Let me start by saying that my anxiety was manageable at first. Sure things would give me panic attacks, but I knew how to avoid them and what I needed to do to take care of my anxiety issues. I use to view myself as a survivor. Thinking that if I could get thru what I had already than nothing else mattered. What I mean by that is…my mother had abandoned me, I dealt with child abuse of every variety you could imagine, and then just when I thought it was over I had lost my chance at college due to funding.
The whole college thing had just about broken me because I had my whole life mapped out and couldn’t wait to move on. Leaving my past behind me. However, I met a guy which a year into the relationship I found dead on the bathroom floor due to a drug overdose. Not once did I even know that he was a user. Then I met my birth mother and drove across the country to meet her. Still, I found ways to manage my anxiety and dreamt of a day where my stuff would all be together; so to speak. I was a survivor. Never the less I did have a bout with drug addiction. Guess you could say that my dear mother introduced me to a whole new world so I had to part with her. But I survived still. Now fast forward a little bit.
I was living in Chicago and trying to make a living. Still managing my anxiety until one day I lost everything. Found myself living in my car, but at least I was staying clean. Soon after becoming homeless, I landed myself in with the wrong kind of crowd. Now I won't lie when I say that being a bad girl was way more fun than playing by the rules in a matter of speaking. There were times when I have had a knife to my neck…sometimes I can still feel the blade pressing against my skin. And I have also had guns held to me before. You never forget the feeling of a gun barrel pressing against your temple. Still, I survived. It wasn’t until I was raped that part of me died. I walked away with bruised ribs (I could feel them every time I drew a breath), a bruised cheekbone, split lip, and a crack on the side of my head. At that time I was forced to just go and get patched up by a friend of mine because the men responsible knew where my father lived as well as the rest of my family. If I had gone to the police or hospital then my family would have been hurt.
To this day my anxiety is now a prison sentence. Like I'm trapped with no escape. I still constantly look over my shoulder expecting the reaper to come for me. Even though I fled the city without saying a word. Or telling anyone where I was heading. Every day I can't breathe. You know I used to find solace in music, but I can't seem to even pick up my guitar anymore. Although working out does give me some comfort because I can work off some of the aggression that I feel.
Anyways, that is my anxiety story. I might still be a survivor even though I no longer feel like one.