Healing from the Inside Out: Confronting the Trauma That Shaped Me

For years, I’ve battled with my mental health, feeling like I’ve been locked in a silent struggle that no one truly understands. Diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) ,Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) and an undiagnosed/medicated case of Bipolar Disorder (both my psychiatrist and therapist think I have it. I just refuse to test for it) I’ve spent countless hours in therapy, hoping each session would lead to some kind of breakthrough. But, after years of what feels like wasting time and money—despite having worked with several therapists—I’ve come to a painful realization: maybe talk therapy is no longer what I need.

Finding a therapist feels like a dating experience that never quite clicks. You try, you search, you invest your emotions and money, and sometimes it works, but often it doesn’t. The process is exhausting and, frankly, disheartening. It’s like you’re constantly searching for someone who can truly understand your pain, but they just don’t. And this is where I’ve found myself recently—standing at the crossroads, wondering if I should continue down the familiar path of traditional therapy or try something entirely different to heal this trauma once and for all.

Here’s the truth about trauma (at least for me): for years, I’ve been hiding behind it, burying it deep, because it’s easier to do that than to face the mess it created. The things that were said and done to me by my son’s father and his pathetic army of yes-men and miserable women have twisted and scarred my life in ways I can’t even begin to describe. And yet, I’ve never told anyone the full story—not my friends, not my family, and barely even my therapist. Why? Because reliving it is just too much. It’s so much easier to let the world think I’m bitter and angry because he moved on and “left” me, than to unload the hell I’ve been through. Ironically, my son’s dad thinks I’ve been dragging his name through the mud online over the years, when in reality, I’ve barely scratched the surface. No one knows the awful things he said to me—like hoping I would die on the delivery table. No one knows how he slept around with four different women while I was pregnant, heartbroken, and begging for him to love me and our child. No one knows how he recklessly put my life and our unborn child’s life at risk, as he slept with me and these women without protection. No one knows that the first attempt I took at my life was during month 6 of my pregnancy, with my blood on his hands. No one knows the amount of pillow talking he did to his friends and any desperate bitch that would listen during and after my pregnancy, telling them I was suicidal and making it sound like I was the crazy one when he was the one who pushed me to the edge. No one knows how, just two months after I was released from a mental facility (that he essentially put me in), I found out I was pregnant again, he called me “stale” and “non-beneficial” and told me he didn’t want me. And no one knows how, 11 days postpartum, one of the women he was sleeping with during my pregnancy took to Twitter, publicly humiliating me while I was drowning in motherhood and postpartum grief. When I asked him to comfort me, he told me to “grow up” because he had “plans.” No one knows that he walked out of the hospital to go on a date after our son was born, or that his little harem of women got online to taunt me, making cruel comments about how they “won” because they were sleeping with the father of my child. Yeah, no one knows any of that. And IF you think that’s bad… that’s not even half of the shit he’s done to me, but somehow, I’m the bad guy for sharing what little I have.

Pick up your jaws, I’m sure they’re on the ground after reading the terrible things I’ve endured. How could anyone put up with that? How did I not just walk away? How did I end up pregnant again—willingly? The simplest answer—besides the painful truth of my lack of self-love—is trauma. Plain and simple. It was such a confusing concept for me. I grew up wrapped in love—true, genuine love—from my parents. I had an example of a healthy, functional marriage my entire life. I was loved, affirmed, reassured... everything I needed to understand what real love was supposed to feel like, yet I was tangled in this trauma bond. A connection so twisted and suffocating, it had me believing that his chaos was the only thing I deserved. This wasn’t just about me, though. No, we were tied up in something karmic, something deep that I couldn’t shake off, even if I tried. A bond that kept me stuck, kept me craving something I should’ve been running from. And let’s be real—staying wasn’t about love, it was about survival. A survival mechanism that made me think this was what I deserved. And even though I know better now, even though I’ve fought to break free, those scars, that bond—still there. Holding me. Choking me. I was trapped in a trauma bond. A deep, unexplainable pull that had me bound to him in a way that felt fated. Like it wasn’t just my choice, like the universe had somehow decided this was the lesson I had to learn. A karmic debt that kept me tied to a person who was never supposed to be my peace.I didn’t just stay because I didn’t love myself, though that’s a huge part of it. I stayed because the chaos felt familiar. His energy, our toxic dance, it felt like we were two broken pieces of a puzzle that was never meant to fit. And still, it had me. This bond, this karmic tie, had me trapped in a cycle of dysfunction. And even when I knew it wasn’t love, I was still caught in the grips of a lesson I wasn’t ready to face.

He’s apologized. Over and over again, time after time, apologizing profusely like it’s supposed to make up for the years of damage he caused. And at first, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe that maybe he got it. But you know what? It’s never enough. Every time he says he’s sorry, it just fuels my rage. It infuriates me. I see red. Because every apology feels like a slap in the face—like he’s playing in my face, taunting me. And honestly, in a sense, he totally is. Imagine being driven so low by a man, pushed to the edge of your soul, where the only outlet you can find is (redacted). And then, he has the nerve—the audacity—to get a semi-colon tattooed on his body, along with the date of the incident. To wear my pain, my trauma, my brokenness on his skin like some twisted trophy. Like he owns my story now. He doesn’t. But there it is, burned into his flesh like a mockery of everything he’s done to me.

I’ve carried this trauma for years—a heavy, suffocating burden lodged in my chest. It’s been there, gnawing at me, weighing me down. In fact, my diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder didn’t come until AFTER my relationship with my son’s father. The anxiety—the crippling fear—of something as simple as walking through the city I’ve spent my entire adult life in, building a career, friendships, sisterhoods, and creating a life.. all of it tainted by the constant fear that at any moment, I could run into one of the many women he slept with. I was never raised to be some scared punk bitch, but I could never shake the gut-wrenching sensation—the sweating palms, the tight knot in my chest and throat—whenever I’m out in public, knowing that at any given moment, I could be staring down the face of one of the women who had a hand in robbing me of a happy experience in my journey of motherhood.

To give you some context of just how much of a raging, dirty slut my son’s father really is, and just how deep my fear ran, the number that I know if is 60. SIXTY freaking women—there was a time when I wanted to put my son in one of the most affluent daycares, only to be confronted by his father, who casually told me the director of the school was someone he had slept with during our relationship. The man had bitches everywhere—flight attendants, bottle girls, bartenders, teachers, bank tellers, MY ACQUAINTANCES that I frequently talked to, you name it. I could walk into any space, any place, and it felt like it was only a matter of time before I’d run into them. And even when I didn’t see them, I knew they saw me. I could just feel it—the message would always get relayed: ‘I saw your BM outside. And that alone has made me hate this city. For so long, I’ve convinced myself I’ve outgrown Atlanta. Stating that I want to move but here’s the truth: while I do have a deep disdain for the traffic, the superficiality, and some of the culture here, this city has molded me. I’ve spent the last twelve years of my life building my career, friendships, and sense of self right here. It’s the place where I grew, where I faced my darkest days, and yet, because of my trauma, it’s hard to look at this city without seeing the shadows of my past. It's complicated. I've built everything here, but I've also been broken here.

At some point, I have to stop living in so much anger, hatred, and anxiety-ridden fear. When I say it impacted my life in the worst way possible, I mean it—my ability to show up for myself, for my friends, for my relationship, and in some cases, even my work ethic. Most painfully of all, it affected my ability to show up for my son. As much as I’d love to keep blaming my son’s father, I had to do the hardest thing of all: self-reflect. I had to step out of my victim mentality, because as much as I am the victim, it’s time to do the work to deal with being the victim. I’m still healing, still carrying the weight of everything he did, but I can’t let it keep defining me. It’s time to take control of my story, even if I never get to control his.

After 6 years of throwing myself a pity-party, I am tired of being a victim. It’s become draining, exhausting, and honestly, it’s made me insufferable in some aspects. This next shift from victim to survivor isn’t just about words—it’s about me taking real action. That means giving therapy another shot, but this time, I’m diving into trauma therapy and EMDR. It means getting back on my medication. I’ve been on and off antidepressants through several manic episodes, and it’s time to stop playing games with my mental health. It also means stopping the fear of a new diagnosis, and getting evaluated for BPD. I’m a yapper—I talk to myself and the wall more that I’d like to admit out of constant fear of judgement or not having anyone to relate to. Saying the words out loud has helped and allowed me to process emotions, but it’s not enough anymore. Bottling things up is what got me here in the first place. Now, it’s time to take real, proactive steps. I need to spot my triggers, confront my emotions head-on, and do the hard work to heal—once and for all."