I Thought I Was Strong Until I Realized I Loved the Pain

I used to think my strength came from surviving the chaos. Growing up, my home was tumultuous. My mother struggled with addiction, and my two brothers ended up in foster care. We were scattered, broken, and I spent years believing that pain was just the price of being alive.

Then, during my sophomore year of college, my sister was killed as an innocent bystander. It was the kind of tragedy that shatters a person's foundation. After that, I got face tattoos, including a teardrop, as if I could mark my grief on my skin so the world would see it. I stopped playing sports and dropped out of school after a friend died. I felt like I was just waiting for the next thing to break me.

I realized I wasn't just surviving my trauma; I was addicted to the dopamine rush of breakups and makeups, confusing chaos with love.

But the real damage wasn't just the loss; it was how I started to handle the relationships that followed. I began to admit to myself something terrifying: I loved toxic relationships. I loved the chaos they brought. There was a specific dopamine rush I chased—the high of a breakup followed by the desperate, frantic energy of a makeup. I found myself addicted to the pain. When I saw an ex with another man, I felt weak, but I also felt that familiar, sickening pull to return to the fire.

I struggled to trust people after being cheated on. My paranoia grew. I found myself feeling anxious and paranoid in large crowds or groups of friends, even though my public persona suggested I was confident. I would separate myself from toxic individuals to protect my mental health, yet I kept pulling them back in. I wasn't sure if I knew how to love properly anymore. I questioned if the love I received was real or if I was just being played.

The turning point didn't come from a dramatic confrontation or a sudden epiphany. It came from reconnecting with my two brothers via Facebook at age 25. After years of separation, finding them changed my family dynamic. It forced me to look at my life not as a series of tragedies, but as a timeline. I started writing my book, *Against All Odds*, three years ago, treating it as journal entries that mapped out my life stages. I realized I needed to stop taking pain pills just to be comfortable socially. I needed to stop hiding my struggles.

I celebrated one year of sobriety from alcohol, a milestone that felt heavier than any trophy I ever won. I had made $200,000 in 2018 after visualizing financial goals, but money didn't fix the emptiness inside. I realized I was living subconsciously, reacting to pain rather than living intentionally. I decided to stop doing stand-up comedy to focus on acting and social media, not because I wanted to escape, but because I needed to be honest about who I was.

Now, I am actively trying to stop taking pain pills. I am learning to develop boundaries in relationships. I know I am strong enough mentally to stop my habits, but I am still unsure about my mental state on future days when making plans. I am still unsure why I feel paranoid around large crowds. I am learning to ask for help rather than hiding my struggles.

I advocate for influencers to get help to protect their audience because I know how easy it is to pretend you are fine when you are falling apart. I am working on understanding that love shouldn't feel like a battle. I am learning that I don't have to be addicted to the pain to feel alive. I am learning to live intentionally, one day at a time, even when I don't know if I know how to love properly yet.