I almost didn't write this.
But PTSD Awareness Month isn't about the loud stories. It's about the quiet ones, too—the ones we bury so deep we forget they're ours.
When I was a kid, someone touched me in a way they shouldn't have. I didn't have words for it. I just knew I wanted to disappear. For years, I wore baggy clothes, trying to make my body feel invisible. These days, I wear leggins or jeggins, but I still pick shirts long enough to cover my back. If I'm wearing jeans, it's usually just a regular t-shirt—but even then, I still stiffen when a man walks behind me.
It's automatic.
It has been for nearly thirty years.
There was violence at home, too. Watching your mother pinned to the wall by someone you're supposed to trust—getting hit for reasons that change by the hour—it makes you learn to read anger fast. Especially the kind that doesn't raise its voice.
And then... there's what happened while I was in the military.
I rarely talk about that time. For years, I couldn't even acknowledge I served. Because of what happened. Because of how it was handled. The incident itself changed me, but the aftermath shattered what little trust I had left. The jokes. The disbelief. The ones who thought silence meant guilt. I wasn't just hurt—I was erased.
Intimacy hasn't been simple since then.
There are times it's hard to even think about being touched—and other times, I've craved the opposite. The rough, unfiltered kind of closeness. Not because it healed anything, but because it helped me forget. Or feel something in a moment when everything else was too quiet, too distant, too numb.
My therapist once told me that it's normal for people with PTSD, especially when it stems from sexual trauma. That our nervous systems sometimes seek out intensity to override the fear, the silence, or the void. It's not shameful. It's human. And knowing that helped me stop hating myself for needing what didn't make sense on the surface.
It's been twenty years, and I still find it hard to leave the house some days. Not because I'm afraid of something happening again, but because part of me still believes I'll be punished for speaking.
That's what PTSD is.
It's not just fear. It's memory buried in your muscles.
It's bracing for danger in safe places.
It's wanting connection but recoiling from it.
It's needing control over your body, your space, and your silence.
This is why I write the stories I do.
Because sometimes the only way to tell your truth is through someone else's voice. Because healing doesn't always mean forgetting—it means finally being allowed to remember without being shamed for it.
I've been in therapy for nearly nine years now (if I remember correctly). The first four were just about getting me to leave the house again. I still go—still untangle the knots trauma left behind. My therapist uses EMDR, and some sessions leave me shaking... but lighter. Like something I buried deep is finally allowed to surface without swallowing me whole.
Healing isn't linear. It's not quick. But it's possible. Even if it takes a lifetime.
If your past still walks with you...
If you ever had to choose between being believed and being okay...
You're not alone.
And you never were.
I grew up on '90s hard rock—Korn, Manson, bands that didn't shy away from emotional chaos or confrontation. So when Falling in Reverse began evolving their sound, they naturally found a place in my playlist. Today, it was "Zombified" that lit the match.
There's a line in the song that says:
"They won't stop till everybody's... Zombified."
It's aggressive—but it's honest. And for me, it captured something I've been carrying for a long time: the exhaustion of trying to speak with care in a world that keeps shifting the rules. The fear that even respectful words—like "sir," ma'am," or "you guys"—might now be seen as offensive. The weight of walking through conversations like a minefield, never sure which phrase might be the one to turn a crowd against you.
It's not just about offending someone. It's the fear of what comes after—the backlash, the erasure, the social exile. We've all seen it happen, especially to public figures. Sometimes the outrage is warranted. But other times, it's built on accusation alone—before context, before understanding, before truth has a chance to speak.
I remember a time when The Diary of Anne Frank was required reading in schools—not because it was comfortable, but because it taught us empathy. Now I find it in the banned book section, like we're supposed to forget the lessons it carried. I miss the clarity we once had. The grace to speak and still be seen for our intent—not just the technical accuracy of every word.
I'm not against change. I'm not against progress. I respect that people want to be seen for who they are. But I also wish we hadn't lost the ability to meet each other halfway—to listen, to ask questions, to extend the benefit of the doubt. We're not all the same. We didn't grow up with the same rules, the same fears, the same language. But we can meet each other with empathy, even when we don't agree.
I didn't write this the moment the frustration hit. I wanted to—but I waited. Sat with it. Let it settle.
I was raised that way. My grandmother and my mother both taught me to pause before speaking, especially when emotions run high. My mom still reminds me: "Never send an email when you're emotional. Wait a few days. Reread it. Make sure it still feels true."
And she's right. Writing for release is human—we all need it. But releasing without revision? That's where things so often go wrong. That's how feelings turn into fallout, and how connection gets lost in reaction.
The truth is, I revise my reactions a lot. Not because I don't feel deeply, but because I do. And I want to speak from a place that invites understanding, not just relief. Because not everything needs to be a reaction. Some things deserve reflection.
Some chapters of life aren't tidy. They don't resolve on the last page or leave you with something neat to hold onto. They're messy. Ongoing. And often full of choices you never wanted to make.
Right now, I'm in one of those chapters.
For a long time, I pushed through my depression, anxiety, and PTSD—because we're taught that's what strong people do. You show up. You don't complain. You keep moving, even when it hurts.
But then something happened that I couldn't push through.
Over time, I began experiencing symptoms that affected my vision—blurry patches, pressure behind my eyes, things that worsened whenever I pushed myself too hard. Eventually, it becomes impossible to ignore. I'm now undergoing testing for a condition called IIH—Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension. It mimics a brain tumor but isn't one. There's been MRIs, CT scans, lumbar punctures—everything to rule out what it might be. And while I wait, I can't work because the risk of losing my vision is too high.
My husband—he's been incredible. After nearly a decade at Lowe's, he was able to switch to full-time, and because he's the only one trained for installation coordination's, they've allowed him to keep a set schedule. That kind of consistency is rare in retail, and vital for our autistic son, who depends on routine.
But even with that grace, things are hard.
We've had to strip everything back. Cancel subscriptions. Pause anything that isn't essential. Bills pile up faster than we can pay them—rent, utilities, car payments, credit cards. Sometimes we're juggling due dates like a math equation, just trying to keep the lights on.
And no, stories don't pay the bills.
Not yet. Not when you're a new author, unknown, still fighting for visibility in a sea of voices. But I keep writing. Not because it fixes everything, but because it gives me something no diagnosis or bill collector can take away: a sense of purpose.
So if you're out there, trying to hold your world together while it frays at the seams—I see you.
You are not lazy for honoring your limits. You are not weak for resting. And you are not wrong for clinging to your dreams, even when the world tells you to grow up and move on.
This isn't the chapter I asked for.
But maybe, just maybe, it's the one that shapes everything that comes next.