Backpack of Stones: Navigating Trauma and CPTSD

Life with anxiety and trauma has weighed on me for decades.
I did it again—another oversight, another round of overdoing things for others, another name thrown my way to provoke the nastiness in me.

Amongst many things, it’s time to state the unashamed truth.

Borderline.
Not a disorder to be boxed on a chart, but a cross carved out of years of trauma, repeated abuse, and neglect — and then it rules. I fight a hundred battles in my head and heart every single day, each like a storm I cannot escape. Cumbersome is an understatement.

But still, I stand amongst it all.
I love.
I distance.
Not particularly in the same order.

For decades now, I’ve carried the weight: CPTSD. General anxiety disorder. Prominent anxiety that feels worse than a whirlwind. Major depressive disorder that never lets me go. Each day, a backpack of stones presses down on me, relentless and unyielding. Life with anxiety and trauma has shaped my thoughts, my heart, and every step I take.

I try. I’ve tried. For over four decades.
But the beams crush my soul, my body, my life. And to top it all — I do too much.

If Shiv Khera had to write it, it would be this: The Art of Doing Too Much. Even when thrown under ten years of garbage.

I’ve done therapy for over two decades. Some I’ve hated, some who helped. Both left their marks.

And all I need now is a place called home.
Not just four walls — but somewhere I can finally lay down the armour, set down the chains, and feel the real hurt instead of fighting it. Life with anxiety and trauma has followed me everywhere, but even a small safe space can ease the weight.

Happy are those who find love, in its most imperfect form. Not necessarily companionship, but respect. Someone who simply says —
“Hey, let me look for an auto for you while you’re running late.”

That’s all. The smallest gestures. The quietest mercies. The art of being seen.