.

I haven’t had a day in the past 10 or so days where I didn’t cry. And I don’t mean just a few tears, I mean full on, hyperventilating sobbing fits… usually in my car. Although I will say that on Thursday, I had a complete meltdown, in my classroom while all of my students were taking their nap and not one person noticed… so that’s a total win for me.

In the past week and a half so many things happened just one on top of another. I’m starting to wonder if there even is a rock bottom or if I’m just going to keep falling…. I tried reaching out to my therapist on Tuesday (or Wednesday) I sent her an email to which she responded by telling me I’m not stable enough for her practice… to call a suicide hotline and reach out to her “when I’m more stable.” I’m not suicidal.

Soooo the support system has gone from 3 to 2.

And out of those 2 people, one is in Kentucky, and the other has their own problems and struggles they’re dealing with… it’s not fair of me to pour more onto their plate when I know how much crap they’re already going through and dealing with.

So needless to say, I feel pretty lonely. I feel scared. I feel hopeless… and that’s not a word I like to use… but it’s the only word I can think of to explain where I’m at. I went to the doctors today and usually I can stop my tears and pull myself together. But I couldn’t today, so I just say their talking to the nurse and the doctor with tears running down my face. It was completely humiliating but luckily neither of them asked what was wrong.

I sat in my car this morning, not even being awake for an hour, and already crying. And just started shouting. I’m not very religious. I don’t even know if I believe in a God, and if I did, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to hear from me anyway. But I sat in my car and just screamed for some higher power to help me. That I had no clue what to do anymore. I feel completely lost and broken. And I just need help…..

I have an appointment with a new therapist a week from Tuesday. So we’re starting that process again. Should be a blast.

I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say or think or feel…. some days just taking one step feels like I’m lifting 100 pounds and with each step, I’m getting weaker and weaker.

The Big Picture

Therapy is on Tuesdays. I officially dread Tuesdays. If you’re a long time follower you will know that I’m no stranger to therapy. It was usually the highlight of my week… however, since moving and starting with a new therapist and getting into more intensive trauma therapy, there have been many times throughout the week where I have an internal battle of debating whether or not it would be easier to just quit.

I’ll be the first to admit that when it comes to therapy, I’ve been spoiled. Before moving, therapy wasn’t entirely “therapeutic.” While I discussed traumatic instances and feelings and whatever, I was never pushed. It was always on my terms. My therapist also was more of a maternal figure and probably broke a few boundaries in the therapist/client relationship. Which was unprofessional on her part but in her defense, I’m very good at pushing the boundaries. I was also in desperate need for someone who resembled more of a mother than a therapist… and that’s what she gave me.

Now… here I am getting into the messy, nitty-gritty details of my trauma. And being pushed. Pushed like I’ve never been pushed before. Rationally I know that this is for my own good and it will help me…. but I’m struggling to understand the point in all of this. I understand therapy… and I understand that it’s important to process emotions and traumas in a healthy, safe, nonbiased environment… but damn. This is nearly impossible.

The most stressful situation is that every week I sit on her couch, and she looks at me, and I look down at my hands refusing to make eye contact and she says “so what would you like to talk about?”…….. and then it hits me. What do I want to talk about? I have 19 years of abuse and trauma, sexual assaults, a friends murder, witnessing my sister’s abuse, 2 suicide attempts, years of self harming and eating disorders…. mind you other things, less significant things like my parents divorce, being bullied so badly I had to switch schools, things that I never had a chance to fully process because I was too busy being abused….. and I only get 50 minutes to talk about one of those things or little snippets of a handful…. and 50 minutes is not a long time. How the hell am I ever supposed to get better or even start the healing process when I have an endless amount of traumas and things just piling up. Never mind the stress of everyday life that should also be talked about too.

Let’s just say I have 100 “incidents” that need to be processed. I have a crap ton more than that, but let’s stick with 100. Whether that’s a trauma, a flashback, a memory… whatever. 100 things that need to be processed. So each week I go in, I sit on the couch and I talk about just 1 incident…. with the hope that it then becomes “processed” (whatever that means) that alone would take about 2 years to complete. That’s assuming that each session is successful…… and since starting therapy in Florida, I’ve had a whopping 0 successful sessions….. so now, put in the fact that dissociating, shutting down, and panic attacks are all a thing… and these are all going to cause some barriers in processing and healing each incident…. lately all I’ve been dealing with are barriers but we’re going to be hopeful here. Let’s say that with those barriers in place, we have a “successful” therapy session where some incident gets “processed” once a month….. that’s kind of leaping, but like I said, we’re hopeful. So if we have 100 “incidents” and processing 1 every month. THAT would take a little over 8 YEARS!

Now, I have, waaaay more than 100 “incidents” I’m also not at all hopeful that I’ll have a “successful” 50 minutes once a month.,.. that was all just for perspective….. so you can see how overwhelming this entire process is…. so much in fact that I honestly fail to see the point….. and I hate that I feel that way… but this whole thing has recently become way too real and I’m actually seeing how bad it really was.

It’s suddenly gone from being just needing to process “19 years of abuse and torture.” to now needing to process “6935 days of abuse and torture.”

It’s the exact same thing…. but the latter is much more daunting and terrifying.

They Say it’s your Birthday.

It’s her birthday. She’s completed another trip around the sun. Completely oblivious and unbothered by the damage and hurt she has caused me. Not only that, she has lived another year with the support and love from her friends and family.

How does that happen? How can someone so evil and horrific have friends? How does anyone want to be around her? How do people take her side and see me as the problem?

I’d love more than anything to contact her friends and the person she’s dating and just say- “you know she’s a child molester? You know she’s capable of beating her own child? You know she used to drug me?” Alas. I obviously can’t do that, mostly because they would never believe me. She’s painted herself as this wonderful, charming, hilarious, outgoing person. She was a preschool teacher for Christ’s sake! No one would believe the things she did. Especially coming from me because she tells everyone that I’m the unstable one.

It’s truly remarkable and almost scary how someone can be one way to everyone else in their life, including other people’s children and the complete opposite to their own child. It makes me wonder who the real J was and if maybe I was more of a problem than she was. It really makes me question who’s fault this really was…

Stay with me on this, because I’m sure I’ve just pissed off a bunch of people.

If she’s only abusive to me, but everyone else loves her…………. if she’s capable of teaching and caring for other kids…………. if she has friends to celebrate her birthday with and buy her presents…………… do you see what I’m getting at here?

She’s capable of loving. She’s capable of being a nice person. I’ve seen it myself. She’s just not capable of loving or being nice towards me. And somehow, that makes it so much worse. If she was evil to everyone it would be much more understandable. But it’s in fact the opposite. What is so wrong with me that I wasn’t deserving of her love and kindness?

If anyone needs me today, I’ll be here under my covers, dissociating on and off, suppressing flashbacks and trying not to cry.

Happy Birthday.

Like……..

I met someone for the first time 2 weekends ago. It didn’t go as planned but that’s drama for another day. The point is they told me that my eyes were beautiful…. but they could tell there was a lot of pain in them…. called out. That’s not really the point of this post…. but I thought it was interesting and there’s not too many people I can share it with, so to the blog that little factoid goes.

I don’t like people. I say that a lot. It comes across as defensive and bitchy… but I don’t care. It’s easier to not need people when they think you’re a jerk. But I really don’t like people. People are unpredictable and scary. I can count on one hand the people I truly- I mean truly like. Momma bear, my 2 best friends, and my therapist I had before I moved. My gram would also be on this list but she passed 2 years ago.

There’s plenty of people who think I like them, and that’s because I’m really good at faking it. I like spending time with them, maybe I like what they have to say or the things they do, but that doesn’t mean I like them. That means I tolerate them to a higher level than others… but once you start to like people, and care about them is when things go wrong. If you don’t like people, it won’t hurt as badly when they end up leaving or betraying you. If you let people in…. it’s harder to get them out.

And sure, maybe not everyone is going to end up leaving. And maybe not everyone will betray you… but why would you take that risk? I liked J. As crazy and twisted as that sounds, I did. She gave birth to me. She raised me… (or gave the impression of raising me.) I was constantly terrified of her, but I was raised to not only like her, but to love her….

So when I was sitting in the car at 16 years old and she told me she “wishes she just miscarried me like her other babies” and she “didn’t think god could make mistakes, but that’s exactly what I am.” You can imagine how crappy that must’ve felt…. what you may not imagine is how crappy it still feels 7 years later…. but here we are.

Even after years and years and years of abuse and torture and name calling. I still liked her. I still loved her. Even after I cut her out of my life, I loved her. I don’t anymore. I hate her. I really truly hate her. I wrote an entire post about how much I hate her so we won’t delve into that today

The point is, I was stupid… now you’re probably thinking “no Maggie! You weren’t stupid. You were brainwashed and gaslit. You were just a kid.” But just trust me when I say I was stupid. You can’t understand it unless you’ve been there. I was stupid…. I liked- loved someone who beat me. Who threw things at me. Who ripped a chunk of my hair out. Who called me horrific things… and even at the age of 20. Being diagnosed with PTSD and told I was a victim of child abuse, I still liked her….. I just said I didn’t like what she did.

I can never be stupid. I can never risk making that mistake again. I can never not only be hurt like that, but I can never be made to feel so idiotic again…. somedays I think liking the 4 people that I do like is a risk… I don’t want to believe they would hurt me…. and I trust them. But that little irrational part of my brain that gets in the way of every single thing thinks it’s dangerous to like even them.

And just writing that last sentence out makes me hate myself. But….. that’s the vibe for the day.

Boulevard of Broken Dreams

I’m running. I’m being chased. I’ve been in this same predicament every night or so for the past month. She’s chasing me. She might catch me. She might not. But if she does, she’ll hit me, or do… something else. Sometimes I try to run, but my feet can’t move fast enough… or they forget how to work and I can’t move. She gets closer and closer to me and she lifts her hand to strike me, and all I can do is scream or cry or both. So that’s exactly what I do.

My cries are so loud that I wake myself up.

Just a dream. That’s all it was. It wasn’t real. It was just my brain trying to process trauma. And even though I’m sweating and shaking. It didn’t really happen. Even though it feels like the real deal, I never left my house. I never moved from under the blankets. “Maggie’s safe. No one is hurting Maggie. Maggie is in her house, and momma bear is in the next room. Momma bear would never let anyone hurt Maggie, especially J. Maggie is safe. No one is hurting Maggie.”

My self talk is exactly the same as how I talk to my students when they are having a big feeling. Instead of speaking in first person, I have to speak in third person when trying to calm myself down. I’m not sure why but here we are.

Last night I didn’t fall asleep until 4:00. I fell asleep around 12:00 tonight but woke up shouting around 1:00. I’m scared to fall asleep. Even though I’m tired. Even though I need to sleep. I’m so scared. This happens more times than I would like to admit.

The therapist that I had before I moved to Florida would always tell me that when we dream, it’s our brain’s way of processing things that we have failed to process fully….. so I guess that makes sense. Considering I never really “processed” my trauma and I’m still struggling with it.

But what even classifies as something being “processed”? How is my brain supposed to make sense of the unthinkable? Am I just stuck constantly dreaming of J because I’ll never get over it and process it? Am I just forever stuck in this hamster wheel of hell?

I left her. I escaped her. She hasn’t hit me in 6 years. But every single night, I go back to being a little girl and get beaten and screamed at all over again and then wake up feeling traumatized all over again. I’m 23 but wake up crying and feeling like a child needing to be held or told how everything is going to be ok….

Unfortunately It’s not that simple. I usually just lay there and have to comfort myself for myself by myself… and when that’s too stressful or scary, I just sit there…. and pray my brain is able to calm down and I can sleep again.

A 24/7 Imposter

I think way too much at night. All throughout the day I’m totally fine and happy but then once night comes around I start thinking…. but for the past week or so all I can think of is how much I hate myself.

If you’re a long time reader, you know how I feel about the word hate. How I don’t use it very often and my dislike for it, so when I say I hate something…. people know I must really hate it.

I hate that I don’t trust anyone. I hate that Im 23 and have only dated 2 people. I hate that I dropped out of college letting a million people down. I hate that I need constant reassurance for everything. I hate that I’m manipulative. I hate that my laugh is so loud it causes people to stare. I hate that everyday all I want is to be held but also only allow like 2 people to touch me. I hate that I’m so incredibly needy. I hate that palm trees and swans make me cry. I hate that I push people away. I hate that I’m tall. I hate that I constantly feel like I deserved what J did. I hate that I’ve been in therapy since I was 6. I hate that I’m a picky eater. I

hate that everyone views me as confident….. but deep down, I’m hurting…. But I don’t have the words to express that. It’s easier to put on a façade that everything’s ok and I have my shit together than to look someone in the eye and say- “hey. Some really crappy things happened to me like 16 years ago… and even though I should be over it by now, I’m not and I don’t know what I need right now but I’m not ok.”

People like you when you’re happy. Nobody wants to be around someone who’s sad all the time or dwelling in the past. People like me because I’m happy, because I have a positive outlook on things and I’m optimistic. I’ve created this whole image for myself…. then when nighttime comes around, I can take off my mask and break down my walls.

And that’s when the thinking starts, which then turns into hatred……it’s a super fun cycle I’ve created for myself that I can’t seem to get out of.

Someone I know, who also struggles with childhood trauma and PTSD once told me they’re an imposter 24/7. I honestly didn’t get what they meant at first…. but I think I do now, and I think I relate to that statement more than I ever expected to when I first heard it.

Well friends, this was a super fun entry… not that all of my previous entries were super uplifting to begin with… anyway, I’m fine. It’s late, I’m going to go to bed and wake up with my mask back on and be oh so happy again.

Now if only I can get to sleep………

The Many Adventures of Therapy

I’ve been in therapy since I was 6. I started going because I cried literally everyday at school and I always complained of stomachaches. J was very active in my school as a Girl Scout leader and PTA mom so no one ever even considered abuse. They always said I was just anxious. So my parents found a therapist and off I went, just like that to therapy for anxiety. It started off as once every two weeks. Then after my first hospitalization at 10, it went to every week. There was a time in my life I was going as much as 3-4 times a week… but for the majority of my life, I’ve been going to therapy at least once a week.

My first therapist was named Darlene. She was really weird but I loved her. Probably because she was the only adult in my life who gave me positive attention. When I was 7 or 8, I built up the courage to tell her that sometimes my mommy hits me. (Sometimes being every day) I remember sitting on the floor of her office with her and telling her that I’m scared of my mom… I really thought she would rescue me. I thought she would take me home with her and I’d be her daughter… or she’d at least get me out of my home. No such luck. She told me that if I ever felt unsafe, I can always call 911. Looking back, I don’t think she believed me. That was the only time until I was 14 I spoke of anything that happened to me.

I saw a Darlene until I was 12. Then I started seeing another therapist named Barbara. I loved Barbara and while I saw her sometimes as many as 4 times a week, I don’t remember too many of my sessions. A lot of them were for my disgnonsense of BPD so it wasn’t too helpful, but in her defense she genuinely thought I had BPD and tried her best with the hand she was given.

Barbara retired when I was 18. I saw a handful of therapists after her. Some great… some not so great. But going through all of them I learned a lot about therapy and how the majority think. I can almost always predict what any therapist is going to say before they even say it. At least your standard, run of the mill therapist. Which probably makes me a rather difficult client to work with, because obviously if I know what they are going to say and know all of the therapist tricks and lingo that they use on their other clients I shouldn’t need to be in therapy…. but here we are.

Today I had my first session with yet another new therapist since moving to Florida. Her name is Rachel and I gave her the whole spiel of abuse, trauma and everything in between. I genuinely liked her. She seems like the type of person I would be friends with if we met outside of the therapy environment.

The problem is I just met her. And she already knows so much about me. Of course that’s her job, but in case you’re new around here, I don’t do well with letting people in. I’ve gotten very comfortable with keeping my walls up. All 4 walls and a ceiling. And there I sat, spilling my guts in just 55 minutes but what made it easy was keeping my feelings completely locked away. I just sat on her couch and recited my life like I was reading a book. No feelings, no emotions. Just stating the facts.

She asked me to describe a place where I felt the most calm. I chose a lake not too far from my new home. It has swans and palm trees (2 of my favorite things) and I described it to her and explained that the first time I ever went there with momma bear was the first time I felt completely calm. Like nothing else mattered. I was able to just embrace the moment and feel happy and safe. A concept that I had never experienced until then.

And then without warning….. I started to cry. My first therapy session with a new therapist and I cried. This may not be a huge deal to other people but it’s a rather large deal to myself. I don’t cry. I especially don’t cry in front of new people. Crying is a sign of weakness. Crying means I pity myself or I want to be pitied. Crying always resulted in beatings or being screamed at. Crying can only be done at very specific times and for very specific reasons. And recalling a time when I felt calm and safe, does not warrant any tears.

I’m going back to therapy on Tuesday. Rachel wants to discuss my ST. Which should be highly eventful….. so we’ll see where that goes.

I like her. I genuinely really like her. I just don’t like therapy or therapists…. I don’t think that’s makes any sense… but then again, does anything I say make any sense?

Run.

When I was probably about 7, I decided I was going to run away. I packed my backpack and told my family I was leaving. They didn’t try and stop me, they just told me to be careful. My sister then told me that she would run away with me. She then suggested that we bring walkie-talkies with us in case we got into trouble and needed our parents. I hated this idea but went along with it. So the 2 of us, packed our bags and “ran away.” My sister kept asking me where I was planning to go and I only answered with “anywhere that’s not here.” We only got about 3 blocks before J started screaming on the walkie-talkie that I needed to get my ass home real quick before she finds me. With that said, I went back home…

I grew up in New England, relatively close to New York City. Only an hour and a half train ride. My father and I would go about once a year together when I was little and then when I got older, I would go a few times a year with my best friend. It was truly my happy place. I forgot all the bad things that were happening at home and was able to get lost in the chaos and mumbo-jumbo of Manhattan. The best part was that J HATED the city, so I knew that whenever I went there, I was safe from her because there was no way in hell she would ever take the train to come there.

When I was 12, I came up with an elaborate plan on how I was going to run away and live in New York City. I wrote my entire plan out on paper with an orange marker. I had 70 dollars from babysitting. A one way train ticket to grand central, was about 20 dollars. That gives me 50 bucks. I decided I could live off of a Mcchicken on the dollar menu a day. So that was food for 50 days. Almost 2 months. Hopefully by then I could find a job somewhere and not have to worry about rationing my 50 dollars. Looking back, that plan would never in a million years work, but at 12 I was convinced it was flawless. However, I chickened out and never left. Which is probably a good thing.

Anytime from that moment on, whenever something went wrong, or J would yell at or hit me, I would turn to my plan that I wrote out of running away. My entire life I was trapped, and all I wanted was to run away and start a new life. I’ve never lived anywhere but in one town in one state right in the middle of New England. Everywhere I turn, there’s 23 years of memories. I’m being constantly reminded of the life I lived and the life I never got a chance to live.

Worst of all, J only lives about 3 miles away from me. So there’s a constant reminder that she’s still around. I can run into her any day at any moment. Stores, restaurants, doctors’ offices. There’s always a chance J will be there. And that is terrifying. Beyond terrifying. I live everyday scared that she will find me or see me and it’s unnerving. The past 3 years, my desire to run away has grown bigger and stronger. I want to leave everything behind and start all over.

In 20 days… this will all change. I will no longer feel trapped and constantly reminded of my life of hell. I am “running away” so to speak. It’s not as spontaneous or random as the plans I made when I was younger, and it’s not to the city. It’s to somewhere farther and better. I am beyond excited. I’m going somewhere where nobody knows my story. I will be a complete stranger to everyone and everything. While that sounds daunting, and probably will be at first, it’s what I need. Instead of running away I will be running towards my happiness. I will be running towards a new family, a new job, and a brand new life.

Crying Over a Damn Doll

I hate when memories just sneak up on you. Bad memories. Memories that come with no trigger, rhyme or reason. You just be sitting there and BAM a memory out of the blue just confirming how messed up everything really was.

There are these stupid dolls. American Girl dolls. They’re like 150 bucks and super fancy and adorable and perfect. They came with books and I was obsessed with reading them. At recess in school, my friends and I would play “American Girls” where we would pretend to be one of the characters from the historical characters collection.

My 2 favorites were Molly and Samantha. (Samantha is pictured above) I read every single book in both of their collections probably 3 or 4 times. I loved them… especially Samantha. One day I went to my best friends house and she had 6 American girl dolls. 6!

She let me play with them and I thought they were the most perfect dolls in the whole world. I loved their how their eyes would close when you laid them down. I loved how shiny their hair was. I loved the outfits they had. I thought they were perfect in every way and I decided that all I wanted was my own American girl doll.

I begged J for my very own Samantha doll that year for Christmas. Every time I asked, she always answered with a “we’ll see.” Or a “maybe.”

So fast forward to Christmas Day- my sister, Emma (who is 5 years older than me) opens one of her gifts. It was a Kit doll. Her favorite from the historical characters collection. She was so happy and I felt a huge sense of excitement and anticipation because if she got a doll, surely one of the wrapped packages with my name on it would be my Samantha doll that I wanted so badly.

Spoiler alert- there was no Samantha doll in any of the packages under the tree. When I went to ask J why my sister got a doll and I didn’t, she answered that- Emma asked Santa for a doll, not her. She and my father couldn’t afford an American girl doll so Emma asked Santa and HE is who got it for her.

And I believed J because that made a lot of sense to me. I never wrote santa a letter asking for a doll, and I never went to the mall to see him to ask for it. I only asked J. Emma must have gotten in touch with Santa somehow and that’s why she got her doll and I didn’t… and at 9 years old, that made an insurmountable amount of sense to me.

However… now I know the truth about Christmas and Santa Clause… and I just remembered this and put 2 and 2 together about the whole scenario.

This whole thing probably sounds incredibly selfish and spoiled. I know there are people who received nothing for Christmas and to be fair, it could’ve been much worse. I did get things for holidays and birthdays and I was always grateful for that…. however, I just randomly remembered this stupid memory about a dumb doll and had to get it out somehow.

This is just one of the many ways J would mess with my mind… and what’s really frustrating about this memory along with many, many others is I don’t know if I’m justified in feeling hurt and angry about this entire endeavor or if I’m just overreacting and being spoiled.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Something that’s crazy and exhausting about PTSD complex or not is that there is an endless amount of possible symptoms that one can experience. Symptoms that at first don’t seem like they have a direct correlation with trauma or PTSD and sometimes look similar to other mental illnesses which just adds another layer to the trifle of PTSD frustration.

When I am stressed, excited, or just feeling overwhelmed in general, my brain goes about a million miles a minute and my mouth can’t keep up with all the thoughts and ideas racing in and out of my brain. This results in me stuttering and stumbling on my words and completely unable to form sentences. Asking a simple question or stating a sentence can take up to 5 minutes because I’m literally unable to put words together to say what I’m thinking. I wasn’t sure why this happened, I thought it might be something similar to ADD, however I learned a few months ago that this thing I experience is a form of flight of ideas…. which is apparently very common in people with trauma and PTSD.

Another thing that I experience and just learned incredibly recently that is another symptom of trauma and PTSD as well as something that I rarely disclose with anyone is auditory hallucinations. Most people refer to it as hearing voices. Whatever you call it, there is an ENORMOUS stigma around the concept of people who hear things that are not there. They are immediately labeled as “crazy”, “psychotic”, or “schizophrenic”. Unfortunately, these stereotypes aren’t just with the average Joe. I’ve come across many medical professionals working in the mental health field who think that schizophrenia is the only answer for hearing voices and they refuse to believe it to be a symptom of other mental illnesses as well.

I have heard voices that say… not the nicest things for 13 years now. It’s become apart of my daily life and I usually forget that they are there. Only a small handful of people in my life know this about me because of the stigma surrounding hallucinations. There is no doubt in my mind that if my employers’ learned this fact about me, I would be asked to resign because I would be immediately viewed as “unstable” to be doing my type of work.

This is not the case. While I do hear things saying horrific things to me on a daily basis, I know that they are not real. I know that there is a chemical imbalance in my brain that causes me to hear people talking that aren’t really there. This isn’t true for every person who experiences auditory hallucinations, but for a majority of people who do, they are able to distinguish what is real and what isn’t.

For a while it was a huge mystery why I was hearing voices. I wasn’t schizophrenic and I wasn’t having any other symptom of psychosis or a psychotic disorder. I’ve had many doctors tell me I’m lying and making it up for attention… which is another layer of frustration in itself but thats drama for another day.

If you look up “Hearing voices and PTSD” (something I did literally 10 minutes before writing this entry) many things come up showing that it’s not an uncommon thing to experience… especially in people whose trauma was prolonged and repeated… like your’s truly. While it’s horrible and genuinely unfortunate that this happens, it’s nice to know that I’m not alone and there are people who hear things that aren’t there as a side effect from their trauma like me. I haven’t met anyone yet who has experienced hallucinations as a symptom of their PTSD, but I thought I’d write this just as your friendly Trauma Neighbor.

I thought I was alone and maybe a little crazy… so maybe someone will read this who also hears voices because of PTSD and know that there’s other people going through the same thing I am… you are not alone.