Brain Dump: Domestic Violence, Mental Health, and My Journey Toward Healing
The piercing sound of my 5:45 AM alarm jolts me awake. For a brief moment, there is silence in my mind—an illusion of peace. Then, like clockwork, my stomach twists, a rush of warmth spreads through my arms, my legs feel weak, and a wave of dread crashes over me. Terror. Anxiety. This is how I begin most mornings. On good days, I meticulously scan my body, searching for signs of illness or unease. My fingers press lightly against my wrist, assessing the rhythm of my heartbeat. I step onto the scale, scrutinizing the number. I glance into the mirror, silently hoping my eyebrows and eyelashes have miraculously grown back overnight. The waking up is easy; it’s the reality of being awake that feels unbearable. How can I, as a Christian, admit that I dread life? I believe in God's plan for me, and I am grateful for the gift of existence, yet I am engulfed in misery.
Anxiety and OCD are invisible prisons—chains of irrational fear, keeping me captive to thoughts and scenarios that may never materialize. It is an exhausting existence, one I would not wish upon anyone. But my battle with mental health did not begin in adulthood. It started long before I even had the words to describe it.
At just eight years old, I was thrown into the chaos of domestic violence. My mother’s boyfriend—his hands wrapped around her throat. My own voice, shrill and desperate, pleading with someone—anyone—to call 911. To make it stop. Trauma embeds itself deep into the psyche, especially in the formative years of childhood. But at that age, I did not understand the magnitude of what I had witnessed. I had no roadmap for healing, no guidance on how to process the terror that had unfolded before me.
With a mother who turned to alcohol as a means of escape, I was left without a blueprint for coping. So, I created my own. A few weeks before the incident, I had heard an innocent childhood superstition: "If an eyelash falls out, make a wish, and it will come true." That night, I wished for an escape. I wished for things to get better. But the wishing became something else. What began as an innocent ritual morphed into a compulsion, a disorder known as Trichotillomania. Hair pulling became my bottle, my refuge. It was something I could control when the world around me felt so frighteningly unstable.
Middle school was brutal. I navigated the hallways with bare eyelids, my face exposed to cruel whispers and pointed stares. "Weird." "Cancer patient." The words clung to me, etching themselves into my identity. By high school, I had learned to mask my disorder. My aunt introduced me to Anastasia Dipbrow and false eyelashes—the armor I needed to blend in. But beneath the layers of makeup, I remained broken. Confidence never came. I avoided the beach, pool parties, sleepovers—anything that required me to strip away the mask. I never experienced the giddy thrill of being asked to a dance or catching the eye of a boy in the hallway. Instead, my insecurity festered, breeding social anxiety that defined my teenage years. I was the quiet girl, the one with the meticulously drawn eyebrows and an ever-present sense of unease.
As I entered my twenties, that social anxiety evolved into full-blown panic disorder. Simple tasks—grocery shopping, driving, existing in public spaces—became daunting. My mind, conditioned to expect the worst, fed me endless reels of impending doom. Then, in December 2024, I reached my breaking point. I could no longer function under the weight of fear. I sought help. I sat across from a psychiatrist who, after listening to my story, uttered the words: "You have PTSD." And suddenly, it all made sense. My struggles were not random. They were not baseless. They were the echoes of trauma I had never fully processed.
Now, the real journey begins—healing.
How do I move forward? How do I lean into my faith when God feels so distant? The answer, I am learning, is prayer. Persistent, unwavering prayer. God has placed it on my heart to seek Him with diligence, to anchor myself in His word. I have begun reading A Praying Life by Paul E. Miller, and I will share what I learn as I go. Healing from trauma and anxiety is not linear. It is a messy, grueling process. But I know that God is my refuge. He is my healer. In the moments when despair feels overwhelming, I hold onto Philippians 4:6— Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And Psalm 23— The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
If you are weary, if you too are navigating the storm of mental illness, I invite you to walk this path of healing with me. We are not alone. We are made free through Jesus Christ. And together, we will find our way forward.
