I Hate Anxiety—More Than the Trauma That Caused It

I hate anxiety.

More than the trauma that gave it to me—and that’s saying a lot.

I’m 32 years old, and I’ve been to Hell and back more times than I can count. I’ve died—clinically—twice. I’ve had a doctor literally climb on top of me on a gurney to yell in my face to keep me conscious, rushing me into emergency surgery to save my life. I’ve needed blood transfusions to pull me back from the brink. I held my stillborn son in my hands. I kissed my crying children goodbye when I was told I couldn’t see them again. I was trapped in a hotel room with an ex who beat and raped me daily. I woke up after being date-raped in a stranger’s house and had to walk back into my home like nothing happened. I was sexually abused as a child. I was raped by a person I went on a date with just a few months ago.

I sat in a courtroom across from the man who abused me—who broke my arm six weeks earlier, on Christmas Day, 2023. I had just filed for divorce after fourteen years, and despite everything, I choked back tears because I was still terrified of losing him… even though he was slowly killing me.

I survived Broken Heart Syndrome. Not just the emotional devastation of grief and stress—but the actual, medically diagnosed condition. I spent months of 2024 unable to walk, take care of myself, eat..

And still—anxiety is worse.

If you don’t live with it, you probably can’t understand how deeply it infiltrates your life. It’s not just worry or nervous energy. It’s dizziness, lightheadedness, chest tightness so sharp you think your ribs might crack. It’s panic flooding your body, stealing your breath and replacing it with pure dread. It’s a heart pounding so loud you can’t hear anything else. Lungs that forget how to work. The overwhelming feeling that you’re dying—even though you’re not.

It’s a different kind of Hell. And I live there every day.

Not always full-blown, but it lingers. My body remembers the trauma, even though my mind knows I’m safe now. And I am safe—probably safer than I’ve ever been. But my nervous system doesn’t get that memo. It flinches at shadows that no longer exist.

That’s what anxiety does. It trains your body to scream when your mind is quietly trying to remind you, You’re okay now.

It’s not necessarily a life sentence, but it can be. I’ve been on medications. I’ve done years of therapy—CBT, psychologists, specialists. I’ve done all of it. I’ve worked hard to release the trauma stuck in my body that keeps dragging me back into the anxiety spiral.

And feeling like a burden? Jesus. I’ve pushed away good people because I didn’t want them to deal with me. Because I felt like I was ruining their lives just by needing reassurance. Just by needing someone to sit with me, to remind me to breathe, to tell me I’m not dying—that this will pass. The guilt is almost as bad as the anxiety. Sometimes worse.

Then comes the ‘hangover.’ Exhaustion so deep you feel it in your bones. The tears your body forces out because it’s so overstimulated it has to release something after an episode. The migraines. The muscle pain from holding so much tension during an attack that your body aches for days afterward.

This is what living with anxiety really feels like.

It’s relentless. It’s exhausting. But it’s real.