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A few years ago, I ordered the records from my 2005 trip to a Dallas psychiatric facility, after a near suicide attempt. I was dragged there by my two brothers, kicking and screaming right into the admitting lobby. Obtaining mental health records is not something I endorse or recommend for anyone else. It was simply something I felt I needed to do for a better understanding of my journey. I had very little recall of sitting in that room with the attending physician, the psychiatric nurse and my two brothers.

The notes were revealing. Most of the time was spent screaming at my older brother, Mark, blaming his success for my perceived failures in life.

Of course, there is nothing further from the truth. One of the primary reasons I am alive today is because of his support and the support of my other sibling. My drug and alcohol issues also started long before his rise to fame. However, sitting in that dark room, still somewhat under the influence, none of it mattered. I was Fredo Corleone, and Mark was Michael. I was the shameful black sheep, looking for people to blame. Those who loved me most where easy targets.

In the years since, I have taken a hard look at those feelings and words. The problem was not my siblings. I was experiencing my own form of imposter syndrome. I had gone most of my life with no sense of self-worth, and rather than being comfortable in my own skin as a shy middle child who cries watching movie trailers or to a single note of music, I had to be my brother. Of course, I could not be him so I would fill the void of self-esteem and self-identity another way. I would become "Mark Cuban's brother." I would embrace what I call "name fame." That would be my identity and self-worth. I would become an imposter. A mask that would get me what mattered most: love and acceptance, albeit based on lies and the use of drugs and alcohol. How those lies piled up! An imposter house of cards just waiting to collapse. They always do. It's just a matter of when.

For a while, embracing name Fame seemed great. People asked for my autograph. I would tell people I was part owner of the Dallas Mavericks. I walked into clubs without waiting. Other drug users gave me free cocaine. People bought me drinks. I had relationships with women half my age, wrapped around drugs and partying. I was a 44-year-old teenager finally getting in his mind what that young kid felt he never could. But, of course, every time I looked in the mirror after the cocaine and booze wore off, I still saw the ugliness inside. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It was not just the party scene. I lost all sense of accountability to my professional self and law clients. I stopped caring about my respected lawyer mask. I showed up to court hung over or still under the influence. I did cocaine in the courthouse bathroom. Eventually, I had no clients. My brother put me to work for him, entrusting me as his point person for the construction of the soon-to-be-opened American Airlines Center, which would be the new home of the Mavericks, and in which Mark had an equity interest.

My responsibilities entailed sitting in on construction meetings, taking notes, and reporting back to Mark with anything I thought he should know. It was a high-profile position sitting in with high-profile people also involved in the construction of the new arena.

It was important work that should have pushed me to excel and open up new doors to my professional future. Unfortunately, as often happens when addiction meets work life, my level of competence and caring was limited, causing me to work up to only my very low expectations and not worry about anyone else's.

I'd often show up hungover after partying all night. Sometimes I was still a little tipsy. More than a few times, I had not showered in days and smelled like a cologne factory. There were very few days when I offered anything to the process other than body odor and booze vapors coming from my corner of the conference table. Needless to say, I was soon no longer a part of those meetings, falling deeper and deeper into an abyss of addiction and shame. I no longer had any imposter masks that worked in a professional setting.

In the nightlife setting, they still worked, so it made sense just to do that and continue to embrace the name fame to generate the illusory and artificial self-respect I had searched for my entire life. As long as I still had places to wear that mask, I had no need to confront my mental health problems and seek help.

When I went into recovery in 2007, the process of dealing with my true self was just as difficult as my abstinence pathway for alcohol and cocaine. It involved figuring out who the real Brian was. Stripping down to that shy little boy who wanted to be loved so badly but only saw someone unlovable in the mirror. That was the real Brian. As recovery and therapy went on, I rebuilt a sense of self. Brick by brick. Painful self-discovery by self-discovery. It's an ongoing process. I still fall into wearing a mask now and then, but I have better tools to recognize it and center my true self before it turns into a body suit.

In this way, I understand attorneys who risk so much out of fear of the damage, admitting mental health issues might do to their reputations. Of course, it's irrational; we're all much more likely to wreck our lives by allowing the problems to progress, rather than dealing with them at the earliest possible touch-point. The hardest conversation I have with struggling lawyers is to step outside the imposter long enough to take a first step. The high-functioning imposter. The "I'm everyone's confidant so I can't have problems" imposter. The masks are many. The road stays the same.

Even though I did not understand it at the time, I am glad I had those around me who knew that recovery for me was more than alcohol and cocaine abstinence. It was about a little boy. An imposter. It was about stripping off the mask and rebuilding. It wasn't easy, but for me, it was worth it.

Read more – Minds Over Matters: An Examination of Mental Health in the Legal Profession

Brian Cuban is a Dallas-based attorney, author and addiction recovery advocate. He also is a member of the advisory board for Law.com's Minds Over Matters editorial project.