I’ve never told my PTSD story before. Well, at least not to anyone that wasn’t a psychiatrist or a therapist.
For a long time, I didn’t recognize how my personal traumas shaped my life. I didn’t recognize the tight grip that PTSD and anxiety held on me.
I knew I was anxious and absolutely paralyzed with the inability to trust my body and mind for quite a long time.
I didn’t understand that each trauma changed the way my body and brain reacted to the world around me.
And it took me 20 years to heal enough to tell my traumas and how they shaped my PTSD. And even more, how I started to heal that pain.
Writing my trauma story has helped me release the guilt and shame. I didn’t ask for it, and I should not be ashamed of something I had no choice but to experience.
I’m sharing my story with you, not because I need to, but because you need to see that someone can survive everything I have and still heal.
That healing from these types of traumas can be done, with love, with patience, with self compassion, and a lot of work.
These are real PTSD experiences that shaped my life, and the ones that taught me just how strong I really am.
If you are on your own healing journey, I hope you read this and know that you are not alone. I’m walking with you.
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The Traumas that Shape My PTSD Story
WARNING: The following stories may not be suitable for easily triggered readers. Some of my experiences were very difficult and will trigger PTSD symptoms in others. While I do not go into graphic details, I do tell you the basis of what happened to me. Please read at your own discretion.
My Parents’ Divorce
While my parents’ divorce happened when I was five, it shaped me to have abandonment issues with the people I love.
And while I don’t blame either of my parents for the divorce, the consequences of the divorce were traumatic for me.
With the split of our family, I lost my father in the home, a man who had been my everything and I loved dearly.
The safety and security of teachers and friends were gone when we moved. I was the new girl in a classroom of kids who had grown up together.
I learned to be overly attached to the people in my life because they could be gone any second.
I developed a strong desire to be a people pleaser so no one would abandon me again.
I changed everything I liked about myself, so I didn’t have to suffer the loss again. I stopped setting healthy boundaries, turned into a people pleaser, and even allowed others to convince me to take part in activities that I didn’t want to do so I could avoid the rejection of abandonment one more time.
By writing about this trauma, I learned I needed to learn to set healthy boundaries and seek help for my codependency.
RECOMMENDED READING: 20 Healthy Mindset Habits You Need to Improve Your Anxiety
Childhood Bullying
While I was a cute child, I was different from the other kids my age.
I was much shorter. I frequently had to stand on a box in school photos just to be in the frame.
I had curly hair, while most of the other girls had straight hair. And I wasn’t blonde either.
I only had my mom in the home for the first few school years while most families were two parent homes.
And being different made me the brunt of jokes and childhood cruelty.
I was called names, picked up against my will, and even locked in a closet in the classroom a few times.
I was subject to terrifying tricks from boys – you don’t want to know- and I even got death threats while I was in middle and early high school. I was truly terrified daily.
Childhood bullying taught me to avoid conflict. To just take it because no adult was going to help me. And if they did, I would just get picked on more later.
Writing this trauma helped me see I needed to learn healthy coping skills for conflict resolution. I needed to learn when to fight for myself and when I needed to ask for help. I needed to learn when to get professionals involved and how to safely de-escalate situations.
RECOMMENDED READING: How to Be Happy When You’re Living with PTSD
An Adult Not Believing Me About Sexual Assault
My first sexual assault wasn’t malicious, but a curious 6 year old boy that wanted to know why girls are different. I was 6 too, but that doesn’t make it okay.
But to me, him putting his hands in my pants to find out was horrifying.
Honestly, I probably would have forgotten about this if a trusted adult had intervened on my behalf when I told them.
But this teacher didn’t believe me and I spent the rest of the year sitting beside a boy that liked to put his hands in my pants anytime my clothing was loose enough.
This trauma taught me I wasn’t safe at school. I learned to stop asking for help, even when I was desperate for it.
I even learned that being touched was not something pleasurable or loving, but something to be avoided and dreaded. It took me many, many years to learn to accept hugs from people that I know and trust. And even to find pleasure in intimacy with my husband. Thank god he is a patient and loving man who didn’t mind teaching me that touch could bring joy again.
By writing this trauma, I learned that I have long term trust issues with people who have authority and are supposed to be part of my support system. I learned I needed help to relearn to trust and engaging in trust building exercises with others. I learned that touch leads to fear, shame, and disgust. I learned I needed to work toward changing my feelings about healthy touches like hugs.
Childhood Emotional Abuse
When my mother remarried, it was to a man 13 years older than she was. He had two adult children.
Within a year of marriage, my step father started drinking again, and he was a very mean drunk.
His favorite phrase to say to me was “I raised my kids, you’re not my kid.”
He would scowl and glare so coldly you could feel the daggers in his stare pricking your skin.
He would mumble about your short comings under his breath and call you names as you walked past.
I was called a whore for wearing any clothing or makeup that he did not like.
I was “a vain bitch” for not lowering my gaze if I passed a mirror.
But when company came over, he paraded me and my dance talent around for his friends and their sons. He even tried to arrange a marriage for me.
The emotional abuse became so severe at one point I feared for my life and ran away from home to my grandparents. I ran away as a cry for help, hoping someone would make me feel safe. It didn’t happen. I only felt more trapped after returning home with my distraught mother.
I was mocked, ridiculed, and manipulated into being the “perfect stepdaughter”. One who was quiet, permissive, and compliant.
This abuse was profound for me. My first relationships with men were very toxic.
I felt I was only of value if a man wanted me for something. So, to feel loved, I would mold myself into whatever they wanted. I was only valuable if a man approved of me.
I learned I couldn’t be myself to be loved. But earned love by shrinking myself. I learned to become invisible to stay safe.
I learned that my value was in the opinions of others and not in the way I felt about myself. I didn’t feel worthy of unconditional love unless I was pleasing someone else.
When he died, I suppressed my feelings until they burst out of me. I spent over a year processing how I felt about his death. But part of taking my power back was allowing myself to feel my own feelings for one of the first times in my life.
Writing this trauma, showed me I need to honor my feelings, no matter if others feel the same. I learned I needed to unlearn the belief that love was something to be “earned” instead of given. I realized I had shaped my identity around male approval and lost touch with my own wants and needs. To heal, I had to learn how to become my favorite self. I had to learn how to listen to my inner self and become authentic and body positive.
Witness the Death of a Stranger
My step sister in law was not the best influence for me.
One night after a late night grocery run to Wal-mart, she was thinking of lies to tell my mother about why she was bringing me home later than planned. This was before cellphones were a thing.
Being an 11 year old, and not knowing that adults could be bad, I wanted her approval. So I thought up a lie she could use.
On the way home, we saw a car accident that stopped traffic for EMS and Fire.
But that night it wasn’t a lie. A few miles down the road, an overturned Jeep was in pieces in the median. The impact had torn off the roof, tires lay away from the Jeep, and debris scattered across all lanes.
But it wasn’t the car that I remember in my nightmares. But the man who lost his life. The white cloth covered him, face down, revealing his bright red sneakers. The cloth barely covered one of his hands. His blood soaking the white sheet in the torso area.
I didn’t speak for three days after that accident. Not one word. I was terrified that my words had caused his death. I know now that it wasn’t my fault, but 11 year old me took all the blame for that man’s death.
This tragedy influenced my PTSD with horrific nightmares. Some nights I still see the white cloth over the man. Some nights, I experience the crash and death from his perspective. His death still haunts me and I hope he is at peace now.
By writing this trauma, I learned just how deeply guilt and fear influenced how my mind works, even while unconscious. I took responsibility for this tragedy, even though I was not the driver or the road. This experience shaped the way I see the world and left a lasting impression on my nervous system. I realized I want to manifest good into the world, even through my thoughts. To heal, I had to forgive myself for thinking those thoughts. I also had to remind myself that being a witness to a trauma is not the same as being responsible for it.
Sexual Grooming by a Woman
No one ever told me a woman would try to force me into having sex. Stories were always a man I was alone with. I never worried about this woman betraying my trust.
I was 14. I didn’t know what sex was yet, but liked boys and thought about kissing on the lips.
She would invite me to spend the night when her husband was at work. Then, at midnight, her actual plans would happen. Two men, one 18 and the other in his late 20s, were overnight guests.
I wanted this 18 year old boy to like me. And the women used her influence to blackmail me into keeping her affair a secret.
She would encourage behavior that my mother found inappropriate: like playing spin the bottle and kissing these men while in lingerie and she even tried to engage me in strip poker (which they played, I refused.)
She’d manipulate me into allowing the 18 year old to fondle and touch me intimately, while he forced his tongue in my mouth. And even though my whole body and brain screamed no, I had been gaslit into compliance. And while he never inserted his “member” into me, I still felt violated. I felt trapped and betrayed by this woman who had called herself my sister. Telling the truth felt dangerous. The fear of being in trouble outweighed my need to speak up. My compliance felt safer than the consequences of speaking the truth of her affair, drug use, and neglect and my sexual assault.
She took away my chance to form a healthy relationship with my sexuality. I learned to believe that my feelings about sex were the problem, and I buried them to feel love and acceptance. But every time someone touched me, I shut down inside. It was a problem for a long time, where an innocent hug would trigger a panic attack.
I believed, for years, my desirability defined my worth. Even now, I have moments when I feel guilty for saying no to my husband, even when my body or heart is not in it. Yup, even with a migraine or my broken leg, I still felt compelled to say yes.
It took a wonderful, caring man (yes, I’m talking about my husband) to teach me I am so much more than my sexuality. He helped me reclaim my voice and my right to consent. Every time I honor those needs now, I take one more step toward healing.
By writing this trauma, I learned how to recognize “red flag” behaviors and how to trust my instincts. It took many years of therapy to learn to trust my gut. I had to relearn how to accept my own wants and needs and how to express them to my husband with the goal of relearning how to ditch the shame and guilt for refusing him sexually. It took me many years to relearn that physical touch was not always sexual, and to enjoy a hug from those I loved. And thanks to my wonderful husband, whose patience and acceptance, freed me from feeling shame about my sexuality.
Surviving Hurricane Fran
This honestly will be the hardest PTSD experience for me to write, even today. Not because of the events, but because of the intense feelings it brings when I think of it.
My experience during Hurricane Fran taught me what genuine despair and grief felt like.
Growing up, we lived in a trailer, and we frequently spent minor hurricanes sheltering in place and hosting “Hurricane parties” for all the family that gathered in the house. Honestly, these parties were one highlight of my childhood.
But for Hurricane Fran, a major hurricane, we sheltered at my grandparents’ two-story brick farmhouse.
I went to bed with the rain pounding on the windows and woke up to 3 feet of water surrounding us on all sides.
It was a little fun at first. Watching ants make “floating rafts” out of their little bodies to protect their queen. Chicken and guineas roosted high in the trees away from the flood waters. There were no bird chips. Complete silence. That should have been a warning for all of us.
Rising floodwaters prompted us to move the vehicles to higher ground while we remained sheltered in place, surrounded by 4 feet of water. -Yes, the water was rising.-
Thankfully, my granddad was a building genius and built the home with a 4 foot crawl space that was anchored into the earth, so the water only came up to the top step of the house and the house could survive moving water.
In the age of landline telephones, the phone lines would still work even when submerged under all the water. So my grandfather got a call from a neighbor.
He was away from home when the flooding happened and cannot get back to his dog kennels – he bred beagles and hunting dogs- to ensure their safety.
My grandfather got his tractor to drive us to his property. On a tractor, if you don’t know anything about them, the exhaust is located on top of the hood; therefore, the engine functions even if half the engine block is underwater. The danger is when the tractor tires cannot stand safely on the ground.
His property was deep into the flood waters. This water was dangerous. And then I heard the screams.
I heard the dogs’ cries for help before I could see them on the property. And they were getting more frantic, but the sound was getting softer. More dogs stopped crying for help.
When the kennel was visible, I saw a wall of water flowing into the kennels. None of the dogs could touch the ground. They would have to swim to stay afloat or climb the fences to stay above water.
The dogs couldn’t wait for the tractor that was struggling in the deep water.
I jumped off the tractor to swim to the dogs. Being a strong swimmer from learning to swim in rivers, lakes, and moving bodies of water, I didn’t think about my safety, but about the dogs trapped in their homes.
The water hit me like ice and I couldn’t breathe, even though it was summer. I pushed through the pain of the cold and made my way to the dogs. With flood waters lapping around my shoulders and I pushed my way to the kennel entrance.
What I saw when I opened the door broke me.
Dozens of little bloated bodies that couldn’t swim any longer. A few frantic survivors that had held on for rescue. There were 42 dogs (puppies and adults) in the kennel. I could only rescue four.
Three adults and one young puppy, about 4 months old. The puppy collapsed in my arms when I picked him up. He was exhausted from holding onto his fence. The adults followed me to safety.
The adults celebrated their survival with kisses and tail wags in my lap while the puppy rested in my arms and thumped his tail. I cried with those dogs in my embrace. My tears mourned those lost and celebrated those that were saved.
That day was my last day that I was chest deep in water. I haven’t been that deep in water, even for fun, since. Deep water now fills me with a sense of dread.
Much of the time after the rescue is a blur. We had to evacuate with water flowing into our vehicle as we crossed dangerous currents. The ride home and the following days are gone. Only the dogs remain clear to me.
I had a water phobia for many years after that. And while I still won’t get into deep water, I no longer fear it. I needed in school counseling sessions with a trauma therapist to combat my PTSD at 15 from the flood. I suffered from paranoia, fear, and nightmares about the flood waters and the dogs.
By writing this trauma, I learned to honor grief, even when others do not understand it. This experience deeply shaped my fears, but also my compassion. And while I cannot get into chest deep water, I learned to not allow my fear keeping me from experiencing joy. This experience taught me that life can turn your pain into purpose. From my pain, grew an immense love for canines. I got my dog training degree and certifications in positive reinforcement training, canine anxiety, and rescue dog rehab. To heal, I learned to allow space for the good and the bad emotions. That day didn’t just change how I saw dogs, but how I saw myself. It put me on the path to train, care, and advocate for dogs. It also put me on the path to choose a rescue dog as my trusted service dog, thus giving another dog a second chance and a special job. That day was horrible, but it also gives me great strength, direction, and purpose that lasts a lifetime.
My Sexual Assaults
A boyfriend was the first to rape me. He unlocked the door as I turned off my shower, grabbed me, and shoved me over the toilet seat.
Even though I said no and pleaded with him to stop, he ignored me. I had to go to the ER for bruising, vaginal tearing, and pain management.
And even though he raped me, I still thought I had deserved it by daring to lock the door behind me.
The second time I was raped was by an acquaintance.
Our church was large, with a full nursery, library, gym, and many classrooms, along with the very large chapel area. The church needed volunteers to help with cleaning. And as part of my college admissions, I wanted those volunteer hours.
I was assigned to clean a classroom. I never heard him come inside and shut the door. He grabbed me from behind and put his hand over my mouth and nose. I struggled between his fingers, as he pushed me over the table in the classroom. His grip on my mouth was so tight I couldn’t say no, but I fought him. He put all his weight onto my torso with his so I couldn’t buck against him. Just like the first, I felt I deserved it.
I learned to not trust men. That spaces that had only one exit was unsafe. That churches were also unsafe. I learned I was a possession, and what I felt and wanted didn’t matter.
I still don’t do well when I feel trapped.
By writing this trauma, I had to face the truth that I have trust issues: with men, with women, with my own instincts, and even my body. I had to relearn how to feel safe again. To prevent panic attacks, I had to learn the subtle warning signs my body was giving me. I spent years unraveling my emotions and unlearning harmful thinking patterns that blamed myself for the terrible actions of others. The truth is, I did the best I could. Healing has looked like learning how the nervous system works to protect the body and learning positive thinking methods and patterns that improve my self esteem and mental health to know when I should take responsibility.
Recommended Reading: How to Stop Panic Attacks with 8 Simple Calming Techniques
The Burglary & Assault
It started like any other day. I was tired and just wanted to sleep in after a late night Sunday shift. I had college courses that Monday morning, but couldn’t shake the headache from lack of sleep.
So I let my brother drive my car to school that day. It would look like no one was home, and I could sleep in peace.
Little side trip into our family history here, but I promise it’s relevant. Our home had an open door policy, meaning that anyone with the key could come in as they please. And my step sister in law abused this rule to not bother going to the grocery store.
That’s when I heard my farm dog barking furiously and heard the door and footsteps in the house.
My first thought was to lie still and keep quiet so my sister in law and her kids wouldn’t know I was home. But when I heard louder bangs, and men’s voices, I knew intruders were in the home.
My bedroom was down a long hallway off the living room, where unfortunately, the men were stacking their collection of stolen goods . The exit to the house? Through that living room.
Knowing I could not escape through the main exit, I tried to open my windows. But they were sealed shut. After I had runaway from home at 12 years old, after feeling my life was in danger, my abuser put vices on my window and sealed them so they would never come off. There was no way for me to escape without alerting the intruders. I didn’t have a phone to call for help. I was on my own.
In a panic, I did the only thing I could… I hid under 3 fluffy blankets on my bed as close to the wall as I could get. I wanted to become invisible. And waited for it to be over.
When the doorknob to my room turned, my body shut down.
One man walked in. He reached for my purse that I kept on the back bedpost, and that’s when he landed on me.
I made a quick sound, an involuntary noise, and he ripped the blankets off me. What followed was a blur of panic and struggling. I fought back. I didn’t go still. But it didn’t stop him from grabbing my throat.
I felt so broken at that moment. Not just the fear, but realizing I was completely alone as the edges of my vision dimmed.
But thankfully, I wasn’t alone. I had two furry avengers come to my aid. A tenacious labrador mix who dug through his night pen and through electric fencing to attack the man stuffing stolen goods into the vehicle. And a brave & fiery cat who, after hearing the struggle, launched her tiny self like a missile onto the man on top of me in a flurry of claws and teeth.
My animals didn’t just defend me. They unleashed hell. The intruders fled, bleeding and bruised, clinging to a few stolen trinkets and a license foolishly taken that would later help convict them. They left with scratches on their face, bite marks on their arms, and the reminder that they had chosen the wrong house.
By writing this trauma, I could finally identify why I developed agoraphobia, aka fear of crowds. And my deep fear of strangers. I had to admit to myself how terrified and how powerless I felt that day. Back then, I had no one to come to my aid, now I have an amazing support system. My animals saved my life, and many years later, after unpacking this trauma with my therapist, he suggested I train my first psychiatric service dog, who changed my life. Those two brave pets reminded me I was worth fighting for, even if I felt worthless. I relearned what safety meant, and how to teach my brain and body how to recognize real danger from memory, and how to stop holding my breath when a noise sounded too close. Most of all, I had to learn to let go of the shame of not being able to fight harder, scream louder, and escape. That day changed me, but it also showed me the real, instinctive, unconditional love of our 4 legged friends. I learned just how big of an impact animals can make.
My two furry heroes.
My Battle with Chronic Illness
Fibromyalgia hit me like a slow moving storm.
It started with little things I brushed off. Some soreness here. Some exhaustion there. I brushed these off to getting older. I was just starting my 40s.
But overtime, I not only stopped bouncing back from high energy activities, but just washing the dishes was hard on my body. I could do less and less, when all I wanted to do was write, keep up with my home, and care for myself and my pooches.
On hard days, walking across the room would leave me breathless and staggering, like I was dragging bricks while carrying all my dogs on my back.
My sleep got worse. It became unrestful and non-restorative. I never woke up feeling refreshed and recharged. It felt like the power went out overnight and my battery was barely holding on by morning. And it was like that every single day.
I had problems regulating how my body reacts to temperature changes. A warm room or using a hair dryer would leave me drenched in sweat. I even fainted a few times until I learn the signs that my body was trying to give me.
Even a simple cold or flu would leave me bedridden and in need of emergency care (and an IV)!
My body constantly felt like it was on the edge. The edge of medical care. The edge of panic. The edge of injury. The edge of fainting.
At the time, I lived in a middle unit townhouse with neighbors sharing a wall on both sides.
When the new neighbors moved in, the peace I worked so hard to create disappeared. Loud music shook the walls. Doors slammed at all hours. Thuds echoes through the space I called home.
I tried to have an open conversation with them, hoping we could both live comfortably (and respectfully) but they cut me off and yelled at me before I even got into the door.
It wasn’t just the noise. It was a trigger.
Every sound sent my nervous system into high alert. My body couldn’t tell the difference between slamming doors and my past trauma. It responded like I was in danger again, just like in the burglary and assault 20 years earlier. I became stuck in a cycle of fear, panic, and overstimulation.
One January morning, my body reached it’s limit. I fainted.
From that moment on, if things got too loud, too hot, too overwhelming, too much…. I would faint. Fainting became my new unwanted reset button.
I spent 8 months going from doctor to doctor getting tests and trying to find why my body was acting out. All while my anxiety whispered worse case scenarios. I was worried it was my heart, my kidneys, or even a tumor.
And on the day that I had my stress test… you guessed it. I fainted. Right there for my cardiology team.
While no one could tell me why and what was happening to me, I was starting to wish for something they could see. Yes, I wished for an illness they could see so I would know how to take care of myself.
During that time, I had stopped doing all the things I loved. No more hiking trips with the pups. No more sitting on the beach in the summer (too hot). I couldn’t even blow dry my hair with a blow dryer without a fan and sitting on the floor. Everything I loved about being active and healthy was gone.
I gained weight. I felt like I had failed myself. That was when the first wave of grief came.
During that time, I depended on Koda more than ever.
Brain fog made simple tasks feel like climbing a mountain. Because I forgot where I parked my car, I taught Koda scent tracking to help me find it.
I had to adjust the way I lived and my routines to what my body could handle. And that included getting approved for accessible parking to reduce my fall risk. That little accessibility plate became a godsend to me, especially in the hot and humid summer months. It’s prevented many fainting episodes.
Medication helped calm my nervous system so I could finally get deeper, more restful sleep. It also helped reduce the inflammation in my muscles that help me stay steady so I could move more normally. And I stopped fainting soon after starting the medication.
But the damage had been done. The bones in my left leg had lost too much phosphate and one morning they broke when I took a normal step to take the pups potty. I broke both bones, and needed surgery to place pins, screws, and a long metal plate in my leg. I was no weight bearing for 5 months, and it took me almost 6 months after that to regain normal walking without pain. It’s the 2 year anniversary this year and I have just started dancing again.
Just as I accepted this new version of my life, another storm hit me.
I started having seizures. It took three long months and countless ER and Neurology visits before I finally got a diagnosis. I was having 2-3 seizures a week before they told me it was Functional Neurological Disorder.
Thankfully with my treatment plan, I haven’t had a seizure in six months- knock on wood. But I still live with the effects every single day. I deal with brain fog and confusion, sometimes needing to restart tasks or repeat conversations a few times before my brain fully catches up. My brain and body do not always communicate clearly. I drop things without warning. I get fire ant pain that crawls through my nerves. And during the worst moments, I have had to use a wheelchair.
My doctors and I believe that both of my chronic illnesses result from a lifetime of trauma. That trauma made my nervous system overly sensitive and disrupted the way my brain and body connect. My nervous system spent years bracing for danger, and eventually that stress settled deep in my body, too.
By writing this, I came to understand what it really means to accept myself. I started fueling my body with care instead of punishing it for not being what it once was. Rest became part of the healing, not a sign of weakness. Self care stopped being a luxury and became the foundation that helped me feel safe, steady, and supported. I began shaping my environment to support my nervous system, setting boundaries that honored my limits. Through it all, I found the strength to show up for the version of me who needed compassion most. The one learning to thrive in a body that feels everything deeply.
Recommended Reading: 5 Important Life Lessons a Broken Leg Taught Me About Mental Health
How Telling My PTSD Story Started the Road to Healing
Telling my story gave me something I didn’t expect.
I thought it would hurt. I thought it might make things worse. But it gave me a sense of self I didn’t know I was missing.
By sharing my story, I gave myself permission to stop pretending. I stopped hiding how much I hurt and quit shrinking my pain into something more “acceptable.”
I told the truth, my truth, and in doing that, I found power.
Telling my story stopped being about fixing the past. It became about stepping into who I am now. Accepting this body. Letting go of shame. Choosing compassion over criticism.
I started embracing slow living. I learned how to set boundaries without guilt.
I figured out what actually supports a sensitive body and an anxious mind.
And somewhere in all of this, something shifted.
Self care became intentional. Rest became non-negotiable. Strength looked softer and steadier, but so much more sustainable.
So if you’re holding your own story close to your chest, maybe this is your sign.
Let it out gently. Write a little. Share what hurts. Do it in a way that feels safe to you.
Because your story matters too. Healing begins when we stop hiding and start honoring who we are.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
Becoming softer. Becoming stronger. Becoming braver.
Just like a butterfly learning how to fly.
If this story resonated with you, I’d love to hear how it inspired you.
Leave a comment, share it with someone who needs hope, or write a little piece of your own story today. Even if no one else reads it, your healing begins the moment you honor your voice.
You matter. Your healing matters. And you’re never alone here.
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Thank you for sharing this. I think I have a similar issue. If I’ve learned anything, it’s healthy boundaries and forgiving myself for things that weren’t my fault are a must. I hope you continue to find healing.
Thank you for telling your story. You’ve been through so much. As you wrote about the fainting and stuff I was hoping the doctors clocked the diagnoses FND. Your symptoms really match that diagnosis. Luckily they got there and you get the help you need now. It’s very inspiring to read your story, thank you😊
Thank you. It took them a while because I was showing so many signs, but when the seizures started they got it very quickly. I was bery blessed to have such a great team, and still am.
Wow, you certainly overcame a lot and it speaks to the power of releasing your emotions and speaking your truth. I’m so glad you found writing as a form of therapy.