as a fighter rather than a person with depression. Everyday I wake up and I’m grateful for Muay Thai and the extended family I chose from the community for keeping me motivated during that time and through all phases of my life. Muay Thai has changed my life, then saved it. Since those dark times, I’ve been in therapy consistently, use medication (yes, sometimes they work), and am trying to open up about my experiences with my loved ones. Sometimes I feel the depressive episodes coming back, but I’m stronger than my mental illnesses. Asking for help, talking about your struggles, doesn’t make a person weak, rather it makes them stronger, because it’s harder to address issues than it is to ignore them. My name is Rinna Pera, and even though you’ll never see my name on a pro card, I know I’m a fighter.  

my name is larry conley and i writing a story that is so close to my heart and at the same time left a hole that cannot be filled……. 16 years ago i met my dear friend Tiffany at a karaoke bar. i had just got done singing and had my back turned to the stage so i could finish my conversation with a friend when out of nowhere i was interrupted by a singing voice so pure and so full of beauty that i had to turn around. it was her. the song was ” set fire to the rain” by Adele. i didn’t realize it then but she set fire to every concept of love , life , and beauty i thought i knew.over the the next year she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, and every year after that she left an imprint on my life that will remain forever. life happens and we didn’t talk that often but we did keep in touch and would get together when it was possible and catch up….fast forward to November 2023…. November 10th and 11th were the last fun times i had outside my house. on the 10th i had gone out with my best friend to have some drinks and do karaoke and on the 11th i ordered a ufc ppv and watched it with my dad. That sunday night , i had just settled into my room for the night and turned on my playstation to unwind before bed when i got the worst message on facebook possible. my friend Rachel messaged me that tiffany had hung herself in the garage and was dead…forget the game my mind went on pause for a long time trying to process what i had just been told. i got on her profile to see if i could find out more info and with a slight sigh of relief she was still with us but unconscious hooked up to a ventilator…i prayed to god to give me more time with her and to let her hold on until i could get to her…i was filled with so much anxiety that monday at work i couldnt breath, but i had to be with her asap…i took the next day off to go be with her……i went and got her a card, a beautiful candle , and a bear…i wanted her to have something filled with love and encouragement when she woke up…. that morning my chest was heavy and i was feeling so much sadness just being at the entrance to the hospital. i get to the 4th floor and i wanted to fall apart when i saw my beautiful friends name on that room door but i knew i had to be strong not just for myself, but for her family so i closed the lid on my emotions and opened the door….reality reared back and hit me hard when i saw my friend hooked up to so many tubes and machines….but i had to quickly man up because her mom was there. i hugged her and we talked, and through out everything i kept the same attitude of ” its not if she wakes up but when she wakes up”….i went and bought a phone charger from the gift shop so i could go back to her as quickly as possible….after visiting hours i went and sat down in the lobby and let the silence wash over me so i could process my feelings and what i experienced…on the way home i decided until she left the hospital, every spare minute i had was for her… no gym , no training , no haircut, even my days off were dedicated to her..nothing else mattered to me but her. the whole time this was going on i formed a close bond with her sister and husband ( they both drove cross country from texas to washington in about 29 hours, and i call them my brother and sister).. talking to her especially helped me a little…over the next few days we shared stories, we laughed, and cried….we never gave up hope on tiffany waking up and coming home. we brushed her hair, did her nails, and really just took care of her..treated her like the queen she deserved to be….i gotta tell ya, the millions of trips to starbucks and sleepless nights were worth it all…. there was a 2nd opinion done as far as brain activity was concerned to see if she had improved but when the doctor came back and said 0 improvement, the reality set in….shes going home but not with us. the beauty of that bad news was that she was an organ donor so her life ending meant someone elses could live on. organ donors get whats called an honor walk. the nursing staff and friends and family line the hallway and a speech is given thanking her for her donation and what it means for someone else…dammit she looked so beautiful that morning.. her bed lined with flowers from friends and family, her hair braided, and just looking like tiffany…i wore my shades that morning because i knew i was going to cry and i did..i cried hard…after they wheeled her past , she was taken into a room where they officially took her off the ventilator and was given 120 minutes to pass on her own… she didnt ( her heart wouldnt quit ) and so she couldnt donate but selfishly i thought ok i get more time with her….her sister suggested i go home and take a night off to get some sleep and for once i listened because she was concerned for me because mentally and physically she knew i was at my breaking point… that thanksgiving i hid very well how down i was and all i could think about was her and how i should be there with her…but sadly the wednesday i went home was the last time i saw her….. all at one time the sadness, the regret , anger,.. every emotion associated with grief and suicide loss hit me hard…i didnt wanna be out in public, i didnt wanna enjoy anything because i had just lost a very important piece to the puzzle that is my heart….but i made a bedside promise to her, my hand holding hers, that i would be strong, that i would be strong for her family, and that i would not give up on anything or anyone in life, and that i would use my love for her to do so much to help those who need to be reminded that they are important, they are loved, and the world needs them…. her vice was alcohol and coupled with depression, it made for a fatal ending…however she was in a toxic relationship with someone who was abusive on all fronts and drank just as much, if not more, than her…my point is this…when youre depressed and are drinking you feel and think certain ways and things about yourself that couldnt be farthest from the truth, and in the same token what you do and say to your partner can everlasting effects and in turn what they feel and say about themselves mixes in with what you say and do to them and they take all that in and sometimes their only escape, in their mind, is suicide…no matter how bad things are i beg you please seek help, seek a shoulder to lean on… do not think your life isnt worth anything..your life is worth more than all the money in the world…your life is a candle in someones darkness… you are loved without end…. Tiffany Crystal Simsek, because of you i am 2 months sober. because of you every song has deeper meaning. and because of you i truly have been reminded about what love is and what it really means to be loved…my mini bar is now my art desk and it will be a testament to the many colors you have painted and drawn into my life. your voice, your smile , and who you are as a woman lives on in my dreams and my heart forever. i loved you 16 years ago and ill love you all the way to heavens gates when ill see you again and we can sing our hearts away…i love you….

ELABORATIONS: while i wasnt an alcoholic, i officially have not had alcohol since nov 10th and made the promise to my friend bedside that i will never touch it again on the 14th…i just couldnt bring myself to touch another drop of a substance that caused my friend so much pain….she didnt have the opportunity to get away from its grip but i decided to not just for myself but for her….. TOPICS COVERED: General mental health and wellness,Depression,Suicide loss, Substance use and addiction, Loss/grief

@irishgorilla1986

 

Content Warning: This essay contains strong language about suicide and suicidal thoughts.

My name is Angela Lee Pucci. I am 27 years old.

I am a wife, a mother, a sister, a daughter.

A world champion. A fighter.

A survivor.

And I know that might sound like the start of any standard interview that I’ve given over the years, but that’s not what this is.…

It’s taken me a long time to get to this place, but I’ve now reached a point where I am comfortable and confident enough to speak the full truth.

Six years ago, I tried to end my life.

My car crash in November 2017 was not an accident. It was a suicide attempt.

For the longest time, I blocked that reality out of my mind in order to “protect myself.” I put up barriers as a defense mechanism, to try and protect my mind and my heart from what had actually happened. And even all these years later, after a lot of healing, it’s still difficult to think about, let alone talk about.

Writing out everything you’re about to read, and opening up like this, has been challenging. But I know that my momentary feeling of discomfort will be worth it if I can help save just one life.

So let’s go back to 2017.

I’m 20 years old. Living the dream. I had become the first female world champion in the history of ONE Championship the previous year. Then came back-to-back successful title defenses in 2017. I bought a brand-new car. I met my husband. I got engaged. I was excited to plan a wedding. It was the happiest I’d ever been. Life was good.

Dux Carvajal/ONE Championship via Getty

But then November rolled around, and as I was getting ready for my last title defense of the year, things started to snowball for me. Pressure, stress, and expectations all began to build up. I had tunnel vision and thought that this upcoming fight was the most important thing in my life.

Looking back now, I had everything I could have wanted at the time, but I didn’t realize it. Didn’t fully appreciate it. Because I had gotten to a place where making weight for that fight was the biggest thing in the world to me.

I told myself: If you don’t get this done, you’ll lose everything. 

And, as an athlete, in all honesty, that mentality can be useful and motivating. But it’s also a double-edged sword. And, with me, I got to a point where I had pushed my mind and body too far.

IT’S DIFFICULT TO SAY AND MAY BE DIFFICULT TO HEAR, BUT I NEED TO SHARE THE FULL PICTURE.

– ANGELA LEE

I couldn’t stop thinking about the shame that would result if I wasn’t able to make the fight. As someone who had never missed any competition in her entire life, that terrified me. It became all-encompassing. And, ultimately, I got to a point where I would rather take myself out of the equation than deal with what might come.

That’s where my head was at. It was all or nothing.

In the weeks leading up to the crash, I was convinced that I couldn’t tell anyone what I was feeling, about all the thoughts I was having. I didn’t want to let my family down. So I was going to do everything in my power to make sure that wouldn’t happen. That’s what I told myself.

Everything came crashing down on November 6, the longest night of my life.

That evening, I was trying to drop a few more pounds. I took a hot bath. I was wrapping myself up in towels. That whole thing.

I was having a really hard time. I was trying to stay in the fight, mentally. Trying to stay strong, but I felt myself slipping. I was terrified and exhausted and at my limit, and all of these negative, dark thoughts started flooding in.

Roslan Rahman/AFP via Getty

I went to my room, and I broke down crying. I remember pacing through my room and walking over to the scale. I get on, and look down, and it says that I still have 12 pounds to lose.

With ONE Championship’s hydration testing, you have to lower your weight gradually through dieting. But I started this fight camp the heaviest I’d ever been, and the weight wasn’t dropping anymore. My body was fighting against me, and I had run out of time. There were only two weeks left before I was supposed to fly out for my fight. That crushed me. I knew right then and there: I can’t do it. I won’t make it. My mind and my body can’t handle this.

I broke. I didn’t care anymore. I kept going back and forth with thoughts in my head. Talking myself in and out of possibilities. I wanted to escape. I told myself: I have to take myself out of this fight.

And that’s when things got really bad.

This part is hard to talk about, but I want to be honest here. It’s difficult to say and may be difficult to hear, but I need to share the full picture.

At one point, when everyone else in my house was asleep, I went to the bathroom and literally tried to break my own arm. Then I tried to give myself a concussion.

I was trying anything I could think of to escape from the situation I was in and get out of the fight.

When those things didn’t work, I decided to get in my car and leave it up to fate to see what happens next. (I remember it was around 4 a.m. when I headed out, because I looked at the clock and knew that I had a training session coming up in two hours, at 6 in the morning.)

I thought: This is it. I don’t care what happens next.

I wanted to end whatever it was that I was feeling. Because I felt like that was my only option. I couldn’t see past that moment. I was too scared to speak up and tell people I was struggling. I was too afraid of what my family would think of me, of what the world would think.

I didn’t want to be a disappointment to anyone.

After I started the car, I took off down this road near the house where I was living at the time on O’ahu. It’s a highway I’d take to get to the gym, and at one stretch of the road there’s this bend in it. On one side there’s a mountain, and on the other side there’s a gulch. It basically just drops off from there.

That’s where I decided I was going to do it.

And so I’m speeding down that road and I get to the spot and … I couldn’t do it. The first time, I ended up driving past the spot.

I actually had to circle back around and go at it a second time.

That second try, I built up more courage, or whatever you want to call it, and I just pressed my foot all the way down on the gas pedal. As far down as it would go. I don’t know how fast I was going. But it was as fast as my car could move. I wanted to hit the guardrail as hard as I could, and I just remember turning the steering wheel and swerving and then hitting something, and then it was just … rolling.

Rolling and rolling and rolling.

When I opened my eyes, I was upside down.

– ANGELA LEE

I didn’t know where I was rolling — whether I’d gone over the cliff, or up in the air, or what. I just closed my eyes and let it happen. Everything was moving in slow motion for me at the time.

When I opened my eyes, I was upside down. There was shattered glass everywhere.

I remember waiting around in that car for a good bit of time, hanging upside down, just basically trying to process everything. Like….

Am I still here? Am I alive?

After a while, some people came out of their cars and were trying to help me. I was still in shock, but I do remember they were so kind. So comforting. Then, as soon as they got me out of the car, I sat down on the road and started crying.

Just absolutely bawling my eyes out. Shaking uncontrollably.

I wasn’t upset that I was still here but I was just feeling … I don’t know. I can’t even put it into words. There was a lot going through my head all at the same time. And I couldn’t process it all.

I don’t really remember much after that. The ambulance, the hospital … it was all kind of a blur.

Looking back on it now, the moment I felt my car hit the guardrail and roll … in that split second, I remember actually experiencing a feeling of relief. Not regret, not fear … relief. And, I’m not sure, but I imagine that is what many people feel when they decide to take such a drastic step. We’re seeking relief, or an escape from whatever is consuming us.

At the time, I was so focused on trying to get rid of the thoughts and feelings I was dealing with that I didn’t even think about how my next few actions might lead to something permanent, to something I could not come back from.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t care if I lived or died at that moment. So surviving, trying to live, after all that had happened was extremely difficult.

What made it even harder was … no one knew what had really happened.

Even though I kept everything a secret from the world, I did end up telling one person — my husband, Bruno.

At the time of the crash, he was working overseas in Singapore. He flew to me as soon as he could, and at one point we were sitting in the car and he just turned to me and was like: Angela, what happened? You fell asleep? I don’t understand. What was going on? 

I remember feeling like he kind of knew that something was up, and right at that moment I broke down and I started to cry.

“No. I didn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t a car accident….

“I did it on purpose.”

Bruno was shocked, of course. But he was glad that I told him the truth. Beyond that, he was just very confused because he didn’t know about everything I was dealing with.

After I told him, he just held me in his arms. And I felt so relieved. I really needed that. I’m so grateful that he asked me what happened. Because I needed to tell someone. I wanted more than anything to tell somebody. And after I said what I said to him, he made me feel safe and loved.

Dominique Charriau/Getty for Cannes Lions

I still felt very alone, though, in trying to deal with and process what happened. As much as Bruno loved me and wanted to help me, he just did not understand what I was going through. And that’s not his fault. It’s extremely difficult to try and put yourself in someone else’s shoes who is mentally unwell if you’ve never experienced it yourself.

I felt fragile, shattered. I was broken, and I needed to heal and put back the pieces all by myself.

So many things became triggering for me. I tried my best to push what had happened out of my mind, but a lot of times I had no choice but to face things. I still had to drive on that same highway where my car crashed and rolled over.

And a few weeks after the crash, I still attended the event that I was supposed to fight on in Singapore. I still met with fans and had to talk about what had happened in interviews.

Of course … I was only telling a portion of the truth. I honestly just didn’t have the courage or the strength at that point to open up about what truly happened.

It took me a very long time to heal from this.

For the longest time, day after day, I felt like I was living a lie. I felt like an imposter. I couldn’t feel my emotions but at the same time I’d get overwhelmed and flooded with feelings. I felt numb for a very long time. I was emotionally unstable. For the first time in my life, I began to suffer from anxiety and the smallest things would overwhelm me. At times it became difficult to breathe.

And, through it all, I had to put on a mask that would make it seem to my family and the world that life was good. That I was doing O.K. Even though I wasn’t.

But eventually, slowly but surely, I started putting myself back together piece by piece. I started with the smallest things, like focusing on my breathing when I felt a panic attack creep up. Breathing in for four seconds, holding it in for seven seconds, and then slowly releasing it for eight seconds. I’d do that, over and over, until I could breathe normally again.

Another thing that really helped me, and that I still do to this day, is writing.

I’d write a letter to myself, detailing the struggles that I was going through and the things I was feeling. Then I’d also make a list of 10 things to be grateful for at that moment. At first, soon after the crash, I sometimes couldn’t get all the way to 10. So I’d start with one thing, then eventually work my way up to three things, five things and then, finally, 10. Doing that helped me put things into perspective.

If I was having a bad day, and felt my thoughts and emotions were getting out of control, I would try to do things that I could control. I’d go outside and feel the sun. I’d take a walk and be in nature. Another thing that I think is underrated is spending time with animals. I’ve always been a dog lover, and I truly feel that when you can’t verbally talk about what you’re feeling, sometimes just letting your furry friend out and seeing their love, affection and admiration for you can be really comforting and uplifting.

Around the house, I’d turn some little things in life into instant “pick me ups” — things like making myself a good cup of coffee or tea. I started small and took it day by day. Beyond that, I let time do most of the work. And, you know what … as the days passed, things slowly got better. And I feel like the more I talk with people about what I’ve been through, the more healing occurs. Everything about this healing process has been a challenge, of course. It has been far from easy. But with each time that I share my story with another person … I still cry. Tears still fall. My voice still trembles. But, each time, it gets a little bit better.

At this point, I’m just trying my best each day, and every day that looks different. But I’m O.K. with that. I realize now that I’m only human, we all are. We aren’t meant to live a perfect, spotless life.

I’ve come to learn that this life, it’s life. It’s about growing and learning to accept yourself.

Some days are good, some are tough, but each day I choose to keep fighting.

There are still many tough days. But how I navigate through those days is a lot better now. A lot healthier. I have tools to use and people I can count on to let them know how I’m feeling.

I absolutely love being a mom. I love being outdoors and spending time at the ocean. Feeling the sun hit you, the fresh air. I find it all to be incredibly healing. Recently, I’ve also found something new that really helps me. I love going to the grocery store with a new recipe to cook up, and finding all the ingredients, and then trying it out. I’m not the best cook, but there’s something so calming for me about that whole process. It really helps to take my mind off things and just focus on the present moment.

I think it feels great to create something good out of a bunch of random things that you bring together.

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder why I survived. Why my car didn’t fly over that rail. Why it stopped rolling before it got to the edge of the drop-off.

And, the more I think about it, the more I believe that I am still here today so that I can share my story with you. There may be someone out there right now who is struggling the same way I was struggling. Maybe by hearing this they can see that this does not have to be the end. That there is hope.

No battle needs to be walked alone.

– ANGELA LEE

I very much believe in the power of sharing our personal stories and connecting through our lived experiences. It’s one of the reasons why I created Fightstory, a nonprofit organization, this past March.

Fightstory is dedicated to speaking one’s truth, inspiring hope, and building a community for those struggling with mental health. It was created to bring healing, awareness, acceptance, and support for those battling through their darkest times, and for their loved ones as well.

No battle needs to be walked alone.

At Fightstory, we believe stories can save lives. These narratives, our stories, need to be shared, and people need to hear them. We are focused on creating a community where voices can be heard, and stories celebrated.

We are starting the conversation.

By sharing real stories from real people who are working to overcome their adversity (depression, eating disorders, suicidal ideation, PTSD, loss of a loved one, and the list goes on….) we shine a light on a topic that is all too often kept in the dark. Our mission is to change how society views mental health and to emphasize the process of healing … because it is a process, and it is possible.

We believe that mental and physical health are vital for every individual and the preservation of their well-being. We want to use our voices to inspire hope and to let others know that they’re not alone.

I’m sure there are people out there asking: Why are you choosing to share this now? Why did you create Fightstory?

On December 26, 2022, my younger sister, Victoria, took her own life.

Fightstory was inspired by Victoria and the remarkable life that she lived at just 18 years old. Fightstory is just as much hers as it is mine. It’s something we created together, to save lives and to try and make the world a better place. We want people to know that although you may feel lonely in your fight with mental health, you are not alone.

If you are struggling right now, if you are in a dark place, if you are contemplating ending your life, let us be the ones to say, we understand. We know how you feel.

It’s not about being strong all the time. You don’t need to fake it or pretend that everything is O.K. There is so much strength in honesty and in asking for help.

And we all can be there for each other.

At that time in 2017 when my husband was the only other person in the world who knew the truth about what happened to me, his support and love were critically important. It’s true that I had to go on a journey of self-healing and recovery, but I had Bruno to hold my hand through it all. He could not understand why I did what I did at that time, and yet he chose to be there for me. His love unwavering.

Sometimes that is all we need. One person. One hand to hold. One shoulder to cry on.

Love is the most powerful thing on Earth. More powerful than anger, sadness or fear. When we have love even the most impossible challenges become possible.

If you are struggling right now, please know that there are people who love and care about you. If you are going through a dark time, I know how incredibly difficult it may be to see right now, but life has so much more in store for you than the current struggles you’re dealing with.

Speaking up and asking for help is the first step to truly living life. We all need to talk more about mental health, not less. It’s only by talking about it that we are able to destigmatize the conversation surrounding mental health.

Suicide is a fatal result of a restricted perspective, a permanent solution to a temporary problem. And a single, permanent decision taken by you doesn’t only affect you. It affects everyone around you. It’s similar to when you throw a stone into the water. The stone hits the surface and sinks, but it creates a ripple effect influencing everything that surrounds it. You may just be trying to put an end to your pain, and I get that. I understand. But I’m here to let you know that you have no idea how much devastation you will leave in your path for everyone you know and love.

Hope is the truth. Your life does matter. The world is a better place with you here.  Better days can come. They are right around the corner. The light will find you, if you look for it. Hold on to hope and the possibility of tomorrow. Sooner or later things will get better, and when that day happens, you will be grateful that you chose to stay. There are so many surprises that your future holds. Life still has so much in store for you.

You are not alone. Hope is real, and you can get through this.

Stay.

Fight.

Be resilient.

As a first generation Australian-born Chinese, I have felt out of place — a fish out of water, so to speak — for as long as I could remember. This sense of not belonging was the foundation of an anxiety-ridden upbringing. However, this crisis of identity was not simply skin deep. Aside from my obvious aesthetic and cultural differences, I didn’t resonate with much of the societal standards, ideas, and convention that I was surrounded with. My adolescent years into my late twenties were particular tumultuous for me as there was a constant internal struggle taking place between conformity and expressing myself authentically. My anxiety was overwhelming, and my felt-inability to speak about what was happening inside eventually drove me into a long spell of depression. I tried many avenues to suppress the turmoil within — drugs, alcohol, anti-depressants, video games, pornography, psychiatric support — anything that would take my attention away from what I was feeling. In 2013, I was diagnosed with cancer. This came out of the blue and truly pulled the rug from beneath my feet. Looking back, however, this diagnosis became — and remains — the greatest blessing of my life. Of course, it was one of the toughest periods of my life. More than a decade later, I am still dealing with the after-affects of my battle with cancer and the extreme invasiveness of the treatment protocol. But the this period of my life gave me, more than anything else, was courage. It gave me the courage to turn and meet face-to-face all that was haunting me for so long. It has not been an easy journey and it has been a long journey. In fact, I feel I have only began to scratch the surface. But I would not be the person I am today if I had not embarked upon this journey, and I know I would not have had the courage to take the first step if not for this diagnosis. I can truly say that I wake up each day feeling that it is the best one yet.

Post-treatment surgery

Eye surgery due to treatment side effects

Writing and publishing my story a decade later

@leslieklau

 

I’ve had to face quite a few tough challenges in my days, but none quite like depression. At the time it came to wreak havoc on my life in early 2017, you could say I was on top of the world. I had build a happy life for myself in Australia after leaving Japan, built a successful tutoring business, and had finally found my passion in life. After a few years training in a martial arts gym, where I learned just how much I loved tough physical training, I discovered bodybuilding in late 2010. Switching to a conventional gym, I embraced weight training and my body immediately started showing the results. Just 12 months later I entered my very first Figure contest and placed 3rd in my category at state level. I was over the moon and I was hooked. I had found my calling in life. There was nothing l loved more than weight training in the gym for hours each day, and then showing off my results on the Figure stage. I used to tell people that I was born to do this, and that I would compete until the day I died. Everyone competes for different reasons. For me, I think it was to prove to myself and to everyone who doubted me when I was young, and told me I would never amount to anything, that I can do big things. That I do have what it takes. Working so hard in the gym made me feel proud, because very few people could do it at the level I did. And being on stage made me feel even more proud, because even fewer people would ever make it that far. I was a Figure athlete for almost 6 years, and I absolutely loved it. My entire life revolved around the training and the lifestyle, and I couldn’t be happier. All my life, I never shied away from challenges. On the contrary. As a Figure athlete, I started off with big disadvantages. Not only did I not come from a sporting or athletic background, I’m a tiny person – I’m just 4’10” tall. Some of the women I would compete against were more than a foot taller than me. But I didn’t care. Not only that, I intentionally chose to compete in the IFBB because they’re the biggest and best organization in the world. They’re the ones that host the Olympia each year in the US, and they have the toughest competition. The pinnacle of the sport. I chose to be a natural athlete because my health was very important to me, even though I competed against women who weren’t natural. That’s what I wanted – to test myself against the very best despite all the cards being stacked against me. No excuses. Year after year the judges would tell me how my physique was constantly improving, and by early 2017 I had competed in a total of 17 contests and placed 4 times. And as I said, I was on top of the world. THE DARKNESS BEGINS . . . But then . . . the wheels started to fall off. In around April of that year, shortly after the contest season where I competed at the 2017 Arnold Classic Australia, I began feeling a bit “low”, mood-wise. That was very much out of character for me. Back then, anyone who knew me would have told you that I was the one person who could never, ever possibly get depression. I was typically one of those people who was always smiling, always happy, always optimistic and unfailingly energetic. I would bounce out of bed each morning, ultra-excited about getting into my day. I was all about motivation, both for myself and for others, and chasing my goals. I was in love with life and all its possibilities. But little by little, the blackness seeped into my being. I gradually lost my spark. My enthusiasm and energy faded away. I started having difficulties making even the simplest of decisions. Even my love for training started to die. My best friend, business partner and training coach, Fabian, urged me to keep working out regardless. We both hoped that what I was going through would just be temporary, and neither of us wanted me to lose my hard-earned physique. Fabian thought that I may have had anxiety. But I didn’t tell him, or anyone else, what was going on inside my head. All I could think about was death. Not of killing myself – not at that point. Just of death itself. I saw it everywhere. A dark sense grew inside me that there was no point to living. I felt like I just didn’t belong here in this life anymore. And as that year went on, I got progressively worse. Eventually I sought out the help of a psychologist. The first one I tried, I just didn’t click with. The second one was no better, even though I saw her about nine times altogether. She came highly recommended by my doctor and apparently had quite a good reputation, but unfortunately I found her to be of no help at all. Looking back now with a clear mind at how she treated me and at what her attitude was like, I can objectively say that she was incompetent, and should probably be in a different line of work. Whatever Sometime later in the year I was prescribed an antidepressant by my doctor. I purchased the medication, took it home, but immediately threw it in the trash. As someone who lived a life of health and fitness, someone who had been drug-free and medicine-free their entire life, I just couldn’t bring myself to go down that road. On top of that, a close friend of Fabian’s who had suffered from depression for most of her life would regularly tell us about her horrible experiences with antidepressants, and talk about the perils of getting onto what she called the antidepressant rollercoaster. So of course, they terrified us both. But by the end of the year, I had spiraled down deeper and was experiencing fullblown anxiety. I went days without any sleep, and my mind raced constantly with thoughts of doom and fearfulness. About anything and everything, for no reason. I dreaded waking up each morning and having to face the simple, everyday tasks that I was doing so effortlessly in the past. Now they absolutely terrified me. By November I was staying at Fabian’s place almost every day. He didn’t think it was safe or healthy for me to be on my own in the condition I was in, and I don’t think I could have survived without his help and support. ANOTHER DOOR OPENS . . . With my psychologist sessions getting nowhere it was getting increasingly difficult for me to function each day. Sometime early in 2018 I went to see yet another doctor, who also prescribed me with an antidepressant. I don’t even know if it was the same as the first one – the one I threw away. She assured me that it would help. As I said, antidepressants terrified me at that time, but I didn’t really think I had much choice. With the psychologists being no help, medication was really the only thing left that we knew of at the time. So finally, with good deal of trepidation, I took the plunge. A few weeks later, I also started seeing a psychiatrist in a depression and anxiety clinic in a major Sydney Hospital. I had to fill out a 20-minute survey online for admission, which actually took me six hours to complete. I did it over two days, with Fabian’s help. That’s some indication of what my head was like at the time. There I was assigned a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with both anxiety and depression. Fabian took me to each of my weekly therapy sessions because I was far too anxious to travel on public transport on my own. Because I was so profoundly depressed, my psychiatrist’s strategy was to simply do weekly talk therapy with me while the medication had a chance to lift my mood to a manageable enough level to allow CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) to work. Despite trying a few different medications, however, that day unfortunately never came. LIFE GOES ON . . . SORT OF . . . One of the things my doctor at the clinic emphasized to me from the beginning was non-avoidance – the importance of continuing to do the things I normally did, even when it’s really hard. If you stop doing something, it could be almost impossible to start doing it again. Since my depression began I continued to work as a Japanese tutor in our tutoring business. I wasn’t able to do it at the same level that I used to, but still, I did what I could. I knew that if I gave that up it would be the beginning of the end for me. As painful as it was, I just couldn’t allow myself to quit, so I toughed it out as best I could. My psychiatrist said he couldn’t believe that I was still managing to work, but I knew I just had to. So I did. The other hell for me was going to the place that was once my sanctuary – the gym. The healthy me was a Figure athlete. That was part of my identity. And I had to fight each day to prevent depression from taking that away from me. I was also told that exercise was good for depression, and I knew that avoiding things was very bad. So I persevered. But despite all the theoretical upsides, it was just getting harder and harder to do. My five-day-a-week gym schedule gradually became four days. Then Fabian started to go with me for support on two of those days each week. Then three days. The days I went on my own were really, really hard. Sometimes I just sat in the car park for ages, trying to work up the courage to go inside. Never in tears though. No matter how sad or how hopeless I would feel, either the depression or the medication – I’m not sure which – made it impossible for me to cry. Eventually, four gym days a week became three days, all with Fabian going with me. And then two. Soon we were just going once a week for some light cardio. Finally, I cancelled my membership, behind Fabian’s back. But he understood. There’s only so much hell that a person can put up with. Especially when you’re depressed and there’s no point to anything, including life itself. FROM BAD TO WORSE . . . As the months ticked by the physical and mental effects of my depression continued to worsen. Since April of 2018 my digestive system had slowed to a crawl because of the depression, causing me to suffer from chronic constipation. That caused me an enormous amount of stress and made life miserable. I was terrified of eating every meal, because in my irrational, depressed state I was convinced that the food wouldn’t be able to come out. I stressed over the risk I was taking each time I ate. There was no doubt in my mind that I would eventually die from my constipation, either because of a blockage or because the food sitting inside me would cause cancer, but it seemed like no one would believe me. Everything in my life became unimaginably difficult. For some strange reason, washing my hair terrified me. I couldn’t speak on the phone. Whenever it rang, I would jump. I hated the night times because I thought I wouldn’t wake up. And I hated the mornings because I did wake up. I hated winter because it was too cold, and summer because it was too hot. I was also consumed by thoughts of being abandoned and homeless, to the point where I was collecting shopping bags to put my things in when I would eventually be out on the street. Whenever I saw homeless people in the street, I would fret for them because I was convinced that I would be there with them someday. I wondered where they slept at night, and where they would go when it rained. I also worried about how they dealt with mosquitoes and rats. I researched about where McDonald’s threw out their unused food, so I would know where to go to eat. And I was terrified that I would eventually go to prison for stealing food. I used to ask Fabian whether he thought I would be homeless one day, and of course he told me that that couldn’t possibly happen. I didn’t believe him. I asked him whether, if I did become homeless, he would let me live in his place, and he said of course I could. Again, I didn’t believe him. Anyone that had anything remotely positive or encouraging to say I thought were lying to me, or just making fun of me. Anyhow, you get the picture. It was a living hell. THE END OF MY ROPE . . . I truly believed that there was no point me continuing to live, so for months I planned my exit. Then, on 30 December, 2019 my opportunity came, and I tried to end my life with a massive overdose of sleeping pills. It’s hard for someone who has never experienced depression to understand what drives a person to want to end their life. It’s very easy to criticize and say it’s selfish and weak and thoughtless. Maybe it’s all of that. But you really don’t care. In my suicide note, I apologized to Fabian for my selfishness. When your entire life is so dark, painful and hopeless for years, and you see no imaginable way it can ever possibly change, the decision is pretty obvious and straightforward. Maybe if you have a family there’s a little more to it than that. But I’m single and I have no children, so for me the decision was that simple. It really didn’t take much thought at all, although it’s without a doubt the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life. THE AFTERMATH . . . Fabian found me in my room about five hours after my overdose, covered all over in dried blood. For some reason, the overdose caused me to fall over in my room and hit my head several times, and I ended up with a four inch gash on my head that required thirteen staples to close, as well as a cracked vertebra in my neck. As a result, I spent a week in hospital healing up under 24/7 suicide watch. The first few days following my overdose were particularly painful. I was absolutely devastated that I was still alive, and couldn’t comprehend how it happened. It was the very last thing I wanted. I even pleaded with Fabian to help me leave (life, not the hospital), like Maggie in the movie Million Dollar Baby. Once I was medically cleared they transferred me to their mental care ward, and two days later Fabian had me transferred to a private mental care hospital, where I was eventually to stay for exactly two months. I think I was the most withdrawn of all the patients there in the beginning. I certainly considered myself as the worst case. I hardly spoke to anyone, and I saw the group therapy programs as being utterly pointless and a complete waste of time. The hospital itself was a very nice place, but even so I hated everything. I even didn’t like the new psychiatrist whose care they put me under. Fabian thought he was a really nice guy. But of course, Fabian wasn’t depressed. Over time the doctor gradually put me on a cocktail of four different psychiatric medications plus a sleeping pill. By that point our fearful attitude towards medications had softened somewhat. You could say that after everything that had happened, we really felt that we had a lot less to lose. Though having said that, at the previous hospital, the consultant psychiatrist’s suggestion of ECT (electro-convulsive therapy) made Fabian extremely uneasy. And my indifference towards it didn’t help. At the time I just didn’t care. I don’t think it was something that Fabian would have allowed to happen quite so easily though. The only thing that made life in hospital bearable were Fabian’s visits. He came to see me every single day, at both hospitals. Even so, as each day passed I grew increasingly distraught that yet another day of 2020 had gone by. The year that I was never supposed to see. Fabian intentionally avoided mentioning the date to me as much as possible. But then, one day, my world suddenly and miraculously changed. BACK TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING . . . On 24 February 2020, at exactly 2:00am, I awoke in my hospital bed after just two hours of sleep. And inexplicably, my depression and anxiety were literally gone. Completely. Miraculously “switched off”. Just like that. Thanks to the wizardry of my wonderful psychiatrist (and new best friend), I was back. That day, everything changed one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. I was back to my old self. I’m sure the patients at the hospital were left scratching their heads. Literally overnight I had gone from being a part of the furniture, who would hardly interact with anyone, to the life of the hospital. I made friends with virtually every patient there. I was ecstatically happy every day. And suddenly, I absolutely loved the group therapy classes. I even signed up to do more as an outpatient once I was discharged. My mood became so elevated that my hospital psychologist labeled me as “hypomanic” in her notes. She and my psychiatrist both suspected that I may in fact be bipolar. Fabian and I had to assure them that that was in fact the normal me. I have always been a very upbeat, energetic and over-enthusiastic person. Add to that the sheer joy of being suddenly back to normal after almost three years of unimaginable hell where I had lost all hope, and I think my happy mood was pretty understandable. That hospital became like heaven to me, and I avoided leaving for as long as I could. My psychiatrist was certainly happy for me to stay a while longer, to ensure I was OK before letting me loose on the world again. I still look back at that place with extreme fondness and consider it my second home. The place where, after almost three years of unremitting, severe depression, I was born again. On 24 February, 2020 – my new birthday. IT’S A NEW DAWN, IT’S A NEW DAY, IT’S A NEW LIFE FOR ME . . . As I mentioned, before my depression I was the model of a person who could, in theory, never be depressed. My friends would say that if it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone. And it can. After all is said and done though, the very fact that I became depressed tells me that not all was perfect in my life. It doesn’t happen for no reason. When I look back at my life when depression hit, I think the causes are pretty clear. Earlier I referred to training as a Figure athlete as my passion, and it was. But it was also an obsession. It excited me to the point where I neglected to look after myself in the process. Leading up to each contest season, I would average maybe three to four hours of sleep a night. Sometimes less. Sometimes none at all. I would get so pumped that I simply couldn’t sleep at all. I would just stay awake thinking, dreaming, watching motivational videos, looking at photos of my role models, listening to music. I honestly felt as though I didn’t need more sleep. But sooner or later, something had to give. And it did. I once read an article from one of my role models who is a four-time Olympia Figure champion. She mentioned that to achieve anything extraordinary in life, that life has to be unbalanced. And she said that she’s OK with that. When I read that, I agreed with her. And I still do to some degree, I guess. But I also know now that you have to tread really carefully with that imbalance. Sometimes you have no idea what you’re risking or sacrificing until it’s too late. Angela’s message to athletes to always take care of one’s mental health first and foremost is a really important one. Once you’ve compromised your mental health, you can’t change your mind and take your actions back. You have no choice but to live with the consequences. And that means your life can never be the same again. Since my depression a lot has changed, both in me and in my life. I’m much nicer to myself. I allow myself to rest and to have fun. And most of all, to sleep. I actually used to feel guilty in the past when I slept a lot. Now I feel like sleep is the sweetest thing in the world, and I’m never stingy with it. I’ve learned that resting and wasting time are two very different things, and that whatever I choose to do, my health is always priority number one. I think I’ve come through this tough journey a far better person, and I feel as though it all happened for a reason. It has made me understand and appreciate life and myself so much more than I already did. I’m grateful every day that I was given this second chance. It’s truly a gift. I know that many others aren’t so lucky, so each and every day I make it a point to make my second life count. life count.

 

@stronger.braver.fighter

 

My name is Lies and I am 38 years old. All my life, I have dreamed of martial arts. Finally, at the age of 18, I joined a Thai boxing club. I trained every day but since then, I have had psychological problems. Through training, I could accept myself more. I didn’t like myself. I started taking painkillers (morphine) for the high feeling it gave me, and it made me more confident. I did this sport for years and felt better and better. Until my trainer began to realize that something was wrong with me. My trainer was like the father I never had. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother is disabled and couldn’t take care of three children, so I lived with my grandparents for many years. I missed parental love and felt rejected by both of them. I didn’t know what was wrong with me because nobody liked me. My trainer treated me as his own daughter. At the age of 25, my trainer admitted me to psychiatry for the first time for my addiction and emotional damage. I underwent treatment for a year, but self-love did not come. At that time, I also felt abandoned by my trainer; I couldn’t see that he was doing this to help me. After my hospitalization, I continued training and participating in competitions, but because I didn’t like myself and lacked confidence due to being bullied all my life, both at school and work, I couldn’t win a match. My trainer would get very angry in my corner during fights because he knew I had more potential than I was showing in the matches. At some point, my trainer gave up on me because I kept relying on morphine. I then regained control, pursued a coaching diploma, and taught children and beginners for several years until I injured my back while working as a caregiver for older people in a hospital. I trained, taught, and worked in the hospital. My back gave in, and since I had access to all sorts of medication at the hospital, I started stealing drugs at work to manage my pain. After years of living like this, they noticed that I had wrecked my back through training and work. I was 35 years old then. After 15 years of training, I had to give up my sport. They fused my spine with screws and plates. I couldn’t train anymore. My world collapsed because training was my life and my anchor. Since then, I’ve been admitted to a psychiatric hospital for 3 years due to my addiction and mental state. Things are getting better; there are days when I don’t think about suicide because I’ve had those thoughts since I was 12. When I was 13, I stood by train tracks to jump but didn’t have the courage. I attempted suicide several times but never had the courage to end it. I was exhausted and had no love from anyone. But now things are improving, step by step. I know that if I hadn’t trained, I might not be here now because of my morphine abuse. Today, I’ve been off pain medication for 3 years and feel much better. Talking also helps a lot, as does getting support from counselors or people in similar situations. Don’t give up, everything will be okay! Meanwhile, it’s been established that I have severe ADHD, an eating disorder, and OCD. But I continue to fight, even if it’s not in the ring.

CHILDHOOD

I grew up in the western hemisphere, but most of my family is from Taiwan. To say that my father was extremely abusive would be an understatement. Mental health experts have said that he is not well, but he doesn’t believe in mental health. My father has Narcissistic Personality Disorder; he is also a sociopath. He knows the difference between right and wrong; he just doesn’t care. Before I even finished grade school, I saw the police put my old man in handcuffs and take him to prison over 10X! I stopped counting after ten. Child services were constantly getting involved, although sadly, they did very little. I remember one time when I was around 9 years old, I was at home with my father and two younger sisters, ages 8 and 6 at the time. My father tried to call my mother at her place of work, but she was late and couldn’t get to the phone (this was before cell phones became popular). My father decided to have my sister and I kneel down before him and he beat the shit out of us! He also beat up the housekeeper. Keep in mind that my mother being late to work has nothing to do with any of us. In a separate incident, when my siblings and I were kids, one of us farted in the car. Later that day, my father had us kneel down again and he physically beat all three of us with a wooden stick because one of us farted! Passing gas is a natural bodily function. It doesn’t smell nice, but we all do it and is it usually involuntary. It is nothing to be ashamed of and you certainly shouldn’t be beating your children with a wooden stick for a natural bodily function. My most terrifying memories were when I was little (9 years old and younger). Sometimes my parents would take kitchen knives and attack each other! I have often seen my father slam my mother to the floor and repeatedly hit her in the face. Sometimes, my mother would call out to ask me, a 21kg (46lbs) child, to help physically fight my father, a full-grown adult! And when my mother lost a fist fight to my father, she would take her frustration out on us and physically beat us. Of course, my sisters and I developed severe depression, PTSD, and other ailments. We had no chance of being emotionally healthy. One of my earliest memories was when I was three. According to psychologists I spoke to over the years, even though I was so young, I remember because it was a life-and-death situation. We lived on the 5th floor of an apartment building. There was a fire. My mother grabbed my sister, my father grabbed my other sister, and then he said, “I don’t like carrying boys.” They left me, a 3-year-old, alone on the 5th floor of a burning building! Somehow, I managed to walk down five flights of stairs, a Herculean task, considering my legs weren’t quite long enough to reach the steps in between the stairs. Years later as an adult, I confronted my parents about this horrific event. My father didn’t give a shit and saw no wrong with what he did. He is a diagnosed sociopath and narcissist after all. As for my mother, her response was that she saved my sister and that was good enough. The message I received from them was that it’s okay if I die because they have other children. I spent time in the homeless shelter, both as a minor and an adult. I left home when I was sixteen and “lived” in a government building for abandoned children. It was an awful experience that no child should ever have to go through. Fortunately, a few months later, I rented a small room in an apartment. My mother helped me financially, so I wasn’t completely alone. Despite her many flaws, she has some good characteristics. Going back to my earlier years, my father would even threaten to physically beat us for catching a cold and getting sick. I’ve also watched my father beat up my mother in front of her father (my maternal grandfather) multiple times. Horrors like these were constant throughout my childhood.  

ADULT LIFE

I started college at Long Island University (It’s in New York.) at 17. I didn’t complete high school the traditional way. I took an extended exam and got my high school diploma at 16. I had a lot of difficulties in college. Academically, I was fine, but depression was a big problem. I took semesters off to work on my mental health. I spoke to Long Island University’s school psychiatrist, Dr. Lawrence Sovel, a few times. He told me that the only way to treat depression is pharmaceutical drugs. Obviously, that is not true, otherwise, therapy would not exist. The school psychiatrist also told me I should go ahead and kill myself! I am not kidding, nor can I forget it. There are people in this world without a soul, even doctors. There are very bad people, who never should have been allowed to be a physician. Sadly, people like Dr. Sovel exist. When I was a teenager, I didn’t know any better, but now I know these people need to be reported (and sent to jail). I have been in the hospital several times for depression, especially for wanting to kill myself. As a patient (and now a doctor myself, more on that later), I’m disgusted by the state of the broken healthcare system in the USA. Legally, I can’t tell people not to go to the hospital if they have depression as severe as I did, nor do I feel someone should avoid going if it’s necessary. What I’m appalled by is the for-profit healthcare system. More often than not, if your health insurance won’t pay for a treatment or medicine, you do not receive it, no matter how much it’s necessary. That needs to change. I’ve had a lot of various treatments and took quite a bit of medication over the years. I’ve been in the hospital half a dozen times, taken 5 different kinds of medications, went to psychotherapy, and even tried something called Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS). I got somewhat better, but none of it fully healed me. In fact, I remember a few years ago when I was in school to be a chiropractor, while taking an exam for my immunology class, I used 80% of my mental energy not to jump out the window and only 20% to take the test. Surprisingly, I managed to get a good grade. It would have been better, but I just did have the strength to check my work, which I almost always did when I was a student. A more embarrassing part of my life was when I was taken advantage of by so-called psychics. In my late teens and early twenties, I spent years being manipulated by various psychics (or fortune tellers or whatever you want to call them). I was clinically depressed. I had already been in therapy and tried medications that didn’t work. I was desperate and since I wanted to die anyway, I felt I had nothing to lose. One of the psychics convinced me to give me all my money, which I did, and I ended up in the homeless shelter as a result. Another convinced me to lie, cheat, and steal for her; she also stole thousands of dollars from me. The worst one was a Romanian woman called Evana Mitchell, who literally tried to convince me that committing suicide was a good idea, and leave her my stuff, which I almost did! There are some VERY bad people in this world. And considering that the human brain does not fully develop until we’re twenty-five years old, what they did to me is predatory behavior. Emotionally, my most painful moment was in 2022. I was in my last year of chiropractic school. I got a phone call informing me that my little sister had taken her own life. She had tried to kill herself years ago, but this time she had succeeded. I almost didn’t finish school, but since I had already spent nine years studying to be a doctor, I pushed myself to the finish line. It was HARD. With a narcissistic, sociopathic father, a mother who’s unhealthy emotionally, and a sister (the sister that’s alive) who’s also narcissistic, as well as an elitist (although she’ll never admit it), I wasn’t sure if I was going to make through school or even stay alive. If it were not for the support of my classmates and a few close friends, I would not have made it. The story gets even worse. Within a few weeks after my little sister’s suicide, I developed an auto-immune disease called Cholinergic Urticaria (CU). It’s a disease where I become allergic to my own sweat! I acquired this disease during the summer time and it was f*cking hot. I got this debilitating disease while trying to finish school. I loved martial arts, still do. While I had CU, every time I tried to exercise, my entire body would break out in a rash. The itchiness was not only unbearable, my skin felt like it was on fire. I felt extreme pain every single day. I could not even walk around the block without being in agony. The disease even ruined sex. I took massive amounts of antihistamines as my doctors suggested, but nothing worked. The itching and burning would not disappear. Sometimes, I would get dizzy too. While working as a student chiropractor, I had to take frequent breaks, and sometimes the senior doctor needed to take over a patient’s treatment because I doubled over in pain while providing manual therapy for a patient. The autoimmune disease lasted for eight months. I wanted to die from the physical pain and the mental anguish that came with it. Doctors suspect that my body developed an autoimmune disorder in response to the extreme stress that came with my sister’s death. I don’t know what happened, but the disease went away on its own. Occasionally, when I become stressed or don’t get enough sleep it comes back, although it’s not as devastating as before. The eight months when the disease tortured me every day was the worst eight months of my life. My story would not be complete unless I talked about my own suicide attempts. I’ve tried to kill myself three times. At age 16, I tried to hang myself in the bathroom. At age 20, I tried to hang myself in my college dormitory. At age 22, I tried to strangle myself. There may have been additional attempts that I don’t recall. There were so many times when I wanted to die. So, so, so many times. If I could tell you what the solution to severe depression is, I would. Alas, it’s different for everyone and they’re no magic pill or one-size-fits-all treatment. However, I will say this, if you get into a car accident and break a bone, no one would ever say to you, “It’s all in your head, just get over it.” If a bone breaks, you go to a doctor. The same should apply to mental health. If you’re in emotional agony and it’s not getting better on its own, it likely won’t disappear, so find a mental health professional that you trust. I come from a culture where talking about mental health is taboo. Some of the older people in my own family still don’t believe that mental illness exists, even after my sister killed herself. Fortunately, you and I know better. Mental health is similar to physical fitness. You won’t feel like you can do intense exercise at the gym every day, and you won’t be happy every day. There WILL be ups and downs. If you stop eating well and stop exercising, your body won’t be healthy. This applies to your mind as well. If you stop taking care of your mental hygiene, you’ll suffer psychologically, so do what you need to to take care of yourself. I’m a work in progress. I still struggle with depression sometimes. I have some dark days where the thought of suicide crosses my mind. One of the things that help me is going to talk therapy regularly. It took me years to get to where I am now (relatively mentally healthy). It won’t take years for you to get better. Just know it may take a few tries before you find something that works for you, but eventually you will. In life, I was given the short end of the stick in many regards, however, a wise man once said to me, “Although you can justly blame your situation on your parents and society, you still have to live your life.” Know this: you are not a victim. Not anymore. You are a survivor. A warrior. Fight on. I’ll leave you with a link to a 1-minute video that will empower you. https://www.youtube.com/shorts/NM6oXmc2G_c May you heal and live a life that’s worthwhile.