The thing about trauma is, it doesn’t stick to your timeline. The thing about trauma is, when you think you’re done with it, it creeps back in. The thing about trauma is, you find yourself in constant fight or flight and you second guess every single decision you make and whether or not you’re too much for the people in your life. You wonder if you’re overreacting. You wonder if the people you call your friends will stop being your friends because that’s all you can focus on. You wonder if you will always feel alone. The thing about trauma is, even when you have worked so fucking hard, it still creeps up.

Monday is my fourth trauma anniversary. It’s complicated. Monday is my youngest kids’ fourth birthday. We simultaneously celebrate her life while I remember the pain of my organs rupturing into each other. When I remember the doctors not believing me. When I remember being sent home with “Sometimes moms of four go through this.” When I remember crying next to my bed thinking that I could not live the rest of my life like this. Trauma is not forgiving. And I try my hardest every year to focus on how thankful I am for where I am in my life. I am thankful that trauma lead me to code. I am thankful for having the best people in my life. I am thankful for understanding myself.

But even though my brain accepts these things, my body doesn’t. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in probably a week and a half and it’ll probably be another three or four weeks before I do. As soon as I leave a state of hyperfocus, I can feel the anxiety in every single part of my body. My body thinks it’s not safe. My body remembers, and it won’t let me move forward. If it doesn’t sleep, it won’t come close to dying. If it doesn’t sleep, nothing bad will happen. If it doesn’t sleep, it won’t…If it doesn’t sleep.

I tried really hard this week. I tried to keep my schedule full. I went to therapy twice. I tried to pretend things were normal. I tried to help other people. I tried really hard this week, and I feel like I failed at every. single. turn. I felt alone in that hospital room. I was back there. No one believed me. No one helped me. And I couldn’t breath.

This week was a constant challenge to breath. I wanted to do my best for the people around me, but I couldn’t breath. The entire week was a battle with myself. A battle to prove to myself that I was more than my trauma. A battle to prove I that I was not that 31 year old in the doctor’s office who was not the doctor’s “problem.” It was a battle to prove that I had worth, that I was a solution, that I mattered enough to someone.

And it’s hard when your mind and your body are fighting you. It’s hard when you second guess what everyone says to you because this time of year triggers a general distrust. It’s hard that you don’t feel good enough, worth enough, to be around amazing people. It’s fucking hard.

And it’s hard to talk about. I don’t know how long I’ll leave this post up, but probably not forever. It’s hard to tell people who don’t understand trauma how broken you feel. It’s hard to explain that you want to feel differently, but something you don’t know how to control won’t let you.

I did my best this week, but it feels like I fell short by a million miles. It feels like I didn’t do anything worth while. It feels hard and sad and like I’ve fallen down. Down. Down. And I don’t know how to get up or climb out or forge a new path. It physically hurts. It’s like part of my soul is continually being sucked out.

I know I’m not at fault. And I’ve been in treatment for a while. I’m four years past my trauma, and it’s still hard. Trauma doesn’t just stop. So if you’re heart hurts right now, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it hurts. My heart hurts right with you.