My Childhood Trauma: Healing Old Wounds

I’d ask myself, “What is wrong with you?” And I wished I could say, “Nothing is wrong.” But I knew better.

“You’re quite the puzzle,” my doctor said as I sat quietly on the exam table in her office. She scanned my extensive lab results, which I’d stapled together according to date. I swallowed hard, my throat burning, knowing I would leave yet another specialist with no answers. “Everything looks normal to me. Nothing is wrong.”

Nothing is wrong.


Later that evening, I stared at my computer screen at my desk, drafting an article for work. But my mind couldn’t process the different types of business structures and funding options for small startups. Not with the persistent itching of my skin and aching of my bones. 

I slammed my laptop shut, knowing my writing would make no sense in this state of mind. Retreating the few feet from my desk to my bed, I lay still on my back, staring at the ceiling. I grabbed my thermometer from my night table and stuck it under my tongue, waiting. Within seconds, it beeped quickly, indicating a fever: 100.7.

I threw it at the wall, then fell back onto my pillows, letting my tears paint my cheeks in streaks of black. There were still dishes to clean. Laundry to fold. Deadlines to meet. I felt like I had the flu, like every other night that week, and the weeks before. But, nothing was wrong.


I grew up in a beautiful, caring family. My mom cooked dinner for us and tucked me into bed every night. My dad coached my soccer teams and set up movie nights in the living room on Fridays. My older brothers put their arms around me when I cried during thunderstorms and told me jokes until I cracked a smile. I always had a soft place to land, a house filled with love.

But even the most wonderful people can’t protect you from pain and suffering. The roof over your head doesn’t always block out the rain. 

This was a lesson I learned at the age of 4 — locked in my own bedroom, confined to a closet. My brothers were napping just one room over, my parents chatting downstairs. Close, yet so far away.

Sunlight had streamed in through the cracks of the metal door, highlighting a face I knew well. A friend, a family friend, another child; only, he’d seemed much wiser. He arched his dark eyebrows and shrugged. “I heard it tastes like fruit,” he told me.

He was only 7, just three years older than I was. But three years was more than half my life. I’d trusted him. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

So, I did what he said; and he did what he wanted.

Shame tightened its grip around my gut, and I felt like vomiting, but I hated throwing up. Maybe I had a fever. Was I sick? I should tell my mother.

My cheeks burned as he pulled up his pants. “What did I taste like?” he asked me.

When you’re a child, your worst fear is getting lost in the grocery store, or skidding your knee on the sidewalk. My ability to defuse such an intense encounter did not yet exist. I’d starred in a nightmare, but I hadn’t produced it. Still, I couldn’t wake up.

I hesitated, then muttered the only response I could think up: “Strawberries.”


I couldn’t tell a soul. He would know, and he would hurt me — hurt my family. At least, that’s what he’d told me.

I became hollow, shame silently eating me from the inside out. It’s hard to feel secure in a body that’s been places you don’t want to revisit, hard to feel safe in a mind that remembers moments you just want to erase.

In second grade, I was diagnosed with OCD. I formed compulsions like scrubbing my hands raw and making my dad, a police officer, promise every morning he wouldn’t die at work. Other students asked why I cried so much. My friends’ parents spread rumors that I was a “danger” to their kids. My teachers scolded me for not paying attention.

And I learned to hate myself.

I hated that I couldn’t laugh the way my classmates did, because there was always something to fear. I hated that I couldn’t stay at a friend’s house without calling my mom to pick me up. I hated that I couldn’t sleep soundly in my own bed.

“I’m gonna throw up!” I’d cry down to my parents at the edge of the staircase almost every night. Each time, my mom would run up the steps, feel my forehead, walk me back into my room, and pull the covers over my shaking body.

She’d sit up with me until I fell asleep, despite needing to be awake in a few short hours. Leaning against the side of my bed, she’d stroke my hair as my eyes slowly closed, reassuring me. “You’re fine, sweetie,” she’d whisper. “Nothing is wrong.


My friends used to call me “boy crazy.” I was the first to have a crush, the one who’d fantasize about bumping into the cute kid down the street and somehow making him fall in love with me.

Bur really, all I could think was: I need someone to like me. I need someone to think I’m enough. Even if we can’t be together, even if we break up or don’t get together in the first place…I need to know someone can at least feel that way about me.

When I started dating in high school, something was always missing. Once a relationship would progress, get more physical, more serious, I’d get this familiar feeling of shame. I felt disgusted — not with the guy, but with myself. Like I was breaking a rule.

I was a good girl. I didn’t like causing trouble, even if it was only in my head.

So, I ended healthy relationships. Sought out guys I could somehow keep at a distance — guys I knew I would never end up with, who lived far away or were emotionally unavailable — so I didn’t have to feel trapped, confined yet again to darkness.

I’d define the quality of my relationships by how little I’d spend crying alone in my car. The best ones still warranted weekly breakdowns parked outside my house, or on a side street, or in my high school’s parking lot. I’d drive around town and blast music so loud, I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. I didn’t want to think.

But I couldn’t stop feeling. And what I felt was empty. But emptiness is not synonymous with nothing; it is an absence of something. I just didn’t know what. No matter who loved me, no matter how much they loved me, it wasn’t enough.

I lacked an identity, defining myself through the eyes and opinions of others. And I obsessed over gaining that validation. It became an addiction, something I thought I couldn’t live without. I’d shake and scream and throw tantrums if a person who typically showered me with affection somehow dissipated from my life.

I’d ask myself, “What is wrong with you?”

And I wished I could say, “Nothing is wrong.” But I knew better.


To this day, I often hold the idea of intimacy at a distance. It seems nicer, safer, there. More like a fantasy, less like an experience that will leave me sobbing under the covers for the rest of the night. Uncomfortable and guilt-ridden. Lonely, but not alone. Deep into the black hole that is my mind, trapped in the darkness, unable to feel the warmth of love, see the light all around me.

A persistent little voice in the back of my head has always whispered, “Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong.

For 20 years, I’ve stifled that voice. But it grew so loud, it echoed throughout my body like screams, set off alarms to finally get my attention.

This year, my poor health stopped me in my tracks, forcing me to slow down. To quit my job in the city and pursue freelance writing. To turn down plans I had no energy for. To finally give a shit about myself. I saw it as a sign that I needed to change — to stop running. I needed to take a look at my life, at my past, at all the mental anguish and negative energy festering within me, and find a way to not only move on from it, but also move through it.

Acceptance is a difficult process. Because of my continued resistance, I endured therapy that only retraumatized me my entire life. My OCD diagnosis was merely a bandaid over my deeper-rooted issues. A label I wore like armor, shielding me from the external world, while fueling an internal war.

My ignorance has cost me friends and lovers and years of my life. And following this realization, I should preach of hope and love, of turning pain into art, anger into passion. I should mention the friends I’ve met, who feel more like soulmates, and the progress I’ve made on my own.

But recovery is slow and not always steady. I am still suffering. I am still confused, seeking validation and reassurance — falling to my knees and begging for it, even. There are still dark, terrifying thoughts and emotions within me, evil prodigies haunting my mind and body.

So, I won’t tell you to always think pretty, to dress your demons in pink and dance with them in the sand. Because if you stare at the sun for too long, you’ll only go blind. You’ll lose your perspective, your ability to see each color for what it is. But the reds and yellows wouldn’t feel so warm without the blues and violets.

Instead, I encourage you to start listening — not to the noise around you, but to the suffering within. There’s a story behind, a reason for, everything you feel. Stop shaming yourself for the trauma you’ve endured. Stop letting other people tell you what’s right and wrong, normal and not, or how to live your life. Only you know yourself and all you’ve been through.

So keep going. Trust yourself, even when it seems the world is against you. And never lose your faith in fate.

Break the Stigma: The Many Faces of OCD

“I remember wanting to go to sleep and never wake up. I felt as though my internal world and external world were two completely different places.”

Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is a mental illness I know all-too-well — one I was diagnosed with at the mere age of 6 years old. And while there are a million reasons why I wish I didn’t have to live with such a relentless demon, there are a few solid reasons why I’m actually glad I do — including the fact that it’s brought me closer to the people in my life, especially those who also battle OCD.

I met my friend Milly through Instagram’s OCD community and instantly knew we’d become good friends, despite the fact that she’s from New Zealand and I’m in the U.S. I admired her willingness to share her struggles, and she has unknowingly encouraged me to be more open and communicative with others.

I found it was inspiring how, despite her brain being wired against herself the way mine is, Milly moved overseas to Australia when she was only 17 to train at a full-time ballet school, then to the U.S. where she danced for three years. She’s now studying at Auckland University back in NZ, where she plans to earn her BA in psychology and criminology, her goal to become a clinical psychologist specializing in OCD.

Needless to say, she doesn’t let her disorder hold her back from living. However, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t struggled along the way.

Continue reading “Break the Stigma: The Many Faces of OCD”

Not Everyone Will Understand You, and That’s Okay

I think, for many people, the hardest part of living, much like writing, is the criticism that comes with it.

Last night, I stood in my small kitchen, back against the white wall, eyes squinting in the fluorescent lighting, hunched over and crying. I didn’t feel anything; but at the same time, I felt everything.

“You don’t know me,” I told my boyfriend, and I could see the pain on his face as he registered my words. “No one does. Not you. Not my family. Not my best friends. They don’t know what goes on in my mind. And if they did, they wouldn’t love me.”

He wrapped his arms around me, but I was numb. My body was limp, my mind elsewhere.

Continue reading “Not Everyone Will Understand You, and That’s Okay”

What It’s Like to Be Brutally Self-Aware

Why did I share that? Do I just want validation? If so, from who? And why?

I open my eyes to the sunlight. It’s already 8 a.m. I slept through two alarms.

Am I lazy? People are already at work, and I’m still in bed.

I open my phone and load Instagram. Scroll through photos. Check for messages. Re-watch the story I posted last night.

Why did I share that? Do I just want validation? If so, from who? And why?

My heart races. Stomach clenches. Like I’m guilty of a heinous crime.

Am I not already content with the people in my life? Do I really need someone else to care about me? To accept me?

I sit up. Wipe the sweat off my forehead. Open my messages, wanting to confide in someone who understands.

Am I looking for sympathy? Is that a guy I’m about to text? What does that say about me? Do I enjoy their attention?

Thoughts pelt me from every direction. My head pounds.

I want to cry.
I want to sleep.
I want to escape.

Who even am I?

Continue reading “What It’s Like to Be Brutally Self-Aware”

My OCD and Me: The Demons that Coexistent

I felt nothing, mostly. And when I did feel, it wasn’t sadness. It was terror.

It’s been months since I’ve written about my OCD. Often, painting a picture through words helps me cope. But I thought that if I picked up my pen this time, all I’d see — all anyone would see — was darkness.

Depression. It’s a common term that many use to describe sadness. To express the tears streaming down their face at night, or the crippling stress from piling bills, or the gutting heartache from a devastating breakup.

So, really, I wasn’t sure I even had it. Because, well, I didn’t feel that. I felt nothing, mostly. And when I did feel, it wasn’t sadness. It was terror. Fear — not of death, but of living. I couldn’t imagine waking up just one more day.

Continue reading “My OCD and Me: The Demons that Coexistent”

Break the Stigma: Anxiety, Mood Swings, and Addiction

I could feel myself beginning to slip; if this went on much longer, I was going to lose everything, quite literally.

My name is Adam. I am a 26-year-old writer and I live in central New Jersey. I live with four cats and my lovely girlfriend and, for the first time in years, I feel like I might have my shit together.

I’ve never been professionally diagnosed with anything, maybe because I’ve deliberately avoided professionals until very recently. I think I was probably a prime candidate for medication at an early age, but I made good grades and did well in sports, so nobody ever looked at me that hard. All I can say with certainty is that I’ve suffered from a high level of anxiety and sudden mood swings for as long as I can remember.

The mood swings were the first thing I noticed. Even as a child, I would become irritable, angry, and sad all at once, seemingly out of nowhere. The worst part about it was that I knew I had no reason to feel this way, but I felt it anyway. When I was experiencing these moments, I would often lash out at the people closest to me.

My mother is a wonderful person, but I remember especially being hurt by her regularly telling other adults, “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just in one of his moods.” I hated feeling that way, and I hated it being written off like that because I knew something was going wrong inside me.

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Break the Stigma: Q&A on Anxiety-Induced Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy

The worst part was going back to school and everyone asking me if I was “the girl who had a seizure.”

Nicolette Wescott, 22-year-old graduate student from Medford, New Jersey, has lived with anxiety-induced juvenile myoclonic epilepsy since she was 17-years-old. Read on to hear more about her journey with the illness, and be sure to check out her YouTube channel on epilepsy.

Explain one of your worst, most severe experiences with your illness.

I was so nervous for my first day of freshman year of high school that I didn’t eat or sleep for three days. I’m not sure what was making that anxious, but it was extreme torture.

The morning of my first day, everyone said I was out of it. But I remember absolutely nothing. I woke up in the hospital at 6 p.m. to several nurses around me. They told me that I had had a seizure in the middle of the hallway of Shawnee High School on the way to first period.

They kept me in the hospital for three days because that’s how long it took to fully regain my consciousness. I remember feeling confused and frustrated. The worst part was going back to school and everyone asking me if I was “the girl who had a seizure.”

Continue reading “Break the Stigma: Q&A on Anxiety-Induced Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy”