Who Saves Us?
We are the head of the household.
We are the ones in charge.
We have the master keys.
We are the fixers.
We speak an unspoken language. Trauma doesn’t feel traumatic. We learned to anticipate needs in dangerous environments. We have been through a fire that changed us. Others scattered, and we stitched ourselves back together. We are proud to talk about our battle scars.
We don’t ask for help — we provide it. Or, maybe we’ve been carrying the responsibility for so long that we don’t know how to ask for help. For us to ask for help is to, by proxy, say, “I can’t do my job.” The consequences can be detrimental. It shouldn’t have to be.
So, how do we ask for help? How do we save ourselves — how do we save each other? And….what is our moral responsibility to help others?
What happened?
A lot. I was a different type of first responder. I was an essential worker holding two visible positions. I thought my purpose was to help others. Unbeknownst to me, the sacrificial lens through which I saw life filled a void in my heart of childhood wounds. The abuse endured resulted in Stockholm syndrome, which lasted far too long into adulthood. Spending decades in Stockholm left me with psychological shackles that boxed me in.
If I can veer off course for a moment - it’s important to go back. Because despite this structural foundation, in my heart, I knew good existed. A friend brought me to church in high school. I was mesmerized as I listened to biblical stories for the first time. I saw families sitting together at mass. I saw the devotion of wives and husbands. I was determined to go to a Catholic college and become Catholic. My faith was the size of a mustard seed.
Upon graduation, I was forced to work for my biological mother and attend community college. On weekends, I drove up to visit friends and experienced a morsel of college life. The following year, I was granted permission to go away. I enrolled at the only college I ever visited. To me it was freedom.
The years were transformative. I joined a sorority, worked on and off campus, and made cherished friends. I kept my promise and completed the RCIA program. After I graduated, I returned to Stockholm. The financial purse strings kept me on a tight leash.
I scrimped and saved. Once I had permission to leave, I rented an apartment with a roommate in the city. I had a futon mattress and a self-assembled vanity made of “is this wood or wood particles?” I slept on the floor until I saved enough to purchase a bed. Then, two small dressers. Seven years of working full-time and part-time later - I made the commitment and bought a condo. Shortly after moving in, I witnessed a crime that terrified me to stay. I rented out the condo and relocated. Then the market crashed, my income plummeted, and I went through a short sale. I moved back to Stockholm.
Stay with me.
I was 31 and lost. I reached out to an old friend. I remembered he wore a necklace that was similar to a cross, given to him after attending a high school retreat. He spoke highly of the retreat experience. I wondered if an adult version existed. He connected me to a mutual friend who directed a retreat for high school juniors and seniors. There wasn’t an adult retreat, but chaperones were needed for the high school model. In April of 2010, I went on my first retreat. I listened to teenagers talk like teenagers about life, prayer, and God. I heard the good, the bad, and the ugly. It impacted me profoundly. I felt the call.
The time away was an eye-opener. It gave me insight into what I didn’t have - what I never had. After the high of the retreat faded, I fell into a deep depression. I contacted a psychiatrist. When I walked into the appointment, I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t articulate that both parents were harming me. I still can’t comprehend it. The doctor started me on an antidepressant.
My friends were paired off and married - yet I couldn’t afford to keep a roof over my head. Regardless of the punches thrown at me, I diligently built up savings, got my footing, and moved into a sweet little coach house close to the church. It needed a substantial amount of TLC. It spoke to me and was a way to live in a highly coveted area.
A year later, the neglected space wasn’t feeling like a home. I found an apartment in the city. When I showed up, it was in terrible condition. I put my personal things into storage and moved back to Stockholm. My biological mother and her husband were both miserable upon my arrival. His abusive behavior escalated. In 2012, I was assaulted — in Stockholm. My mother turned a blind eye. I threw some clothes into a laundry basket and fled to my grandmother’s house. The same month, my position was eliminated by my employer. What a time.
I found a new job in a heartbeat. I continued working full and part-time, too stunned to report what happened. Doctors were aware and prescribed pills to numb the pain, as I overworked to my detriment.
Sometimes, when tragedy strikes, we tell ourselves a version of what happened to make sense of what we cannot. The story I told myself (and others) was that I was helping my grandmother. She needed me. The truth was - I needed her. She rescued me. She was more than a grandmother; she was a mother. She was of the silent generation and reacted the way she knew; we didn’t talk about it. I slept on a cot in the spare bedroom for over a year. I nestled in, and though I had little, I had solace.
I immersed myself in the comfort that the church’s community offered. Still at my Yia Yia’s, I was passed the baton to direct the program. The people and the program filled a hole in my heart for not having a nuclear family.
A year later, I started working for a hospital (in addition to directing retreats) as an administrative assistant. I wasn’t a doctor, I wasn’t a nurse, I wasn’t an EMT. I supported visionary leaders of a high-functioning department as a behind-the-scenes first responder. The doctors were my “customers.” Trauma and death were a part of daily life. I walked past the morgue daily. I placed purchase order requisitions for fresh-frozen cadaver bodies. I witnessed advanced trauma training programs. If you asked me back then, I didn’t have any trauma in my life. That’s how normalized it was.
As a patient, the bigger picture started to get complicated. I aligned my medical care to be on-site. I brought a tiny shopping bag filled with orange and white pill bottles to my first appointment with a primary care doctor. I placed the bag on the counter and firmly expressed wanting to be taken off the medications. The doctor dismissed it. Later that year, I started seeing a psychologist.
Then, I met a man. We dated for less than a year. I didn’t see the sea of red flags; I was medicated and wholly unaware. No doctor provided resources. A police report wasn’t filed. When the relationship ended, I felt relief mixed with heartbreak. I asked for a referral to see a psychiatrist. I was told I had to be suicidal to see one at the hospital. Why is that? Why do we not take care of our people? Put a pin in that, and I’ll get back to it later.
Houston has a problem. I was an employed patient, exposed to trauma daily. I had been in a DV relationship, and no doctor stepped in. I was estranged from my father; no doctor thought to bring that up. I shouldn’t have had to wait. I had been exhibiting suicidal ideations (SI) for years. The iron mask I wore fooled even me.
Get ready to meet Dr. S. Please note — this is a traumatic medical share, and you may want to skip it if it is triggering.
(Let the record show that Dr. S continues to practice medicine, and the title Doctor indicates a professional who took a Hippocratic oath, not evidence of her skillset.)
Foremost in my mind, again, I wanted to know why I was taking any medications at all. I described how I did not remember much before college (this is a textbook response to trauma). Dr. S said the social collegiate years, when I flourished, were a three-year episode of mania. I was disheartened. To hear that the last time I remembered feeling happy was a time that wasn’t real (when it was), and to be told it was mania (which it wasn’t) spun me. I was misdiagnosed as manic depressive and prescribed a tsunami of antidepressants, pain relievers, and sedatives. The side effects muted the fear, which allowed me to work.
I talked a great deal about my job at the church. It wasn’t a job; it was a part of me. It’s tattooed on my heart. I ran a unique version, adapted from those run by private schools and other parishes. All faiths were welcome. Providing a place for kids to talk about God or to be together in an environment that was holy or as close to it as possible gave me a sense of purpose. It was a vocation. It was a call I answered with wild abandon. As the years passed by, the program gained popularity. After the breakup, I added a summer retreat to address the waitlist. I was determined to have something good come out of something unfortunate.
That fall, my father died unexpectedly and traumatically. This was monumental: we were estranged for life. I walked into Dr. S’s office, hyperventilating. She wasn’t fazed. “Father” was an avoided topic. When the psychologist tried to bring it up, I shook my head: this topic was a dark hole, and the mere mention of the F word had my throat feel like it was closing.
Our relationship was a festering wound I lived with. What was there to say? My father abandoned me at birth and throughout my life. I was shaken with grief. When he passed, his absence was blanketed over in the pile o’trauma, and ignored. The “where is her father” parts of my life became a catchall space for what doesn’t have a place. Soon, the space became filled with what was too painful to unpack. When others said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” I cut them off and said, “It’s ok — we weren’t close”. I was in utter denial. I didn’t want sympathy. I didn’t want to acknowledge it.
To cope, I overworked. I was promoted to be a salaried employee. I wasn’t paid the proper increase earned. Shortly after the promotion, a federal law was passed regarding reclassifying hourly employees. I was told I was back to an hourly role. I was grieving and not in any condition to advocate. I told Dr. S about the changes at work. She misdiagnosed me as unipolar, prescribed a mood stabilizer, and sent me to get clearance from an Audiologist. She said I was in a hostile environment and should report the department administrator to HR. That did not go well.
In mid-2018, I was recruited within the hospital system based on my ability to onboard doctors and the trusted relationships formed with heavily guarded departments. The department I was in was a branch of the system that allowed me to learn onboarding from a different vantage point. I was bypassed by HR, slated into an existing job description, given a new title, and pressed to start at a fragile time. I was told the salary differential was too big a jump from where I was. I received a small bump in pay, nowhere near the level I earned. The increase allowed me the ability to relocate closer to the church. I wanted a better quality of life (air conditioning and parking were two luxuries I didn’t have). My rent skyrocketed by 75%. My commute time doubled. I timed it all to coincide with hosting a retreat. I woke up the morning after the retreat ended. I was depleted. I physically couldn’t move.
I started the new job. In this new position, I wasn’t using my skills. My strengths were in process improvement, performance initiatives, resource optimization, and streamlining operations for efficiency. In short, I got the job done with the tools I had.
I was accustomed to walking, talking, moving, helping, and being with people. My routine became primarily data entry. I went from having a private office to sharing a small room with two others and storage. I was used to being on my feet. Now, I was sedentary. As I acclimated, I saw my work created a fourth silo of quadruplicating information. The departments responsible for collecting highly confidential data were already doing so. If I could see that my position was unnecessary, it would not take long before leadership would.
My health deteriorated fast. I initiated intermittent FMLA. That summer, Dr. S prescribed double my dose of Xanax in error. The pharmacy filled it, and I took it without realizing it. At almost every appointment in therapy and with Dr. S, I said, “I feel overmedicated. I don’t want to be here”. Dr. S treated me like a sadistic science experiment.
In December 2018, I directed a particularly stressful retreat where I leaned heavily on Xanax. When an older student pointed out his concern — that kids were saying, “I think she needs another Xan” I was deeply concerned. I brought that to Dr. S. I asked to be admitted to detox. Dr. S held a bed and sent me back to work. I continued to skate through my days.
At a leadership meeting, I learned that a relatively new department wanted to create a database to serve as “one source of truth.” This database would create a fifth silo and was wildly unnecessary. I brought what I tracked to the head of the department. I was asked to write a job description. I was told I would interview for it after it was approved. I wrote the job description. I hung onto the opportunity and told myself I could stick it out.
As the pills and stress compounded, so did the migraines I suffered with for decades. I initiated another round of intermittent FMLA. I underwent unnecessary procedures. I scheduled a spinal fusion surgery to address the unresolved pain. At the pre-op appointment, my (usually abnormal) EKG reflected signs of myocardial ischemia (essentially, a heart attack). I was given an order for a stress test to get clearance. I canceled the surgery.
No one sent me to the ED.
I started in the new department, having never interviewed for it. As I was being trained, I saw that:
We weren’t following the policies and procedures.
The position I was in was unnecessary.
I didn’t have the qualifications to be in it.
The department was savage. I was logging 12-hour days, holed up in a dark office with an antiquated computer, not given the required software, and not paid anywhere near the level of my peers. The medications had me doped up, struggling to keep my eyes open during the day. At night, I was wired from stress and not sleeping. As my sole source of income, I was unable to leave.
Dr. S started referring to me as “Project Lisa.” She said we had to meet bi-weekly. We met before working hours when the staff was not on-site. I dovetailed. One day, I wasn’t feeling well, and I asked to leave early and work from home. On the way home, I fell asleep at the wheel on the expressway and crashed into a truck. An angel was looking out for me that day: no one was injured other than me. Some days change your life, as if there was before this and after.
After the accident, my depth perception felt off balance. I called 911. The location of the accident was just outside the city limits. There was a staffing shortage for law enforcement. I was told to call back after an hour if an officer hadn’t arrived. When I called back, I was told to leave if I felt like I could drive. I called the department director, and Dr. S. I burst into tears as I explained the accident.
No one addressed or followed up after the accident. No one gave me the resources to understand impaired driving/fatigued driving.
A month later, I met with a Neurologist on-site for a second opinion. She documented concern, outlined medication adjustments she wanted to see, and confirmed that the medicines likely caused the accident. I told her I voiced the same concern to the doctors. The Neurologist looked at me, somewhat horrified. I couldn’t see the severity of the state I was in.
I asked Dr. S to look at the notes from the Neurologist. I received no response. I again told the psychologist and Dr. S that I wanted a second opinion. The psychologist encouraged me. Dr. S said I could go elsewhere, but said I wasn’t taking that many medications, and any other doctor would likely use more polypharmacy. I felt defeated. I said to the psychologist, “I guess I will keep taking these meds and hope I don’t overdose.” The psychologist looked at me with sincere fear. This was a time to sound the alarm.
Four months after the accident, I directed a retreat and barely slept. I got home, went to sleep, and woke up delusional. I drove to work at 6:30 P.M., on autopilot, thinking it was 6:30 A.M. Managers/doctors were aware of a second case of impaired driving. This was a time to step in.
I told the students about the accident; I didn’t tell the pastor. When we met, he said he thought the program was getting too big for me. It was. Kids were talking about heavy topics, and I was alone. I compared it to the first rule of medicine, ‘Do no harm.’ He tried to help me see I needed a break. He was right; I did need a break, but the absence of a retreat would let down the community. Kids needed more care, and so did I. The decision to pause the Spring 2020 retreat was made for me. I felt like I was cancelling Christmas. I didn’t know how I would resurrect the program, by myself, after this. He said I had to take care of myself. What did that mean? I brought that to the doctors — I even Googled it. Wish I were joking.
Back at the hospital, I was told the job I started six months ago was too big to be approved; only two others system-wide held the title. In hindsight, it is impressive that I got myself there under the circumstances. My title and manager benefits were stripped. I was back to working in an hourly role. I continued to work 12-hour days. The department director removed all OT. My timecard wasn’t approved twice, and I had to wait until the next pay period. I was sinking, asking those in positions of power for help, and being grossly ignored.
With the retreat on pause, I met with a fertility specialist. I thought this was my last chance to explore what options existed. I stopped the process of IVF. It was more important to get to a baseline before taking more medications. Dr. S knew about these appointments and my desire to be a mother.
Then, along with the rest of the world, we took a long pause. I was isolated, quarantined, in a tiny studio apartment. Then, my paternal grandfather passed away. This was enormous. One month later, the unexpected death of a close cousin blindsided me. He was more than a cousin. There was talk that he could be my father. There was no time taken off for bereavement. Dr. S didn’t address either loss or the horror of a question mark regarding my lineage. The following month, I had my last appointment with Dr. S, and that was that. Two weeks later, the psychologist I worked with for five years resigned and moved out of state.
Without a psychiatrist or a psychologist, I was afraid I was going to overdose. I contacted an old primary care doctor who was dual-boarded in internal medicine and psychiatry. For his privacy, I will call him “Dr. McSaved.” He listened. He explained the process of weaning off medications would be uncomfortable and could take years. I was afraid for job security, and hospitals were at capacity. I began detoxing at home, one pill at a time, a joyride of terror.
In October 2020, I was still detoxing, and I tested positive for COVID-19. I continued working in a department that took “toxic” to the extreme. The head of the department forwarded me a hospital wellness email with a note, “I think you need a psychiatrist.” The irony. I visited the ED after 12 days of having a fever. My potassium levels were low; otherwise, I was discharged. Two days later, I hit my breaking point. I called the department director, sobbing. The director conferenced in the head of the department, who said, “I don’t want to be responsible for your meltdown.” Sounds to me like someone had familiarity with what a meltdown looked like…but…just a silver siren’s speculation.
I initiated a three-week catastrophic leave. I was told I had to work until it was approved. That’s not how FMLA works. I was told I had to get a flu shot. I was threatened with the risk of not complying with my employment. I dragged myself to the pharmacy to get the flu shot. Hand to God, I still remember how difficult it was. I needed help. I did not need a flu shot. When asked, “Do you have kids?” I wrote on the paperwork, “No, but I wish.” My penmanship was evidence of how scrambled my brain was.
I returned to work on a reduced schedule the week of Thanksgiving. I intended to rebuild the bandwidth through the holidays and then get back full-time. Two weeks later, I fainted, my face hit the floor, and a concussion had me projectile vomiting. By the grace of God, I fell mere feet from my bed. I couldn’t stand. My cell phone happened to be on top of a blanket. I could reach the blanket. I pulled it down and called 911.
When the paramedics arrived, the firefighter yelled from the other side and asked if I could get to the door and unlock it. I couldn’t raise my head. He said he’d have to knock down the drywall to unlock the door. A few whacks of a sledgehammer later, I was surrounded by firemen (LOVE that journey for me). I was put on a gurney.
*I reflect on this moment often. As suicidal as I was, I burst into tears and exclaimed, “I don’t want to die!” It gave me a new perspective to know that when death was knocking at my door, my innermost voice vocalized loudly - that I wanted to live. I hold tight to that.
I let the department director know I was in the ED. The director did not share my absence, so it appeared to colleagues that I intentionally skipped the morning meeting. Meanwhile, in the ED, I asked the attending doctor to transfer me to “my hospital”. When I needed emergent health care, the place and space I devoted myself to for years refused the transfer. With my knowledge of healthcare and living alone, I knew I couldn’t be alone. I asked to spend a night in observation. I was transferred to another hospital. I was discharged the following day, and told the fainting was likely a side effect of the withdrawals. My absence was pointed out in front of colleagues the next business day: “It’s a shame you weren’t there.”
On New Year’s Eve, the department director said I needed a return-to-work letter before Monday. I had plenty of leave left by law. But I was alone, medically suffering, without guidance. FMLA paid a percentage of my paycheck. As my sole source of income, I had to try. Upon return, I could sense the tension with colleagues. I asked for the grace to move within the institution. The director jumped and offered a separation agreement or a PIP.
I was a top performer; there was no justification for a PIP. I submitted ADA accommodation paperwork. I didn’t even know what ADA was. The paperwork was approved. When I met with HR, I was asked if I felt pressure to offer to move. I said, “100%, yes.” I was told to stand by for an update. When I met with HR again, instead of hearing the accommodation, I was given an aggressive mutual agreement and told it was best for everyone (it was not for Project Lisa). The department director admitted to HR that she thought something else was happening. She was right; I was a patient who needed care. The leave administrator said she had seen a lot of things in her day, but “this takes the cake.”
What is unfortunate is that as this took place, I was being treated by a psychologist whose area of expertise was interpersonal violence. The intertwined events of violations and malpractice resulted in an all-consuming shattering. Do not underestimate the power of institutional betrayal. The events certainly did take the cake.
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I thought I was fine. I told myself I didn’t want to be where I wasn’t wanted. I was still detoxing and barely getting out of bed. My cousin invited me to get away up north for a long weekend. Maybe the fresh air and Mother Nature would be medicinal.
Once away, the silence was deafening. I heard the wind. I saw swans flying in the air. After a few days, I couldn’t stop shaking. I wasn’t fine. I called my doctor, who gave me the name of a PHP/IOP program. I flew home. I went through a quick intake and started the 28-day program for PTSD/Trauma.
I didn’t know what a PHP/IOP was. I didn’t know what insurance would cover. I could barely drive myself there. Those 28 days were revealing. Each day, I would get dressed, leave my apartment, and attend 3 to 5 hours of what felt like “therapy school.” I was grouped with adult men and women of various backgrounds. The commonality we shared was that we all experienced the tipping point and were in a similar program. We sat in masks on the ground, spaced six feet apart. Each day consisted of 2–3 modules or cohorts, each focused on a different tool for coping. The time was a tourniquet.
Where had this been all of my life? Why did I have to wait to go through a partial hospitalization program to learn tools that were life-changing? Why was this information hidden behind decades of time, chronic pain, unnecessary medical treatments, the cost that had burdened me for life, and a tsunami of prescriptions? Why keep such a secret? The skills learned should be a resource that is taught and normalized for everyone.
In April 2021, I was diagnosed with complex PTSD and missed ADHD (both of which Dr. S specialized in and missed). I began working with a psychologist, whom I’ll refer to as “Dr. Got-To-The-Crux.” We met twice weekly. I spent six months in physical therapy for fainting and six months in vision therapy for depth perception imbalances. I combined Eastern and Western medicine to repair what traditional medicine left in shambles. I worked exclusively with independent practitioners. I utilized a holistic, integrated treatment approach (electroacupuncture, fire cupping, somatic massage, and infrared sauna). I saw a shaman. I saw a medium. This recipe for healing took years, but when the pain goes to the soul, that’s what it takes.
When I attempted EMDR, the doctor said I had the most adverse childhood experiences (ACEs) of all the patients she worked with. I was told to continue to work with a psychologist and return in a year. I never did make it to EMDR.
In December 2021, with dwindling savings, I had to try to return to the workforce. I found a low-level admin position working with nature—a perfect combination to ease back into the workforce. Just before I started, my grandmother started ailing. She wasn’t just my grandmother; she was my best friend. In February 2022, the most important person in my world passed traumatically. Three weeks later, I was discharged - told it wasn’t a fit. This round of rock ’em sock ’em robots took me out.
Her death splintered the family tree like a bolt of lightning. I was on an island of uno. I couldn’t file with the EEOC or talk to a lawyer. I could barely function. Without a job to distract my mind, I spiraled. Without my Yia Yia, I was lost. I filed the Big B, then the Big D. I circled the drain for the better part of two years. I don’t remember much of either.
One night, as the end of 2024 drew near, I prayed — God, if I lived, I would join a gym and dedicate myself to wellness. The next day, I signed up. I didn’t have the money but needed to invest what I had left in myself. PS No regrets.
Without the meds weighing me down, I was bursting with energy. I went faithfully. Just before New Year’s Eve, while on the Stairmaster, I felt the rush of endorphins break through the helmet of prescriptions. I contacted an old friend in law enforcement and asked to meet. I showed up slightly chubby, flushed, sweaty, with scabbed-over knuckles from punching the bag the day prior (note — wrap your hands).
My friend was seasoned with many years in the field. He knew me from my childhood. When he asked what was going on, I boiled over the timeline of what I could remember: the medications, the doctors, the accident, the flashbacks, etc. He listened. He was cautious when he tried to help me see the parental neglect. This was more than parental neglect. This was a lifetime of neglect by people, institutions, organizations, and doctors.
I started to cry. I asked him, “What’s it all for? What’s it all about?” He offered to get help. I didn’t want tangible help—I didn’t want one more doctor to assess me and wince while listening. I wanted a concrete reason. I wanted to understand. If God is good, all the time, and if I have lived my life faithfully, steadfast, and remained a God-fearing, praying woman, then why did this happen?
I left the police district feeling lighter, until the reality of the negligence tipped me over, just as he warned me he didn’t want that to happen. Getting my bearings felt like trying to light a candle in a hurricane. I had to find my inherent value within. It was an undertaking. My friend listened to my recollections for years as I pieced together my past. He fielded random questions regarding the law. His patience was a voluntary warm line of digital support. He should have gotten overtime for it. He didn’t have to help. His kindness was one I’ll remember. It is part of how we save each other.
In January 2023, a slightly stronger version of myself met with a county court advocate. We were in a shared office space. A familiar accent came on over the speakerphone, similar to those at the hospital that caused harm. My body began involuntarily shaking with a visceral reaction. I couldn’t compose myself to return. I had more than complex PTSD; this was PTSD/i as an injury. I said I wanted to file an order of protection against those at the hospital. The advocate said my situation was so unique and outside her training. If the county court advocate didn’t have the training, who did? I felt helpless. I never returned.
In March 2023, I started working with a medical director whose approach differed from traditional primary care. After months in the gym without results, I took a chance. The director monitored my progress with hormone replacement therapy, routine bloodwork, peptide and vitamin supplementation, and prescription weight loss. I signed up with a trainer and implemented weight training. The combo was an elixir.
In June 2023, two and a half years after working with a vision specialist, I was told I had binocular vision after the car accident. A missed TBI. He said that although my vision has improved, I can drive, but my eyes will never see how they did before the accident.
In November 2023, I met with a cardiologist to follow up on years of symptoms. He said my EKG reads normal, and the fainting spells and abnormal EKG were known side effects of the medications I took for years. Good to know.
In December 2023, Dr. McSaved said the hope would be that I would return to work. That was a gut punch. I worked two jobs for most of my career. Working was my thing. I was in my 40s - this was the time all my hard work was supposed to pay off. This was my peak time for flourishing professionally - I thought. In reality, for me, life hadn’t even begun.
Although I was working, I wasn’t living. I was jumping from job to job, apartment to apartment, uprooting myself, racing on a hamster wheel, and not wanting to admit the lack of support. Were the best of my years behind me? Had I peaked? Would I live off disability and in neglected apartments for the rest of my life?
In February 2024, I saw a job opening for a part-time position as an early morning front desk attendant at a local park district. I had experience in the field. I had to be dressed, ready, on-site, and in person at 4:45 am daily. The divine timing of my predecessor’s retirement was an alignment. I needed a reason to get out of bed to fight. I needed to be held responsible in a way that didn’t allow me to pull the covers over my head and give up. When I was offered it, I said yes without hesitation.
As the months passed, the adjustment was a challenge. I was exhausted. Every emotion was raw and prickled daily. Still, I kept on showing up. I worked on my birthday. I worked every holiday. I worked on my disability hearing date. I worked during traumatic events because I needed the space to be somewhere other than in my head. I picked up as many shifts as I could just to make rent. I continued to interview and apply for jobs. Behind the scenes, I was depleted. For the first 6 months, I stopped working out. I slept 12 hours a day. I was terrified that what doctors and attorneys had told me about working was true.
The fear that I live with is a feeling that may never go away. Once you’ve been pushed off the ledge, it leaves behind a wound. Even though the wound stopped bleeding, the scar is a memory of the cruelty that leaves an imprint.
But back to work - my days consisted of opening up a 100,000-square-foot facility. I ran a tight ship. Serving the public is not for the faint of heart. Swapping my suit and heels for yoga pants and sneakers was profound. The time was a personal boot camp and a professional trampoline. Much like the stories you read where CEOs pose as the average patron in plain clothes to gauge customer service accurately, working as merely a front desk attendant was insightful. I saw true colors. It was a humbling experience. It reminded me of my capacity and helped me build trust. Taking a graceful pause to heal was worth it.
Back to saving myself -
In August 2024, I started to watch pets on-site for supplemental income. As much as I was hustling, I could only hustle so much. In October 2024, I started a GoFundMe. It felt like social suicide, but I felt like I lost everyone and didn’t have a choice. A friend read my story. She was so moved that she found a room and paid for 3 months of rent. I still remember where I was when she sent me a message. I still can’t get over the generosity. I’m still determined to pay her back, despite her not wanting me to.
Just before Thanksgiving, I moved into an Airbnb room to stay close to work, determined. Then I fell on the staircase inside the house. I heard a voice that said, “You need to find somewhere else to live.” Where was I going to go? I fell three more times. The last was on the ice outside. When two long-term overnight pet-sitting jobs fell into my lap, I took that as a liferaft and booked a motel room to fill in the gaps.
As much as I admire my hyperindependence, in reality, I needed an anchor. When {redacted for self-protection} saw the severity of the situation, {redacted} and {redacted} opened their home to me. At first, I didn’t respond. I was in denial; it got to this point. I swallowed my pride and took up the offer. I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want to put these wonderful people in this position. I was the rock. I was relied on. But as people reminded me, even Jesus had disciples.
In the years of research, the most important lesson I learned is that we need each other. You can drive yourself into the ground by striving to be the strongest, the most resilient, the biggest, the best, the toughest, the most bad-a**, the superhero - but it comes at a cost, it takes years off your life. I nestled in at {undisclosed location that shall remain private} - and the experience has been eye-opening. I’m supposed to expose myself to healthy family dynamics, but doing so comes with a complex grief of acceptance - I’m witnessing a life I didn’t have, and a life I never will have. I’m not jealous - but it does pluck a chord of sadness. Every joyful moment is accompanied by a “visible-to-me-only” reaper of a reminder.
I spent 14 months as a “gym girl.” I needed time. Titles come with glitz, glam, and often a hefty price tag of pressure. Gym girl was one of the most challenging jobs I’ve held. It’s not because my duties required strategic thinking. It’s because I was working with variables I couldn’t control: a heightened sensitivity to sound, the social pressure in a position of service, and I felt like I was walking a tightrope. Tax dollars paid my salary, and I knew that. People also came to me with highly confidential, medical, personal, and private matters. These same people saw me daily and wanted to get to know me.
Who was this silver-haired woman, and why was she putting herself through the morning shift?
I’ll tell you why. I needed a reason. I needed a routine. I needed a shock to my system. I needed to strip away everything that I could give to another and remember my values. No shortcuts. No favors. I needed to rebuild and find my way back, my way. I might be “from the North Shore,” but I grew up poor and busted my behind. My structural foundation did anything but set me up for success. I was sabotaged, weaponized, abused, and left to process, heal, and rebuild.
I learned a lot in the 14 months. I realized I was the most productive when I was on my feet. I became the strongest, thinnest, and fittest since junior high. The sickest time of my life was when I was sedentary at a hospital, medicated. I did well on paper: I had two jobs, a clean apartment {decorated so sweetly}, I was organized, I drove a nice car {maintained and in excellent condition}. I paid my bills, maxed my retirement, and lived independently. I devoted my life to others. I wore a heavy crown of responsibility, which filled my heart. In reality, the weight was slowly killing me. What do you do when what you love is hurting you?
Working without the muting relief from medications in an environment with overwhelming acoustics was, at times, an overload for my nervous system. Waves of impatient people would arrive, and I could feel the energy. There was no office door to close for privacy, and I couldn’t put on headphones to focus. Physically, I preferred to stand during my shift, which helped my muscles stay loose.
Today, I am proud to act like the mother who would have protected me. I am tenacious; I value integrity and honor. I have a newfound appreciation for safety and situational awareness. I am building assertiveness and establishing boundaries. Spiritually, my intuition is firing on all pistons. I can read a room. I feel energy in ways that spook me at times. The lessons in repairing have been enlightening. I am finding my way. I’m still sprinting towards God.
Today, I am in a new arena, navigating the aftermath in a season of preparation.
Medically, I am told I am lucky to be alive and have cheated death multiple times. I have a small circle of trusted support. I continue to work with Dr. Got-To-The-Crux. She helped me access and unpack what I thought was vaulted shut. Dr. McSaved is still my guy — he left primary care and opened up an independent private psychiatry practice. I credit this man for saving my life.
What about the pills? Dr. McSaved was right; it took years to get to a baseline. I went off every prescription written by every doctor at the hospital and the neurologist. I am clear-eyed and focused. The answer to the million-dollar question I kept asking was, “What were the pills masking?” The answer — repressed abuse.
What about the migraines? Without the pills, the stress of two jobs, and being away from those who hurt me, they stopped—decades of debilitating pain — gone.
Why share such a deeply personal story? I spent years listening to others, trying to find a commonality to ensure I wasn’t alone. There had to be someone. It kept me going. What I found was fiery perseverance and grit. Those who resonated after reading healed wounds. It helped me realize mine was one to share as it evolves. It’s a reminder that we all have a story worth hearing. When you lose it all, the truth becomes a smoke signal.
For policymakers: This lived experience addresses where protective measures are still needed. This case can change the statutes of limitations. This is a first-hand account of why it takes decades to report repressed abuse and the challenges survivors face. Mine is a story of how broken the system is and how we can change it.
For lawyers: Project Lisa is ready to take on a modern-day David vs. Goliath — and she’s got plenty of evidentiary support.
For parents, family, and friends: Often, the black sheep of a family is speaking the truth. Support your loved ones by encouraging police reports to be made despite timelines. Break the wheel. Validate, encourage, embrace, and listen. It’s uncomfortable but worth it.
For law enforcement: Statistics are only as accurate as they are after reports have been made. My community had so many potholes. I was knocking on the right doors, but was told my story was unbelievable.
For survivors of abuse: Trust your intuition, listen to your inner voice. Help is out there. Keep seeking. Don’t stop. You deserve to be safe.
My testimony: I broke the wheel with a sledgehammer of faith. I found solace and purpose in the church without a blueprint or map. I was devoted to walking the straight and narrow. I wanted to be a pillar of strength and a role model for others. Did I make mistakes? You bet I did. I’m human. I walked the walk for as long as possible, asking, “What would Jesus Do?”
Jesus sat with the broken.
Jesus taught us to turn the other cheek.
Jesus taught us to pray for those who persecute us.
Jesus flipped tables when he saw wrongs.
Jesus taught us to forgive.
Jesus taught us to love.
Despite what I have been through, I’m committed to living with integrity, educating others, and forgiving what I cannot understand. Some things are stored in a box marked “beyond my capacity.” I love in the ways I know how - and I am always learning.
For the religious community: Walk the walk, talk the talk, take what brings you together, and do good.
For my students, and their families: I still believe in the indescribable comfort that follows when surrendering to a higher power. I believe in God now more than ever. I value a holy space to retreat to when we cannot understand. There is a time for a doctor, a time for prayer, and a time for the police. Please take care of one another.
If you want to move a mountain, don’t be surprised when God hands you a shovel. Be with people you can take the mask off with. Be with people who want more for you. Be with people who will support you when you’re soaring the mountaintops or in a valley. Find what brings you happiness. I found it when I worked with the church. I learned lessons and formed values from the kids and their families. The years changed the trajectory of my life, and I am a better woman because of it. Was I taken advantage of? Yes. Was I also saved? Yes. Both can be true. The family that came from me is what I see when I see former students. I am proud to see each living through the beautiful and the broken, staying faithful, and being kind.
For Hospital leadership: This was a preventable situation. Assess positions regularly. Educate those in positions of power on what happens when you violate patient and employment rights. Learn about psychological safety. Understand where you are susceptible to risk. Create safe places. Your employees are your greatest assets. As an institution, you can implement change.
For Doctors: A certificate of medical malpractice insurance is issued to each physician because it is not a question of if but of when it will be needed. Making mistakes is a part of practicing medicine. Doctors spend limited time interacting with patients. Continuing Medical Education (CME) is mandated to keep licensure. Morbidity and Mortality case rounds are conducted to educate. Doctors collaborate and unpack cases like these to ask what was done right, what was missed, and what can be done in the future.
Fifty-five doctors treated me over 6 years. Many failed, but the treatment by Dr. S is disturbing.
We never talked about the role of a father, the loss of a father, his willful absence, his responsibilities, and the lasting impact a father’s absence has on a woman’s life. The topics of trauma, abuse, complex grief, death, suicidal ideations, boundaries, alternative forms of coping, child maltreatment, CSA, and DV were never discussed. We never discussed drug interactions. Dr. S suggested TNS shock therapy at one point, which I said no to. I believe Dr. S’s treatment was criminal. IDFPR did an investigation, but I wasn’t surprised when the complaint was referred for closure by the Medical Board, as my medical chart had been tampered with.
For the community: It’s not a matter of if you have the privilege — it’s a matter of what you will do with it. Do good with who and what you know. There are people in your backyard who need help. We tell ourselves, “We have problems; programs are underutilized. She needs to save herself.” You’re right — the number of existing programs is vast. Resources overlap. It’s overwhelming to sort through alone. By the time help reaches the person in need, it’s too late.
When we hear devastating news, we often shield our eyes because we have a threshold and a limit. We offer an encouraging text, chat, or phone call. We say a prayer. We send a card. We send a gift. We do what we can. Then, we keep going for self-preservation. We focus on the positive. Heartbreak leaves us helpless. Subconsciously, we ask ourselves, “Where was I? Did I see signs? Did I have a responsibility?”
In the middle of the healing, my dear friend said, “Mi casa es su casa.” It was the first time the phrase was said to me, versus hearing it in a movie. It was an ointment for my heart. This is a chapter. Some of the best days are yet to come. On the other side — I will have a home of my own, a haven filled with peace. There will be a dining table to gather around. There will be celebrations. There will be deep conversations that leave us enlightened. The holidays will be celebrated with gusto. Traditions will start. It’s never too late. When you walk into my home, you’ll feel the spiritual energy of good karma and warm juju.
What’s next? I’m determined to start a nonprofit to educate after years of research/healing.
For you: You might need help and not even know it. Don’t numb the pain. Don’t run from it or avoid it. Don’t just “leave it at work”. Don’t wait until you’re suicidal. For years, I was and didn’t know it. Work with a psychologist or a licensed clinical social worker; the trenches are brutal. Fight for yourself, and don’t give up; you are inherently worth experiencing the beautiful and messy day-to-day in every way. On the other side of darkness, there is light. Keep going. You have the power to decide the legacy you’ll leave behind. Know your circle. Know who is in your lane. Know that you can pick up the “shoe" or the “hat” or whatever monopoly piece you’re playing with and say, “Not so fast — that’s not how I play the game.”
For first responders: Whether you wear a uniform, a suit, or a lab coat, or you’re a head of household and relied on in a capacity that takes care of others, we need each other. We can’t do it alone. Process your trauma. Control the narrative, but don’t be blind to the facts. Talk about your perseverance after what you overcame. Your life is much too short. Don’t barricade yourself in a corner and stifle the emotions that keep you human.
Healing takes time. As for God, he gave you two hands — one to help yourself and one to help another. Help yourself. You can do this. You can use my mantra — “I can do this. I am doing this. I will get through this. I’m getting through this. I got this.” Asking for help is the bravest thing I’ve ever done. If I hadn’t asked to go inpatient - multiple times - I wouldn’t be here. There’s power in the truth. Once you own it, no one can take it from you.
For my mother: I miss you. I love you. Maybe you’re trapped in a version of Stockholm, just as I was, and I can’t get you out. You’re worth more than you realize. Your script was wrong. It’s not too late.
For the people who saved me: I’m paying it forward and not giving up!
For the people who hurt me: No words.
For God: I see his fingerprints all over my life, now more than ever.
Why should you care? If this could happen to me, it could happen to you or someone you love.
How do we save each other? Be kind. Become comfortable with the uncomfortable. Set boundaries. Process what you can’t unsee. Validate yourself. Listen to your instincts. Pay attention to your body. Have difficult conversations. Unpack what haunts you in safe spaces. Advocate for your safety and well-being. If someone trusts you to talk about trauma, listen. Busyness is a coping strategy. Be who you are without the façade of social media. Set goals and achievements for yourself. Watch how your body reacts to medications. Drug interactions and side effects are printed on bottles for a good reason. Substance use can lead to misuse and addiction. Gambling is a coping mechanism of avoidance. Overspending, overworking, and your relationship with food are responses to trauma. Check on the people you see and more on those you don’t. If you are warned about a dangerous relative, break the cycle. Take care of your friends. Take care of your family. Take care of yourself. Pay it forward.
For me: Keep going.