After that night in the kitchen, everything started to spiral. The pain I had been carrying became unbearable. I turned to alcohol. Not because I wanted to drink, but because it was the only relief I could find. It was a way to numb the overwhelming grief, fear, and isolation. And yet, that coping mechanism, unhealthy as it might have been, was quickly weaponized against me.
Instead of acknowledging the root causes; the structural discrimination, the racism, the exclusion, the mocking, the total dismissal of my rights and feelings, people reduced me to yet another stereotype: the drunk Romany. My pain was ignored. My history was erased. I became a caricature in their eyes. After Erasmus, someone even wrote publicly online that "this romany", meaning me, was addicted to alcohol before I began my studies, and that I was obsessed with my classmate. As if that’s all I ever was. As if I hadn’t spent years trying to survive systems that were never built to include people like me. My humanity was rewritten into a lie that served their comfort and justified their cruelty.
Jens once even accused me of only caring about alcohol. But that accusation was never truly about concern. It was about dismissal and control. Small, everyday moments were twisted into evidence against me. Like when I said I couldn’t come to a movie outing because I didn’t have money that day (it was a Sunday, and the student grant came on Monday), instead of understanding or offering me a loan, I was told, “You always have money for alcohol.” Or when I didn’t submit my songs for the class playlist we used at parties - not because I didn’t care, but because I had made a list with dozens of songs and couldn’t decide which ones to choose - I was told I hadn’t done it because I “only had time for alcohol.” These weren’t isolated comments. They were part of a larger pattern
I won’t pretend I didn’t drink a lot. And yes, some comments may have come from a place of genuine concern. But when my drinking was used against me to other me, to pathologize me, to frame me as the problem, it became something else entirely. It became a way to erase the context, to avoid looking at their own behavior, their own complicity in what I was going through. Using my pain against me was easier than admitting they might have helped cause it.
This kind of reduction - blaming the individual for their pain - is a recurring pattern faced by people who live at the intersection of multiple stigmatized identities. When someone is racialized, queer, and struggling with mental health, their experiences are rarely viewed in their full context. Instead of asking what has happened to this person, the focus shifts to what’s wrong with them. This shift serves a function: it protects those in power, whether individuals or systems, from having to confront their own roles in perpetuating harm.
In my case, the complex pain I was carrying, shaped by racism, exclusion, microaggressions, betrayal, and untreated depression, was collapsed into a single, digestible stereotype: the alcoholic. People stopped asking why I was in pain and instead used my coping mechanism as the explanation itself. "She drinks too much, and that’s why she behaves this way." This circular logic removed the need for any deeper inquiry. My drinking wasn't seen as a response to trauma, but as a flaw that justified further marginalization.
This is how stigma operates: it isolates. It simplifies. It makes pain illegible unless it conforms to sanitized, socially acceptable expressions. And when it doesn’t, when pain spills out messily, through anger, withdrawal, indecision, or alcohol, it becomes not only misunderstood but criminalized. The community, eager to restore its sense of moral order, punishes the one who disturbs the illusion of harmony. And often, that person is already the most vulnerable.
Survival strategies, even self-destructive ones, are rarely seen for what they are: desperate attempts to cope when other forms of support are denied. But in the absence of compassion or context, these strategies become new grounds for judgment, exclusion, and control. It’s a convenient way to shift blame. Instead of examining the conditions that created the crisis, the community finds relief in saying: she brought it on herself.
The criminal they needed me to be
At this point, after weeks of escalating exclusion, misinterpretation, and constant dismissal, I reached a breaking point. The dynamic between me, Senni, and the others had deteriorated sharply. One night, drunk and consumed by rage and grief, I went to Samppa’s apartment building and confronted them. I demanded to speak with Senni, but Samppa refused to let me in. Senni eventually came to meet me in the hallway.
In that raw and painful moment, I lost control. I started pushing Senni against the wall. I think her phone broke during the struggle. It was a clamshell phone, and I remember trying to grab it when she said she wanted to call Samppa. In the scuffle, it snapped in two. As soon as it happened I fled. I was horrified by myself. Ashamed. Sickened. I couldn’t believe what I had done.
The next day, I learned that Senni told Camilla I had strangled her. I really don’t remember strangling her. She never told me I had. And I never corrected the claim to Camilla. Maybe she misunderstood what Senni meant. Maybe not. But I didn’t correct it, not because I believed it was true, but because I felt so ashamed. I had crossed a line, and in some twisted way, I thought maybe Senni had the right to distort the truth after what I had done. I was too consumed with guilt to defend myself. I wanted punish myself.
After that night, the narrative of me as a violent, dangerous person took even deeper root. According to Senni, Jens even told her she should file a criminal report against me. It was striking, especially considering that when Senni had physically assaulted me on two separate occasions, Jens had only laughed. No one had encouraged me to go to the police. No one had taken it seriously. But now, when I had crossed a line, I was immediately framed as the criminal.
The contrast was striking. It exposed a deep double standard in how harm is recognized and who is allowed to be seen as a victim. When someone like me, a queer Roma person already burdened by stigma, breaks down and makes a mistake, it isn’t understood as a natural response to unbearable pressure. Instead, it is pathologized and punished. Meanwhile, similar or worse actions by those with social privilege are dismissed as mere outbursts or ignored altogether.
The image of me as violent continued to grow. Camilla once accused me of assaulting Jaana. I denied it, of course, but she wouldn’t believe me. When I confronted Jaana, she clarified that she never said I assaulted her, only that I had pushed her or something like that. But the truth is, I never pushed her. One time, during a verbal argument with Senni and Samppa on the street, Jaana came over and grabbed my arm, probably trying to pull me away. But I wasn’t finished expressing how I felt verbally, so I yanked my arm free. Yet, the truth didn’t matter. That incident became just another reason to stigmatize me. The narrative was already fixed and not just because of what I did, but because of who I was. As a Roma, I was assumed to be violent. As a gay person, predatory. And as someone struggling with mental health, unstable. Meanwhile, their actions were seen as innocent and understandable. This double stantard was an example how power and privilege can shape who is believed and who is demonized.
I now understand how my pain, my coping mechanisms, and even my moments of anger were deeply misunderstood and turned against me within a system that prefers clear-cut villains and victims rather than embracing the complexity of human experience. I was expected not only to bear my suffering silently but also to carry the weight of others’ prejudiced judgments and fears rooted not just in my actions, but in my very identity.
This experience has made me realize how essential it is to understand mental health and trauma within the context of structural inequality and social stigma. My drinking was never the root problem; it was a symptom, a response to deep wounds inflicted by exclusion, racism, and ongoing dehumanization. My anger and pain was not something to be silenced or dismissed, but a legitimate expression of my desperate need for recognition and dignity in a world that consistently denied me both.
This issue goes beyond the individual. It exposes a broader societal failure. When people face trauma and hardship, their behaviors are too often pathologized or criminalized without acknowledging the systemic forces behind their struggles. Marginalized individuals, especially those living at the intersection of multiple stigmatized identities, are disproportionately punished for the very survival strategies they use to endure unbearable circumstances.
Had I not been subjected to discrimination, stigmatization, and exclusion, my depression might have been manageable. But in environments where structural barriers and prejudices compound suffering, mental health struggles intensify and deepen. This reality calls for a shift in how we understand and respond to pain — not as individual failings but as symptoms of collective social injustice.
The Moment Everything Collapsed
Eventually, everything collapsed. I reached a breaking point — the lowest I had ever been. I tried to end my life, and Senni was there when it happened.
I don’t want to recount the details. Too much of my pain has already been picked apart, speculated on, turned into gossip and scandalized. And even if I tried, I’m not sure I could explain it clearly. It wasn’t a planned suicide attempt. It wasn’t about wanting to die as much as it was about not being able to survive the way things were anymore. It was a moment fueled by exhaustion, despair, and alcohol. A moment when the world felt so impossibly heavy that I just wanted it all to stop. I wasn’t trying to manipulate Senni. I wasn’t even thinking clearly. I asked her to leave, but she wouldn’t go. And then something in me just broke.
For a brief moment after that night, something between me and Senni shifted. It felt like a glimpse of the warmth she used to offer, a tenderness I had longed for amidst all the hurt. The next day I showed up at her door, fragile and hesitant but she let me in. She cared for me that day. There was something gentle in how she looked after me. And yes, I am grateful to her. But even then, even in that moment of vulnerability, my pain was not truly seen. Not really. Everything was still raw, still aching, but she invited Samppa over as if what had just happened wasn’t something sensitive, as if the trust I had placed in her didn’t require protection. I don’t think she meant harm, but that’s the thing — harm doesn’t always come with cruel intentions. Sometimes it comes in the form of casual disregard.
Instead of honoring what I was going through, my pain became something to manage, to share, even to judge. It wasn’t held but it was dissected. It wasn’t trusted but it was filtered through suspicion. And once again, instead of being met with compassion, I was met with mistrust. Instead of support, there was silence, distance, or worse: people interpreting my breakdown as drama, danger, or manipulation.
That’s what happens too often to people like me. When we hurt, it’s seen as excessive. When we cry out, it’s seen as threatening. Our pain is rarely allowed to just be pain. It is filtered through stereotypes and fear and then turned into something else, something dangerous, something wrong, something shameful.
Instead of recognizing my pain as a cry for help and dignity, it was filtered through layers of racial bias, queerphobia, and mental health stigma. These intersecting prejudices spun a narrative about me that was never mine to begin with. I wasn’t seen as a full human being, but reduced to a stereotype: the unstable Gypsy girl. The emotional one. The unreliable outsider. Even when I was reacting to real harm, my responses weren’t read as hurt or desperation. They were reframed as manipulation, malice, or proof of my supposed instability.
Yes, my depression played a role. Absolutely. But what met me was not care or concern but judgment, fear, and whispers behind closed doors. No one paused to ask what I had been through. No one looked at the emotional or structural context that had led me to that point. They didn’t see someone in crisis. They saw someone to be ashamed of. Someone to fear. And the deepest wound of all was the way my dignity was quietly stripped away.
And yes, I can understand why some people pulled away. My pain was overwhelming. I know it wasn’t easy to witness. Many were likely wrestling with their own insecurities, their own fears. Most of us were still just kids, without the tools to navigate racism, mental illness, or marginalization. I’m not blaming anyone for their feelings, for their discomfort, confusion or even fear. Those are human responses.
But when people act on those feelings in ways that strip someone of dignity, fairness, or compassion, that’s not just about feelings anymore. That’s dehumanization. And that’s exactly what happened to me. I was dehumanized. I was pushed out of the group, labeled dangerous, manipulative, unstable. I was mocked. I was treated as a threat instead of a person in pain.
Yes, we were all young. But we weren’t all treated like we were still learning. Some were allowed to be messy, to make mistakes, to be forgiven, to be human. I wasn’t. Because I was racialized. Because I was queer. Because I was depressed. I became “the unstable Gypsy girl,” “too intense,” “too broken.” When others could struggle and still be seen as good people, I was pathologized.
There are ways to take space from someone’s pain without turning that person into a villain. You can set boundaries without cruelty. You can ask questions. You can reflect on where your discomfort is coming from. You can speak to the person, not about them. But instead, they chose to shame me, to isolate me and to punish me.
Just because people on both sides felt afraid or overwhelmed doesn’t mean the responsibility was equal, and that’s because we weren’t equal in that situation, or in that classroom.
They had more power. More social comfort. More space to step back. And they used it to twist the truth, to protect themselves and to turn me into the problem. Instead of seeing me as a full human being. Instead of asking how their own actions were part of the harm.
This is something people often refuse to admit: We can’t talk about “both sides” as if power, context, and impact were the same. They weren’t. They never were.
So it is okay, and even necessary, to say: I am responsible for what I did. But they carry most of the responsibility for what happened before Erasmus, during Erasmus and after Erasmus. This is not blaming. This is truth-telling. It is recognizing that systems of harm don’t act alone. People participate in them, uphold them, and use them when it suits them.
They didn’t have to define me by my pain, my reactions, or my vulnerability. They had every chance to see me as a full, complex human being. And I wasn’t the only one in our class who struggled and who acted out with anger, hurt, or even suicidal behavior. I won’t go into detail, out of respect for others’ privacy. But I will say this: I wasn’t the only one. I was just the one who got pushed out. Once again, the power structures decided whose mistakes were excused and whose were amplified. And I was at the bottom. The context does matter in these situations.
Why Quitting Wasn’t the Answer
Now, some might ask: Should I have just stopped my studies, given everything I was going through? And yes, I admit, in many ways, it would have been easier to quit. I was living with a debilitating illness, and I was pushed repeatedly to the edge emotionally, socially, and psychologically. Continuing in that environment wasn’t just difficult but brutal.
But the truth is: I shouldn’t have had to stop. We can’t simply push people out because they are sick or different. So when we ask whether it would have been better to leave, the deeper question is: Better for whom? For my mental health in the short term? Maybe. For the people around me who wanted me silenced, erased, made invisible? Definitely. But for me - the person writing this now, reflecting and reclaiming my story - the answer is no.
Because now, I am telling the truth that so many others are forced to bury.
My presence, my survival, my persistence, even in the moments when I broke down, was a form of resistance. I was in pain that no student should have to carry. And I carried it not because I was weak, but because, despite everything, I was strong enough to believe I had the right to be there. Even when everything around me tried to convince me otherwise.
You see, I came a long way to get here — to higher education, as a Romany. It wasn’t just a personal achievement; it meant breaking through social and structural barriers that none of my classmates ever had to face. And most people like me will never even get the chance.
Leaving wasn’t simple, and coming back would have been even harder. It wasn’t just about taking time off or regrouping. It meant undoing the damage done, rebuilding my confidence, and stepping back into spaces that had already shown themselves to be hostile or indifferent. So leaving wasn’t a neutral choice. For someone like me, the path into these institutions is already narrow. And when we’re pushed out, returning isn’t just difficult — it’s often made to feel impossible.
The fact that I didn’t stop my studies at that point, that I stayed, is not something I should feel guilty about. And it’s not something I need to frame as performative pride, either. It’s part of a deeper truth: surviving oppression is never clean, easy, or heroic. It’s messy. It’s hard. It’s painful. And it’s full of contradictions.
But ultimately, the only way to fight back is by showing up.
People like to imagine that standing up for human dignity looks like holding hands and singing songs. But show me one real struggle for justice that ever looked like that.
My grandmother could barely read or write, and despite that history, I worked my way there. I stood on the shoulders of those who came before me — not because they had education, but because of their strength, sacrifices, and struggles made it possible for me to reach higher. So I had the complete right to be there. Even when I was sick. Even when I was difficult. Even when I acted out. Even when others felt uncomfortable, scared, or overwhelmed.
And let’s not forget that they played a part in creating that situation, so why should I be the only one who pays the price by giving up on studies that mattered to me? Why does no one ever ask why so many people made it so unbearable that quitting seemed like the only option?
Maybe it’s because we live with this misleading and unjust idea that the majority gets to decide who is included, who is listened to, and whose feelings are taken into consideration. The majority doesn’t need to look at themselves and recognize how their actions affect others — the marginalized. That is called privilege.
What I’ve come to notice is that people want to hold on to their privilege. And in a society where oppression based on race, sexuality, or mental health is publicly and morally condemned as a violation of human rights, nobody wants to recognize the hard truth: that part of breaking those rights is precisely holding on to their privilege.
The sad fact is that many people seem tolerant only as long as they don’t have to take a risk or look at themselves in the mirror. But that is not respecting human dignity. And that is not real solidarity. Solidarity isn’t a costume. You don’t get to put it on when it makes you look good and take it off when it gets too uncomfortable.