The assault was mentally and physically devastating. It shattered more than my sense of trust – it fractured my sense of self. In the days, months, and even years that followed, I spiraled helplessly through emotions I couldn’t define. I withdrew from people, family, and friends whom I loved. My subconscious built walls that I didn’t have the strength to climb.
It wasn’t until several years ago, when life seemed to become too unbearable, that I decided to seek therapy.
What I didn’t understand at the time was that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and severe panic disorder. I spent years suffering in silence and wondering, “What’s wrong with me?” I was a frightened shell of my former vibrant self. Although, through the years, I learned to hide my pain from family and friends. I fought invisible battles, pushing through and pretending I was fine. I portrayed myself as strong, even as I was breaking inside.
The trauma changed me in ways that rippled through every decision I made. Relationships, work, sleep, and my sense of self-worth. There were days when I couldn’t get out of bed, nights when I couldn’t breathe, and moments when I wondered if life was still worth trying for.
Somewhere deep down, a whisper reminded me who I had been and who I might still be. That whisper would eventually lead me back to the range, and back to myself. But first, I had to admit that I was not okay. That would be my first step toward becoming a survivor.
I have since been diagnosed with severe panic disorder and PTSD, all stemming from my physical and sexual assault. Looking back, I shouldn’t have been surprised by these diagnoses, but at the time, I was. After years of living in a constant state of panic and fear, it simply became too difficult to face, so I struggled through life for my family and pushed my emotions back into the deepest, darkest parts of my brain. A place where they could stay and not bleed all over my family, my career, and everything I loved.
Living with undiagnosed PTSD and panic disorder felt like drowning in plain sight. From the outside, I was a fully functioning member of society. Inside, my existence was a cyclone. I built my life around trying to avoid triggers I couldn’t always define or predict.
Relationships became strained, and I made choices rooted in fear and survival. I pushed people away and tolerated things I shouldn’t have, just to avoid confrontation. And through it all, I convinced myself I was just damaged and broken.
The hardest part was that I couldn’t name what was wrong. Without a diagnosis, there’s no plan. There’s just surviving minute by minute and day by day.
It took years before I sought the help of a psychiatrist, before I heard the words “PTSD” and “panic disorder” applied to me. When I finally did, the floodgates of my soul broke open, and I cried. Not because I was sad, but because I was finally seen. I wasn’t crazy. I was wounded.
That was the beginning of the end of my silence. The beginning of finding my way back to a life worth fighting for.
Even though therapy helped me to a certain degree, I was still a broken shell of my former self. I needed to stop being a victim and become a survivor. I decided that I needed to find a way to take my power back.
After a great deal of soul searching, I remembered my love for firearms training and thought maybe, just maybe, that was how I could begin to regain control of my life.
