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I used to pride myself on being in control. Monday through Thursday, I was high-functioning—on time, efficient, even optimistic. Then Friday rolled around, and I’d plan a “harmless weekend” bender.

I used to think needing help looked obvious. Lost jobs, broken families, dramatic rock-bottom moments. I had none of that—I had a solid job, friends who loved me, and a

I used to wake up and play a familiar game: slap on a smile, pour coffee, and pretend the night before hadn’t happened. No drama. No wreckage. Just another morning

I started treatment once. I walked in, felt hopeful—and walked out a few days later. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d be missing too much: work deadlines, family dinners, regular

I wore the mask of someone who “had it all together.” I could lead meetings, organize family dinners, and still smile at the end of the day. But inside, I