September through December are difficult times for me personally. The end of October and beginning of November are the worst. For thirty-four years, I’ve kept the demons at bay by ignoring them, but they are always close by, pushing for relevance in my life. One year ago, I began to confront them. One by one, they are having less relevance in my life and I am moving a little bit forward each day to find the better me.

It’s been a difficult journey so far and some days I’d like to quit. Right now, is genuinely the worst time in my life. I’ve fought many battles and had several victories, but, sometimes, like now, it’s hard to explain the gravity of what it is like to be me so that people can understand my struggle, my setbacks, my fears, and my successes. Unless they’ve been there, it’s difficult to see how a childhood of chaos sets into motion a life of uncertainty, fear, and turmoil.

It’s been a really long year. Sometimes, I hang on by a thread, knowing tomorrow will be a better day.

In January 2018, my editor moved my desk at work. I was secure where I was and my anxiety didn’t bother me too much. I was told if I didn’t like it I could move back, but my protestations have been met with silence or laughter. So, I sit in a high traffic area where I can no longer concentrate. I feel the quality of my work has diminished. That alone can raise anyone’s anxiety levels. For me, there are a dozen other things I’m battling in my head at the same time that I really didn’t need a thirteenth, but here I am, fighting it just the same.

The numerous interruptions per day makes it more difficult to control being overwhelmed with noise and people. I fight back tears of hopelessness at work. I write my stories in my car to avoid the constant din of inanity around me.

Confronting personal issues in addition to this forces me to pick my battles. The location of my desk is a battle I’ve chosen not to fight. As much as I try to avoid it, personal issues intrude on my work life. When you see me outside of my home, it is likely that something is breaking inside. My mind is as much on my work as it is on keeping the pieces together for as long as I’m with you.

I’m mentally exhausted every day. My mind spends every day obsessing over conversations I had, how I’m going to write my next story, and how I’m going to call someone on the phone for an interview. It is also trying to keep the things that gave me an ACEs score of seven and CPTSD from intruding into my life and taking over.

My mind is dark and conflicted. I am constantly writing stories in my head to keep the thoughts from my past from haunting the present, at least for a little while. When I get home, they churn in my head and remind me of some little thing I said or did that will make me think people believe me to be an idiot.

The battle is exhausting and it begins the moment I open my eyes each day. In order to sleep at night, I make up more stories in my head or take walks in my mind to calming and soothing places so I can fall asleep. I don’t sleep much. The nightmares and incidents of days gone by awaken me nearly every night. Sheer exhaustion allows the slumber I desire.

And so I write some more. The poetry sucks, but I post it publicly, opening myself to ridicule. I know what I’m getting myself into. Not everything I put down in ink sees the light of day, but it keeps me sane. The moment my mind wanders to something else, the thoughts of inadequacy and uselessness return.

I post stupid shit on my Facebook page, not as a way of getting compliments or accolades, but as a way of letting you know, this is what I’m feeling. This is me. This is what I’m going through. I don’t know how to deal with it right now, so I’m going to put something dumb online. I think I’m going to be okay.

The cards, the letters, the emails, and the phone calls are incredibly humbling and heartwarming. They always seem to come at my lowest point, lifting my spirits to keep on going. They also overwhelm me with a sense of responsibility that I feel I can never live up to. People let me know that what I do, what I write matters, at least in this little part of the planet. It at once makes me feel like I am worth something, have done something worthwhile and terrifies me because I don’t ever think what I write is good enough.

I have stopped reading my work once it’s been turned in. I rarely see what I write again until it is in print. I can’t control what happens to it once it’s done. It wasn’t always this way. While I am anxious to get everything right, I rarely have a piece turned back to me for corrections or to make it better. So the anxiety builds. I fear I got some minor detail wrong or missed a comma here and there. By turning it in and forgetting about it, I can reduce the anxiety a bit, but it never fully goes away.

That’s where the french fries, chocolate, and chocolate cake help. The people of this town are incredibly gracious and I am thankful for that. While I may be making a joke on the outside about how I received free french fries seven work days in a row, I’m really crying with gratitude and humbleness on the inside because, in that moment, I know I mattered to someone.

As my year anniversary passes and I struggle to get through the worst times and memories of my life, I will embark on new journeys, have new curve balls thrown my way – some at my head – and I will continue to struggle. This isn’t a short term issue. The last four months of the year will continue to arrive and my past will continue to attempt to wreak havoc on my present life. This will continue for a long while.

I hope that my friends can forgive the stupidity and idiocy of what I say and do. It truly is the best way I can explain to you what is happening in my life without breaking down in tears.

My life continues to be harder than I’d like it to be, but I have to keep moving forward. I’d prefer not to be on a path with Anxiety and CPTSD, but this is the life I was given. These are my endeavors. I fight to keep every moment of every day as sane as it can be. I still struggle to just be me.

When I lie to you and say I’m doing well, know that I’m always fighting on the inside to make it through another day. Be happy for me that I made it out of the house today, that I wrote another story, that I came to work, that I learned a new thing. If I tell you how I’m really feeling, know that is the most difficult thing I will do that day.

I have always found a way to be okay. Now, I’m finding a way to be better.