Broken but surviving

I started my blog three months ago and I had no idea what to write about. I would write something and then I would delete it, until I finally decided to make it private because I felt I did not have anything of interest.

I made the decision five minutes ago that I wanted to get back to my blog, to try and release some of the thoughts and struggles of my every day life. So here I go.

Once a week I go through a therapy session. A session that only drives me deeper and deeper into my struggle with depression, anxiety and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). It has been 7 years. SEVEN. And even after those 7 years, I still think about it on a daily basis. I still wake up from nightmares with the fear that it is going to happen again. I fear that I am going to go right back to that night, the night of the nasty “r” word. I was raped.

My life was taken from me. He stole everything from me that meant anything.

Let’s go back to before this happened, when I was still a happy go lucky 18 year old, fresh out of high school. Life was perfect. At the time I didn’t really have any worries, I was living in the moment, and enjoying everything, like any other teenager would be. Fast forward a bit, I enlisted into the military, which I thought was an amazing step in life. Fast forward a little more, I was almost finished with my training and with only a few weeks left, I was ready to go home. This is when my life was turned upside down.

Now, here I am, 26 years old. Now, people would say that I have the PERFECT life. I have an amazing husband, with an amazingly handsome nearly 10 month old baby boy. We live in a beautiful home, although we are trying to take the next step of purchasing one, and he tries to make sure we do not go without. We have our moments where things get tough financially, but who doesn’t ? Life has its hardships sometimes. With that being said, MY life is far from perfect. The outer shell, what I allow people to see, is perfect, as compared to the every day description, but inside, I live in hell. By inside, I mean mentally. I constantly fight memories, I wake up having panic attacks feeling as if I am going through the experience all over again. Driving in my car I will drift off into my thoughts and realize I’m starting to have a panic attack simply because a memory entered my mind.

My heart races, I can’t breathe, I begin to sweat, and I’m terrified.

This is how I feel every single day of my life. I barely leave my house, except to go to a family member’s house, typically my grandparent’s, so they can watch Tristan while I do my, once a week, therapy session. I don’t even go to the hospital for my session. At first it was due to not having the gas money because it was too far from my house, and then it was because of my son, but really it’s because I’m too afraid to travel that far from home, especially without my husband. We do go out on occasion, but I am very hyper-vigilant, I don’t do crowds, and I don’t venture away from my husband. I’m even terrified of just going to a restroom at a restaurant alone, because I fear what could be around the corner.

I have trouble maintaining friendships because I don’t like to go out. About 5-6 years ago though, I was living a completely different life. I pretended nothing happened, I coped with alcohol. I had no self respect, alcohol was my best friend. I wanted to die. I eventually realized that this wasn’t the life I wanted. I changed. I stopped drinking, but the person on the inside was still the same. I had hardened and turned cold. I couldn’t maintain any relationship until I met my husband. He has helped me through so much, and is literally, my backbone, my rock.

I didn’t tell him anything for a little while, and I didn’t give him details for nearly 2 years. When I told him what happened [details omitted], I didn’t really have a choice due to the fact that I had a panic attack just because he laid his head on my chest while watching a movie. I assumed he would immediately judge me, turn away from me because I was “defective.” He didn’t. He stayed, and he has been “dealing” with this for the last 4 years. He puts up with so much from me because of the nasty “r” word. I live because of him. I live for him and for our son.

I don’t think people realize how hard it is to live with depression, anxiety and PTSD. Some days will be okay, while others I cannot even pull myself out of bed. I feel like the walls are closing in or like someone is holding a pillow over my face and I can’t escape. It’s like I’m tied down deep in the woods and I’m screaming for help, but no one will ever hear me. I can be in a room full of people, but I’m always alone. I would love to be an advocate for those affected by the nasty “r” word, but I still can’t even speak on what happened to me with people close to me, let alone others that I don’t know. I can only speak on my issues that affect me because of the nasty “r” word.

Through all of this, I survive. I live to see another day. Because of my husband. Because of my son. My reasons for living. My reasons for being here.

Help raise awareness for those affected by the nasty “r” word. Help save a life. This is an uphill battle, that some don’t win.

</3 LAFMommy – Broken but surviving

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