My story

Hello, and thank you for taking the time to read this. I was recently diagnosed with PTSD, Major Depressive Disorder, and anxiety with panic by both my therapist and psychiatrist. Lately these conditions have affected my ability to work, and I’ve had to step away from my job. Even simple tasks have been overwhelming, and I often feel on the edge of panic.

I’m sharing my story because I feel like people see the surface but don’t understand what I’ve lived through.

I’ve experienced trauma throughout my entire life. I was the product of an affair, and from a very young age I knew my biological father didn’t want me. When I was little, my mom moved my brother and me from California to Minnesota with only $20. She left because my grandfather had a history of harming young girls, and she was terrified he would hurt me. She ran from him, and from both of our fathers, just trying to keep us safe.

We lived in poverty for years until my mom met the man who became my adoptive father. At first he was kind—he cared for me when I was sick, took me fun places, and made me feel special. I started calling him “Daddy,” and when he adopted me at age 9, I was genuinely excited that he chose me.

But everything changed the summer before sixth grade, when my mom became very sick. She spent years going in and out of hospitals, ERs, and psych wards. She had fibromyalgia, PTSD, and bipolar depression, but as a kid I had no idea what was happening. When I was 12, she attempted suicide by taking an entire bottle of sleeping pills. I had to revive her, and I watched her die three separate times as doctors and paramedics brought her back. After that, I became her caretaker—waking her up, making sure she ate, guiding her through ECT treatments, and helping her after seizures when we were alone. I also watched doctors dismiss her, mistreat her, or accuse her of seeking drugs.

While this was happening, the abuse from my adoptive father escalated. I think he was jealous of how close my mom and I were. He worked constantly, and when he wasn’t working, he was off doing his hobbies. When he came home I would run to my room and hide, because I never knew what mood he’d be in. If I talked to him, he would tell me to “go away” because he was talking to his wife. He always looked at me like I was annoying him just by existing.

He yelled at me for the smallest things, and I’d have panic attacks afterward. The sicker my mom got, the more cruel he became. He even told me it would be my fault if she died. He threw shoes at me, punched my door open early in the morning, forced chores on me, and I became so scared of waking him that I’d pee on towels instead of using the bathroom. I’d throw food away at school because I wasn’t allowed to “waste” anything. His abuse was emotional, mental, financial, and sometimes physical—toward both me and my mom.

During this time, I dissociated heavily. I invented an alter, a fairy who was powerful and could save the world. People even say they talked to her, and I barely remember most of middle or high school.

On my 19th birthday, my mom attempted suicide again. This time my adoptive father was home, and we got her to the hospital sooner. Around the same time, my fiancé broke off our engagement, and the school I was attending turned out to be a scam giving fraudulent loans. I had gone there because my adoptive father refused to pay for the Iowa State education he promised me. I spiraled, sleeping with random men because I just wanted to feel something.

Nine months later I met the man who is now my husband. He was the first person to tell me that what I grew up with wasn’t normal. Over time, I went no-contact with my entire family—some by my choice, and others because they decided I was the problem and cut me off. It was an incredibly painful chapter.

On top of everything, I’ve been chronically ill my entire adult life. My periods were horrific—extreme pain, bleeding every two weeks, and by age 22, bleeding every day with hand-sized clots. Doctors ignored me for years, telling me to go on birth control or lose weight. I saw around 15 physicians with no answers.

This year, I finally drove an hour away to a doctor a coworker recommended. One blood test revealed high-estrogen PCOS—but by then it was too late. I had a 20 cm cyst, adenomyosis, an 8.3 cm fibroid, and stage 2 endometrial cancer. I was actually diagnosed on my 31st birthday. In September, I had a full robotic-assisted hysterectomy. Losing my fertility was devastating. It took away any chance of creating a family in the way I always dreamed.

There is so much more I could share, but these are the major pieces of my story. All I’ve ever wanted is happiness, peace, and a life that feels safe.