These words have been echoing in my head every single day for over three years — but in the past few months, their weight has become almost unbearable.

My struggle with depression and anxiety started around three or four years ago. It began with a blackout caused by emotional overload — the result of years of bottled-up pain finally erupting and turning my life into a living nightmare.

Nowadays, it seems like many influencers online claim they’re depressed after posting a bad TikTok video. I believe this shallow portrayal does real harm to those who suffer silently every single day.

Because that’s exactly how I feel — as if every day is suffering.

All I ever wanted was to be happy. Not rich — just truly happy.

When I was younger, I dreamed of finding my first love. But when she was almost within reach, my best friend at the time — someone I trusted deeply — raped her. She later took her own life.

Years later, after painfully rebuilding myself, I tried to open a small food business — something that gave me a sense of purpose. After saving for years, I lost everything. My entire savings were stolen from my bank account.

About a year later, just when things were beginning to look better, I inherited over €110,000 of debt from a family member. No one in the family even knew about it. Life crushed me again.

Still, I didn’t give up. I worked hard, paid off debt bit by bit, and even lost 31 kilograms in 18 months.

Then came the pandemic — job loss, isolation, and my worst depressive episode yet. This time, it brought its cruel companion: anxiety disorder.

Many people think anxiety is just stress or nerves.

But in my case, it meant sleepless nights, muscle pain, dizziness, blurred vision — and gaining 40 kilograms in two years.

I couldn’t even walk to the store without crutches. That’s when I started treatment. But the truth is, unless you come from a wealthy family, mental health care is painfully expensive — especially when you’re buried under €100,000 in debt. All I could afford were pills, prescribed once every two months.

Life has been merciless. I’ve come to know it that way.

Working 14–16 hours a day in a seated job has left my body broken, not just emotionally, but physically. I’m only 26 years old.

Maybe you’re thinking, “Just change jobs” or “Work normal hours.”

I wish I could.

After paying rent for a small room and handling all my inherited debts, I have less than €130 a month for food. I can’t afford to be sick. I can’t afford to change jobs. I can’t even afford a day off.

I’ve fought my whole life to survive. And it feels like all that effort has amounted to nothing.

Now, I work myself to the ground, live in poverty, suffer from a debilitating mental illness, and wake up multiple times a night in full-blown panic — it’s like being hit in the chest with a defibrillator. Every. Single. Night.

I’m raising money to attend a one-year mental health treatment program in a closed center — while still covering my basic expenses and bills.

I know fundraisers for mental health are often judged.

Even more so when it’s a man asking for help.

I understand. You can criticize me. Laugh at me.

But this is my last hope.

And writing this feels a lot like writing a goodbye letter.

All I ask for is your understanding.

Wishing you all the best,

K.