When I was 12,
I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD.
What could a twelve-year-old possibly experience that could lead to PTSD?
Something as simple as family issues
turned into an avalanche that made growing up difficult for me.
My parents fought a lot,
which lead to full-blown fights that left me in tears.
I'd be up in my room,
hands against my ears, hoping,
wishing, for things to just be okay for at least once.
But it never happened.
Eventually, they just avoided their problems and continued.
That's when my PTSD came in.
All I had was my mother,
who came to me between the fights to tell me,
“It’s going to be alright.”
with tears running down her face.
But, it wasn’t.
A week later,
a court order forced me to move in with the man who had hurt her,
my father.
At this point, I was experiencing panic attacks,
triggered by the slightest things.
Yet, my father did not care.
He would yell at me at night for my anxiety attacks
with his loud voice echoing through our small house.
I couldn’t eat,
and even when I could, I wasn’t fed.
I knew I couldn’t live like this,
but what choice did I have?
So, I hid in my own mind while my body screamed for food,
and really maybe just a little love and affection.
My father screamed constantly.
I even wondered if screaming was a family trait,
something he could pass onto me.
The nights I lived with him were the worst.
Almost kind of like a nocturnal animal,
my anxiety was most active at night,
and I wouldn’t be able to sleep as I feared my father’s footsteps.
My body could barely keep up with my anxiety,
exhausted from too many sleepless nights and not enough food.
One night, I remember laying there,
half asleep when another anxiety attack caught me by surprise.
In the dark corners of my room, I saw a shadowy figure.
Terrified and too scared to even move,
I passed out from exhaustion.
I lived this way for over six months.
I became scared of people and loud voices sent me into panic attacks.
Even their shadows sometimes paralyzed me with fear.
I eventually started starving myself,
seeing how long I could last without eating.
I knew it was wrong,
but it was the only way I knew how to deal with the pain.
Then something happened with the court order,
and I was suddenly allowed to move in with my mother.
For a couple weeks, I regained my strength
and made up for lost time with my mother.
And for a while, my panic attacks seemed to disappear.
But when I re-enrolled in school,
I found that it never disappeared,
it was just hiding.
Now, on top of being scared of disappointment or yelling,
I was also scared of being left behind,
especially by my mother.
I was constantly afraid that she would leave me alone again and,
I would go home one day and see her missing
or worse,
find another court order on the table saying I would be forced to live with my father again.
The more I feared it,
the stronger my panic attacks returned.
I would scream at my classmates to leave me alone,
treating them like I treated my father.
Any friends I could have made were lost by now,
and I was once again left with no one but my mother.
Soon, I was falling over backward in all the stress, anxiety, and trauma.
My grades suffered,
and panic attacks became more common at school,
more violent.
One day in English class,
I just stopped breathing and started crying uncontrollably.
Through the tears, all I could see were dozens of eyes staring at me,
and I just ran,
my adrenaline pumping and my heart aching,
until I collapsed and fainted in the hallway.
When I woke up, I saw my mother by my side.
I felt safe, but I still needed help.
With my mother’s encouragement,
I eventually started seeing a therapist.
She never knew any of this was going on,
neither did I.
At first, it was weird to think anyone could understand what I was going through,
so I stayed quiet and gave as little information as possible.
But soon,
I began opening up about my problems and accepted the help that was in front of me.
I started making real friends and my grades really improved.
It’s been two years, and although I still get anxiety attacks,
with the help of therapy and medicine,
it's easier to control.
While living with anxiety and PTSD is tough,
I’m still glad I have people who care about me to help me along the way.