Ten years ago, I did not have the words to define my wounds. The inexplicable pain, sadness and anger that lived inside of me, those moments when I sank into the darkness of my soul. To this was added an obsessive fear of abandonment, and a conflictual relationship to my body, to men and my sexuality. I did not have the words because no one around me seemed to experience the same things, and in my environment, we simply did not talk about mental health. I strove to believe that I was perhaps the problem, and the only one responsible and victim of my pain. So I suffered in silence for years. An emotional distress that I tried to conceal. It was cyclic, going and coming according to my experiences, my victories or failures; But in all circumstances it remained invisible. From my adolescence to my young adult life, the mantra that guided my life was “Be strong and under no circumstances, show your weaknesses.” It had become an obsession, a reflex of survival, but also a deeply dangerous and perverse illusion. Creating a solid shell to hide your fragility and protect yourself can be a temporary solution. A “quick fix” that works until the carapace falls and you find yourself at the mercy of everything, including yourself.