I know that feeling all too well — the hot flush of humiliation, the stomach-turning regret, the desperate wish to disappear. Shame had been my constant companion for so long, dictating the way I lived and the way I saw myself. At my lowest, it was shame that pushed me to the bottom, especially when I found myself humiliatingly drunk more times than I care to admit. I would drink to numb the pain, to quiet the voices of self-doubt and fear, but it always backfired. Instead of feeling relief, I woke up to the sinking realization of what I’d done — again. The embarrassment of slurred words, the looks from others, the messes I’d made. Shame would creep back in like an old enemy, reminding me of every mistake, every flaw, as if they were permanent stains on who I was.I grew up surrounded by shame. It was used as a tool to control, to keep me in line, and I carried that weight into adulthood, not knowing any other way to feel. For a long time, I believed I was fundamentally broken. And when I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia and Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (EUPD), it felt like confirmation of everything I’d feared — that something was deeply, irreparably…