As a survivor of childhood abuse at fourteen, I live every day with the weight of PTSD. The night terrors, the unrelenting horror, the sudden bursts of rage, and the scars etched across my body once consumed me entirely. Being neurodivergent, I never processed trauma the way others did. My mind held onto it differently—raw, unfiltered, and overwhelming. Over time I’ve learned to carry it rather than be devoured by it. Some days I wear an emotional mask so convincing that no one sees the storm inside. Other days the mask slips, and all that remains is my naked, unguarded truth. I live with it. And still—I survive.