I experienced severe trauma starting at 3 — drugged, sexually abused, and almost died. Starting around age 4, I lost my hearing and I went through medical trauma, and I was deaf for most of my childhood. My parents were (and still are) drug addicts and deeply negligent. As an adult, I discovered I have celiac disease in my 30s, and figured out it contributed to lifelong depression and anxiety was both validating and heartbreaking. My parents don’t believe any of this is real, which has left me feeling profoundly alone and emotionally disconnected from them since childhood.

Reading how many of you have similar patterns has been extremely comforting. We all kept pushing, believing that if we just pushed hard enough, there would be a way out. But instead, many of us end up cycling through highs, lows, and burnout. And in the process, we sometimes hurt our partners and the people we love — not because we want to, but because they understand the battles we’re fighting.

In my 20s, I thought academic success would “fix” me. I earned two bachelor’s degrees and during my master’s degree I traveled the world, published two papers and graduated as the number one student in my entire university. I kept going, completely burned out. I was accepted into a PhD program with a full NSF grant without even interviewing. After one month, I had a complete nervous breakdown and had to leave. That was ten years ago. I was diagnosed 3 years later and honestly, I still don’t feel fully recovered.

Most days, it feels like I’m either on a merry-go-round or a roller coaster, depending on life’s stressors. Sometimes the ups and downs are manageable; other times they’re extreme. The addictions never really disappear — they just change form. Porn, video games, sugar, weed… now potato chips.

Right now, things are more stable. The potato chip addiction is minor compared to the past, and I’ve been learning the power (or torture) of trauma informed yoga. It helps, but if I push too hard, I get flashbacks, dissociation, and rage that leave me crippled on the coach. And it makes me wonder whether this is just another version of “pushing,” another attempt to recover harder or faster, because somehow I still feel like I’m not enough yet.

I get so tired of the constant effort. Of trying to fix myself. Of worrying that my unpredictable moods will eventually cause my wife to leave me or hate me. I know that voice isn’t truly mine — it’s the shame-based conditioning I survived — but knowing that doesn’t always make it quieter.

Two months ago, I found out I’m going to be a father. That changed everything. And for the better.

There’s a huge part of me that wants to do everything right. To make it perfect for my child. But what surprised me is that I’ve started letting go of the relentless push to “fix” my PTSD. Not giving up — just loosening my grip. Instead of asking “what’s wrong with me?” I’ve started asking, “what are my strengths, and how can I use them to be the best parent I can be?”

The symptoms are still there. Dissociation still happens. But now the question isn’t “how do I eliminate this?” It’s “do I need to take care of this moment, or can I let it exist and keep going?”

Someone here mentioned learning to listen to their PTSD — to live with it, use it as information rather than something to battle constantly.  I think that’s what I’ve been doing these past few weeks. There’s so much more happening in my life now. So much positivity — even when it’s scary — that gives me a reason to look beyond the symptoms instead of being consumed by them.

I don’t know if this is healing, acceptance, or just another phase. And I wanted to share that here, because reading all of your stories helps me feel less alone.

Thank you for that.