'I Got PTSD and Discovered the Truth About My Sexuality'

When I was 26, I thought that I had my life figured out.

I was enjoying city life in San Francisco, dining at delicious farm-to-table restaurants, having picnics with breath-taking views of the Golden Gate Bridge, going to happy hour nearly every night of the week with friends.

I fell in love for the first time with my then-boyfriend, and we shared a cozy 600-square-foot apartment together. I was living my best life.

But then I went through two experiences that shook me to my core.

On my way to the farmers' market one morning, I ran for my life as a man chased after me. I breathlessly screamed for help, hoping someone would hear me and come to my rescue, but there wasn't another soul in sight.

In survival mode, I jumped off the sidewalk and into the street, sprinting toward the first car I saw. Getting the driver's attention was enough to scare the chaser off, and I walked away from the experience untouched.

"Get over it," I told myself. "It's not that bad," I thought, forcing myself to move on.

Then, 18 months later, I witnessed my friend running out of a restaurant bathroom with tears streaming down her face after being drugged and sexually assaulted by a man that I knew.

What started out as an enjoyable evening of catching up over wine and snacks turned into a nightmare that I couldn't forgive myself for. I felt guilty for getting drunk, not being able to tell that my friend had been roofied, and for not stopping the assault.

I was also terrified: Being so close to what happened that night made me feel like it could have just as easily happened to me. And because I'd experienced sexual assault in college and had been violated by men on many other occasions, I felt like something similar would happen to me.

But it was my friend who suffered the assault, so I pushed my fears aside.

Shortly afterward, I went through some significant changes. I got married and moved out of the city, but I also became a person who was terrified of the world.

I never felt safe, even in my own home, and even with people I'd always felt safe with. Every time I heard an unexpected noise, like a knock on my front door, my heart would race, and I'd have visions of myself opening up the door and getting attacked.

I triple-checked my doors and windows to ensure they were locked at night, and I always carried around my portable alarm so I could instantly hit the panic button if I were attacked.

I started to suffer from severe anxiety and panic attacks, and I'd wake up, breathless, in sweat-drenched sheets after having a nightmare.

Little by little, these symptoms intensified, which ultimately made it impossible to work or sleep or do anything other than cry. I felt like I was losing my mind, and that my world was collapsing around me.

Desperate to find relief, I sought support from a psychologist and was diagnosed with PTSD when I was 28.

Living with PTSD is physically and emotionally draining, and terrifying. My symptoms consumed me, and it felt like my life was limited to my suffering. My fears controlled my actions, keeping me from going places, seeing people, and engaging in activities I'd once cherished.

And after having nightmares and intrusive thoughts about getting beaten or raped, I couldn't stand being touched by my husband. I questioned my identity and purpose, and I didn't have a clue who I was anymore.

At first, I thought this feeling of disconnection was because of my PTSD, since my psychiatrist had explained to me that loss of interest in things is a common depression symptom.

But even a year into my healing journey, when my trauma symptoms had softened and my depression had faded away, I still felt lost, and I was frustrated with myself. I had my life figured out. Why can't I go back to normal?

When my world shattered after trauma, I did my best to sweep up the pieces and restore what my life was before. Little did I know that this was an impossible task—I don't have the magical powers to go back in time to undo what I'd gone through.

My trauma changed my view of the world, and my life would never be the same as it once was. But as I continued healing and became more self-aware and emotionally intelligent, I learned that that isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Up until I was 29, I was moving through life making decisions based on what other people expected of me and what I believed I should be doing, ignoring my feelings and true desires.

I lost myself to trauma, but that loss turned out to be a gift: It gave me the opportunity to slow down, reflect, and rediscover myself.

Around the same time that I'd had nightmares about men coming to attack me, I started to have dreams about women bringing me pleasure. At first, I thought it was because of my trauma. Women just feel safer to me, I thought. It took months to work up the courage to bring up my sapphic fantasies in therapy, but once I did, we began exploring these feelings more.

A couple days after one of these therapy sessions, a memory from my adolescence resurfaced.

I'm around 12 years old, sitting on the floor of my friend's bedroom after soccer practice. We're giggling, and I have butterflies. Minutes later, my mom's waiting outside to drive me back home.

As I walk out of my friend's house to mom's car, I tell myself: "You just really like her as a friend." I was trying to talk myself out of having a crush on a girl.

Homophobia was still rampant when I grew up in the 90s and early 2000s, and I internalized it, holding the belief that being queer would make me unlovable, "uncool," or less of a person, so I didn't allow it to be an option for me.

More memories from my past continued to surface, and it became clear that queerness wasn't something new: It was always part of me, but I never felt safe enough to acknowledge it.

My trauma didn't make me queer, but healing from it did lead me to rediscover this piece of myself that I'd detached myself from.

Now, I'm 33, divorced, and madly in love with an incredible woman.

While I'll never be grateful for having experienced trauma or the pain I suffered as a result of it, I am grateful that healing has forged a new path back to myself—and that path has led me to find love and happiness greater than anything I'd imagined.

Madeline Popelka is the author of You're Going to Be Okay: 16 Lessons on Healing after Trauma. You can visit her website or follow her on Instagram @healingfromptsd.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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