There I was, lying on the floor at 3 a.m. completely exhausted, shaking from an adrenaline rush of yet another nightmare that my abuser ended my life. I pulled myself up off the rug and took more Nyquil in hopes of getting a restful, nightmare free, sleep. The next day, I would wake up with bloody knuckles from punching the wall in my sleep. Throughout the rest of the school day, in multiple interactions with others, my conversations consisted of beating myself and talking in circles. I might have eaten one meal per day because my stomach was constantly in knots. This was what a typical day looked like for me.
On my bad days, I would see a 40-year-old, heavy set, man on the street wearing cargo pants and a t-shirt with greasy, callused hands that would make me run to the nearest bathroom sobbing and shaking. This man that I saw passing by on the street had no connection to me, other than the fact that he looked exactly like my abuser.
Going out in public absolutely exhausted me because I felt so on guard for the next panic attack in case I needed to run off and go deal with it. Whether it be someone who looked like him or the smell of beer that reminded me of a drunken man who told me that I was worth nothing on a daily basis.
Among all of these things, my track record includes–almost tearing apart my family, cutting off friendships for no reason, accidentally punching people who tapped my shoulder, crying over loud noises that startled me, taking on anything I could to forget, and avoiding anything that triggered my mental conditions.
On May 31, 2015, I made a phone call that would change everything. I checked into counseling and psychiatric therapy. Over the next several months I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Depression. It’s not an easy topic to talk about, but if my story helps at least one person make the call to get the help they need, it makes up for everything I’ve went through one hundred fold.
There were so many times I considered bailing on my therapy. I absolutely dreaded having to go in and talk about my past and how it linked to my current behaviors about as much as I dreaded having to get shots as a kid. The physical effects of starting a new medication if my current medication didn’t work out was never something I looked forward to. As time went on, the only thing that kept me going was the promise of being able to live a new, better and healthier life in the long run.
After a 11 months of rigorous cognitive behavioral therapy and trying new medications, my life dramatically improved. I began getting a full 8-10 hours of sleep per night, had a normal appetite again, no more public panic attacks, and generally, a more positive outlook on life that allowed me to realize how much worth I actually have.
While I do realize that everyone has a different story than mine, the premise remains the same. Anything along the anxiety, PTSD, or depression spectrum are tricks that the mind plays that can steal a person’s safety, worth, and quality of life right out from underneath them. No one is able to help you, like you are able to help you. Ironically, it is one hundred times braver to walk through the door of a clinic than try to bottle it all up and appear to be strong. I learned that the hard way when I realized how much time and how many relationships I robbed myself of that I will never get back.
Be your own best friend, it’s okay to ask for help. If it would hurt for you to watch a friend or family member go through it, don’t let yourself go through it. Choose to keep going.