Abuse

By now, those of you who keep coming back have probably noticed a pattern in my story—trauma, hard decisions, abuse, and moments that could have broken a person.

But today, I want to talk about something different.

I want to talk about going from broken to brave.

I want to talk about growing your wings.

About becoming your own warrior princess.

About choosing courage, even when it feels impossible.

Today is about what I’m proud of.

I want to start with overcoming addiction—because that alone is a mountain. Not just the act of quitting, but everything that comes with it: the pain, the withdrawal, the emotional unravelling, and the deep, uncomfortable work of facing your trauma head-on.

Kicking a 20-year habit wasn’t just about putting something down.

It was about picking myself up.

It meant going to therapy, digging into wounds I had buried for years, and learning how to heal a heart that felt completely broken.

And today, I am incredibly proud to say that I am six and a half years clean and sober.

Even more than that—I no longer want that life. I don’t crave it. I don’t miss it. I’ve built something better.

I am proud of the mother I’ve become.

My son is almost 14 now, and he is thriving. He’s growing into an incredible human being—kind, strong, and resilient. He towers over me now in more ways than one.

There were times when the people around him were not kind, not safe, not what he deserved. And in those moments, I became what he needed.

I became steady.

I became strong.

I became his safe place.

And I am so proud that I was able to show up for him in that way.

I am proud of who I’ve become despite everything that tried to bring me down. The people, the circumstances, the weight of it all.

I rose anyway.

I am proud that I didn’t stay broken.

I’m also proud of this blog.

This has been six years in the making. For a long time, I thought I needed to write a book to tell my story. But one day it clicked—this is where I’m meant to start.

And now, here I am.

About 100 of you are reading my words today. And while that number might seem small to some, to me, it means everything.

Because if even one person feels less alone because of something I’ve shared, then it matters.

I hope to reach more people—those navigating trauma, mental health struggles, low-income life, single parenting, and everything in between. People who are just trying to survive and maybe, one day, learn how to thrive.

I’m proud of the friend I’ve become.

There are still days when I have to cancel plans because my mental health needs my attention. And that used to come with guilt and shame.

But now, I’ve built a circle of people who understand. People who support me, who cheer me on, and who want to see me happy and successful.

I’ve learned to let go of the people who didn’t.

And that, too, is something to be proud of.

I am proud of the partner I am today.

After six years of being single, I took a chance on love again. I opened my heart when it would have been easier to keep it closed.

And this time, I chose differently.

I chose someone who is right for me. For my son. For the life I am building.

I’m proud of myself for allowing love back in—and for recognizing what healthy love actually looks like.

That is bravery.

So today, I’m allowing myself to celebrate all of this.

Not quietly. Not with hesitation.

But fully.

And I want you to do the same.

Take a moment today to recognize how far you’ve come.

The things you’ve survived.

The ways you’ve grown—even when it felt slow, or messy, or invisible.

Be proud of yourself.

Even for the small things. Especially for the small things.

Because of those small steps? They’re what carried you here.

Go forward today with love for yourself.

With pride in your journey.

With courage for whatever comes next.

You are stronger than you think.

Today, I sign off.

I love you all.

I should never have joined the Navy. The experience harmed me. Nevertheless, I find myself defending the Navy at times. On one such occasion, one of my college English professors insisted that I had trouble with the Navy because I was not allowed to think for myself. That was not why my service was difficult for me, and when I tried to tell the professor that, she dismissed me. "What would you know?" she said. What would I know about my own experiences, for which I was present and she was not? What, indeed.

I was, at this point, hardened to being misunderstood and unheard. I was shocked, nonetheless, that an educated person could think in such a defective way. Aside from sending me running from English as a major as quickly as I could go, her misrepresentation of my experience also left a splinter in the part of my psyche that insists on correcting misunderstandings where they occur. I have been misunderstood so extensively throughout my life, and suffered the consequences of those misunderstandings, that I have to fight to let go when I see confusion playing out in front of me. Most of these incidents are trivial and most of them aren't my business. However, circumstances sometimes drive the splinter deep into the wound, and I feel compelled to interject.

"Consider interpreting failure as a sign that you are choosing growth over comfort."

This message was on a therapist's website. I don't know why, but the first thing that popped into my head was reading about a Navy mechanic who left a wrench inside a jet engine cowling. When the engine was started, the wrench was sucked into the turbine, shattering it and sending shrapnel through the fuel and oil lines. The subsequent explosion killed one sailor and maimed two others. It seems callous to "choose growth over comfort" when something you did means two children are growing up without their father and two men barely out of their teens will never walk again.

I didn't say any of that. I should know better at this point, but I tried humor. I said, "I told my drill instructor that exact thing when I failed a test in boot camp, and he invited me to consider the hundreds of pushups he made me do as a sign that I was a screw-up." I was surprised when the therapist responded. “That’s heartbreaking - I’m so sorry you had that experience. Shame is so rarely an effective strategy for motivation or change.”

The content of her reply surprised me even more. The only other person who ever expressed sympathy for my boot camp experience was an ex-girlfriend who, much like my professor, misunderstood why serving was difficult for me. Sympathy wasn’t otherwise extended because war is unpleasant and training people to cope with war cannot be pleasant, either. I had assumed that Americans generally understood this. When I read the therapist’s reply, my first thought was “My God, has this woman never seen Full Metal Jacket? An Officer and a Gentleman?” The film Stripes had Bill Murray belting out set after set of well-deserved pushups because he wouldn’t be a team player, a flaw that boot camp aims to correct in real life. If military personnel are hardasses, it is because their screw-ups are often hard to live with. However, I declined to say anything further and regretted opening this can of worms as much as I had.

More recently, a post about the film Full Metal Jacket prodded the splinter further. In this instance, the discussion contrasted the “abusive” practices of Marine drill instructors in the 60’s and 70’s with the belief that the sternness of such training was necessary to prepare recruits for war. The post raised some complicated and conflicting feelings in me. I experienced abuse in the Navy, most notably when I worked in the galley. In boot camp, I was a Gomer Pyle level screw-up and suicidal. I blamed myself for being a weakling. Later, I would blame myself for lacking the insight, at age seventeen, to recognize that the Navy would not be a healthy environment for me. However, I have never regarded my boot camp experience as abusive. The VA agrees; A VA psychiatrist told me that basic training is considered “moderately stressful.”

One comment in the discussion of Full Metal Jacket said that people believing “Wow, this drill sergeant’s methods were really helpful” have misunderstood the film. Given my experience, I am probably supposed to agree with that sentiment. Private Pyle’s murder of his drill instructor and subsequent suicide was hard for me to watch. It could have been me. But the reality, one that is hard for Americans and their toxic individuality to grasp, is that the military did not begin and end with my experience of it. The loss of one drill instructor and one private does not change the horrific nature of what military training prepares people to face.

The film Jarhead was based on Anthony Swofford’s non-fiction account of his time as a Marine in the first Gulf War. He related that when he was in boot camp, his drill instructor was relieved of duty for being abusive. Later, when Swofford was in the war, he wished that his training had been a hundred times tougher than what the abusive drill instructor dished out. He would have been adequately prepared. The non-abusive instructors failed him.

Feeling overwhelmed with how complicated these issues are for me, I deleted everything I posted in the discussion, deeply regretting my involvement and resolving to do better in staying in my own lane. However, as the splinter impales me further, I must finally confront what underlies it all. The Navy told me that I was a worthless screwup, and nothing in my life since then has disproven it. The final nail in my coffin is my failure to make it as a writer. Writing is the only thing for which I have shown even the slightest bit of competence, and the constant rejection of my work proves that the Navy was right. I am worthless. My first suicide attempt occurred while I was on active duty, and all I can think is that I should have tried harder.

#Depression #Trauma #Suicide #PTSD #MentalHealth #Disability

I should never have joined the Navy. The experience harmed me. Nevertheless, I find myself defending the Navy at times. On one such occasion, one of my college English professors insisted that I had trouble with the Navy because I was not allowed to think for myself. That was not why my service was difficult for me, and when I tried to tell the professor that, she dismissed me. "What would you know?" she said. What would I know about my own experiences, for which I was present and she was not? What, indeed.

I was, at this point, hardened to being misunderstood and unheard. I was shocked, nonetheless, that an educated person could think in such a defective way. Aside from sending me running from English as a major as quickly as I could go, her misrepresentation of my experience also left a splinter in the part of my psyche that insists on correcting misunderstandings where they occur. I have been misunderstood so extensively throughout my life, and suffered the consequences of those misunderstandings, that I have to fight to let go when I see confusion playing out in front of me. Most of these incidents are trivial and most of them aren't my business. However, circumstances sometimes drive the splinter deep into the wound, and I feel compelled to interject.

"Consider interpreting failure as a sign that you are choosing growth over comfort."

This message was on a therapist's website. I don't know why, but the first thing that popped into my head was reading about a Navy mechanic who left a wrench inside a jet engine cowling. When the engine was started, the wrench was sucked into the turbine, shattering it and sending shrapnel through the fuel and oil lines. The subsequent explosion killed one sailor and maimed two others. It seems callous to "choose growth over comfort" when something you did means two children are growing up without their father and two men barely out of their teens will never walk again.

I didn't say any of that. I should know better at this point, but I tried humor. I said, "I told my drill instructor that exact thing when I failed a test in boot camp, and he invited me to consider the hundreds of pushups he made me do as a sign that I was a screw-up." I was surprised when the therapist responded. “That’s heartbreaking - I’m so sorry you had that experience. Shame is so rarely an effective strategy for motivation or change.”

The content of her reply surprised me even more. The only other person who ever expressed sympathy for my boot camp experience was an ex-girlfriend who, much like my professor, misunderstood why serving was difficult for me. Sympathy wasn’t otherwise extended because war is unpleasant and training people to cope with war cannot be pleasant, either. I had assumed that Americans generally understood this. When I read the therapist’s reply, my first thought was “My God, has this woman never seen Full Metal Jacket? An Officer and a Gentleman?” The film Stripes had Bill Murray belting out set after set of well-deserved pushups because he wouldn’t be a team player, a flaw that boot camp aims to correct in real life. If military personnel are hardasses, it is because their screw-ups are often hard to live with. However, I declined to say anything further and regretted opening this can of worms as much as I had.

More recently, a post about the film Full Metal Jacket prodded the splinter further. In this instance, the discussion contrasted the “abusive” practices of Marine drill instructors in the 60’s and 70’s with the belief that the sternness of such training was necessary to prepare recruits for war. The post raised some complicated and conflicting feelings in me. I experienced abuse in the Navy, most notably when I worked in the galley. In boot camp, I was a Gomer Pyle level screw-up and suicidal. I blamed myself for being a weakling. Later, I would blame myself for lacking the insight, at age seventeen, to recognize that the Navy would not be a healthy environment for me. However, I have never regarded my boot camp experience as abusive. The VA agrees; A VA psychiatrist told me that basic training is considered “moderately stressful.”

One comment in the discussion of Full Metal Jacket said that people believing “Wow, this drill sergeant’s methods were really helpful” have misunderstood the film. Given my experience, I am probably supposed to agree with that sentiment. Private Pyle’s murder of his drill instructor and subsequent suicide was hard for me to watch. It could have been me. But the reality, one that is hard for Americans and their toxic individuality to grasp, is that the military did not begin and end with my experience of it. The loss of one drill instructor and one private does not change the horrific nature of what military training prepares people to face.

The film Jarhead was based on Anthony Swofford’s non-fiction account of his time as a Marine in the first Gulf War. He related that when he was in boot camp, his drill instructor was relieved of duty for being abusive. Later, when Swofford was in the war, he wished that his training had been a hundred times tougher than what the abusive drill instructor dished out. He would have been adequately prepared. The non-abusive instructors failed him.

Feeling overwhelmed with how complicated these issues are for me, I deleted everything I posted in the discussion, deeply regretting my involvement and resolving to do better in staying in my own lane. However, as the splinter impales me further, I must finally confront what underlies it all. The Navy told me that I was a worthless screwup, and nothing in my life since then has disproven it. The final nail in my coffin is my failure to make it as a writer. Writing is the only thing for which I have shown even the slightest bit of competence, and the constant rejection of my work proves that the Navy was right. I am worthless. My first suicide attempt occurred while I was on active duty, and all I can think is that I should have tried harder.

#Depression #Suicide #PTSD #Trauma #MentalHealth #Disability

Hi, my name is eandrews74. I'm here because of previous sexual abuse in my childhood. Im 51 and an adult now I have depression and anxiety.Not sure what to do, im in a 6year relationship and im extremely needy with my Bipolar boyfriend. Any suggestions

#MightyTogether #Anxiety #Depression #BipolarDisorder #Migraine #PTSD #ADHD #Crohn 'sDisease#Grief

Hi, my name is alienate8774. I'm here because I suffered from extreme abuse as a child, and then was forced to caretake for my abusive step-father and aunt. I'm looking to network with people who have experienced a similar childhood, and for ways to cope.
#MightyTogether #Anxiety #Depression #PTSD

i don't know how to stay alive when beeing treated like im already dead by my own family and i have noone #daughterofnarcissisticmother

Moments ago, I remembered a dream of last night.
One person I used to trust, was abusive....
The dream was a mirror of abuse I experienced in the past.

STOP TELLING TRAUMA SURVIVORS THAT "JESUS IS ALL THEY NEED."

That sentence is not comforting—it can be dangerous, dismissive, and completely detached from scripture. James 2:16 warns against telling someone in need to "go in peace" without actually providing the physical tools they need to survive.

When you tell someone breaking down from PTSD, abuse, or deep trauma to just "pray harder" or "have more faith," you are not being holy. While well meaning, it’s spiritual bypassing—using religious cliches to avoid the messy, uncomfortable work of genuine healing.

Here is the truth:

The Bible makes a clear distinction between the state of your soul and the state of your body. While spiritual healing restores your relationship with God, physical and mental healing often requires practical, earthly intervention. In Luke 10:34, the Good Samaritan didn't just pray for the victim’s spirit; he "went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine" before taking him to a place of professional care. To suggest that trauma—which is a literal wound to the nervous system—only needs a "spiritual" fix is to ignore the very model of mercy Jesus provided. God created the complexity of the human brain, and honoring that design means treating physical trauma with the medical and psychological tools He has provided.

In 1 Thessalonians 5:23, Paul prays that your "whole spirit, soul and body be kept blameless." God acknowledges us as three-part beings. You cannot treat a "body" or "soul" (mind/emotions) wound with only "spirit" tools. Honoring God's design means treating physical trauma with the medical and psychological tools He has provided for the body and mind.

Trauma is Physical. Trauma lives in the body—in the nervous system, the brain, and the muscles. You cannot pray away a physiological freeze response. It requires therapy, safety, and often specialized care to rewire the brain’s fear response.

The "Thorn" of Trauma. We often forget that even the most faithful had "thorns" that God did not simply snap His fingers to remove. In 2 Corinthians 12:7-9, Paul describes a "thorn in the flesh" that tormented him. Much like Complex PTSD, this wasn't a lack of faith; it was a persistent, agonizing reality that lived in his flesh. God’s response wasn't to tell Paul he was "failing" for still feeling the pain—He sat with Paul in the weakness. Trauma is a thorn that requires daily management, professional support, and grace, not a "quick fix" prayer that ignores the reality of the struggle

It Shames the Victim. When you say Jesus is all they need, and they still feel broken, you are implicitly telling them that their healing is stalled because they lack faith. You are placing the burden of recovery on their willpower, which is absolute cruelty.

Jesus Gave Us Tools. God gave us doctors, psychologists, counselors, and therapists. Suggesting that using these resources is "lesser" than only reading the Bible is a toxic lie that keeps people sick. God works through mental health professionals, not just in spite of them.

It’s Spiritual Abuse. Forcing a "just trust God" narrative shuts down emotional honesty and forces victims to bury their pain under a smile, which leads to spiritual burnout and emotional repression.

It’s religious gaslighting. Religious gaslighting is a weaponized form of manipulation that uses God to silence your pain. It happens the moment someone tells you that your PTSD is a "spiritual attack" or that your inability to "move on" is a sin. By twisting the Gospel into a list of performance-based expectations, they force you to doubt your own nervous system and reality. This is the exact "heavy, cumbersome load" Jesus condemned in Matthew 23:4—religious leaders placing impossible burdens on the broken without offering a single practical tool for relief. If you are told that "true Christians don't struggle with mental health," you aren't being discipled; you are being gaslit. God doesn't demand you ignore your wounds to prove your faith.

Integrating Jesus into trauma healing is not about “praying the pain away”; it is about recognizing Him as the Great Physician who works through the very tools of restoration He designed. Practical integration means seeing the counselor’s office as holy ground and the slow rewiring of your nervous system as an act of divine pruning. In Psalm 147:3, we are told, "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Note that "binding wounds" is a manual, labor-intensive process—it requires time, bandages, and intentional care. Jesus does not stand over you demanding you "get over it"; He is the one who knelt in the dirt of Gethsemane, sweat-dropping blood in a state of high physiological distress, validating that the body’s cry for safety is not a sin—it’s a human reality. True faith isn't ignoring the wound; it's bringing the wound to the light and using every tool God provided to bind it up.

True healing is messy. It involves sitting in the pain, seeking professional trauma-informed care, and building safety. Stop using Jesus as an excuse to be lazy with people's pain. If your "theology" requires a trauma survivor to ignore their biological reality to be considered faithful, then your theology isn't from God—it's from a bully.

To the one still fighting: Your trauma is not a lack of faith, and your need for therapy is not a betrayal of your Creator—it is an act of courage that honors the life He gave you.
(by Patrick Weaver)