Beyond the Diagnosis
PNES explained my seizures, but it didn't explain everything I was carrying. Beneath the diagnosis were years of emotional wounds, anxiety, depression, grief, fear, and healing that needed attention too. These are some of the battles that happened behind the scenes—and the lessons I've learned along the way.
The struggles no one could see.
The Weight I Carried
While PNES became the diagnosis that explained my seizures, it did not explain everything I was experiencing. As I worked through therapy and began journaling, I started to realize that I was carrying much more than a neurological condition. The seizures may have been the symptom people could see, but beneath them was a lifetime of experiences, hurts, fears, and emotional wounds that I had never fully addressed.
Some of those wounds reached all the way back to childhood. I learned to avoid conflict, keep people happy, and stay within the boundaries that others set for me. There were times when I felt isolated, misunderstood, or afraid to pursue things I truly wanted because I worried about disappointing others or facing criticism. Looking back now, I can see how those early experiences shaped my confidence, my relationships, and the way I responded to stress.
Other wounds came later in life. The end of my first marriage left scars that I carried for years. The betrayal, rejection, and loss that followed pushed me into one of the darkest periods of my life. I never fully understood how deeply those experiences continued to influence the way I viewed myself, trusted others, and responded to emotional pain.
Then came the workplace struggles. Long before my diagnosis, I spent months working in an environment where I experienced ongoing bullying, conflict, and what often felt like a lack of support from the very people who were supposed to lead and protect their staff. There were aspects of my job that I genuinely enjoyed and took pride in. I knew I was good at what I did. But constant criticism, tension, and feeling unheard slowly wore me down. Over time, those experiences reopened old wounds that I thought had long since healed.
I found myself replaying conversations, questioning decisions, and wondering what I could have done differently. Even after I stopped working, the emotional weight of those experiences followed me home. Conversations about work could leave me tense and unsettled. Questions about disability, finances, and the future often kept my mind trapped in endless "what if" scenarios. The workplace was no longer just a place I had left behind; it had become something I was still carrying with me.
For years, I did not see these experiences as connected. They felt like separate chapters of my life—childhood struggles, relationship pain, workplace conflict, loss, disappointment, fear, and uncertainty. What I eventually came to understand was that I had been carrying all of them with me. Every hurt, every betrayal, every unanswered question, and every wound I never fully dealt with added another layer to the burden.
By the time PNES entered my life, I was carrying far more weight than I realized. The seizures may have been what finally got my attention, but they were not the only thing that needed healing.
Living with Depression
Depression entered my life long before I understood what was happening to me, but after developing PNES it became much harder to ignore. It wasn't always overwhelming sadness. Sometimes it was grief. I was grieving the loss of my career, my health, my independence, and the future I thought I was working toward. There were days when I felt like the dreams I had spent decades building had simply disappeared overnight. I found myself wishing I could turn back the clock to a time when my body didn't hurt, when I felt strong, capable, and invincible.
What surprised me most was that depression didn't always feel dramatic. Many days I simply felt numb. I often described my mood as "even" because I wasn't particularly happy or sad. Looking back, I realize that was depression too. There were mornings when getting out of bed felt difficult, and days when I questioned what my future would look like. I worried about losing my income, losing my identity, and whether life would ever feel normal again.
One of the hardest parts was the loss of purpose. For most of my life, work gave me structure, responsibility, and a sense of contribution. I was someone people relied on. I took pride in solving problems and helping others. When PNES took that away, I was left wondering who I was without it. If I wasn't working, providing, or accomplishing something, what value did I have? Those questions weighed heavily on me and fed the depression in ways I didn't fully understand at the time.
Depression also affected the way I saw myself. It whispered lies that sounded believable in the moment. It told me that I had failed, that I had become a burden, or that the best parts of my life were behind me. Even though I had people who loved me and supported me, depression had a way of making me feel isolated and alone. It narrowed my focus until all I could see were my losses instead of the blessings that still remained.
Over time, I learned that healing wasn't about waiting for depression to disappear. Even today, there are seasons when depression still visits me. There are days when motivation is difficult to find, when grief resurfaces, or when the future feels uncertain. Sometimes I still mourn the life I thought I was going to have. Sometimes I still struggle with feelings of loss or discouragement. The difference is that I recognize those feelings sooner now.
Exercise remains part of my routine. Therapy continues to give me tools. Prayer reminds me that I am not fighting alone. Spending time with Diane helps pull me out of my own thoughts and back into the present. Most importantly, I have learned to give myself grace. I no longer expect myself to be who I was before PNES. Instead, I am learning to accept who I am today and trust that my life still has purpose, meaning, and value.
Depression may still be part of my story, but it no longer gets to define who I am. It is something I live with, not something that owns me.
Living with Anxiety
If depression made me look backward at everything I had lost, anxiety constantly pushed me into the future. My mind became filled with "what if" questions. What if I had to go back to work? What if I lost my disability benefits? What if I couldn't provide for my family? What if the seizures never improved? What if everything I had worked so hard to rebuild came crashing down again? My thoughts often raced ahead to situations that hadn't happened and, in many cases, never did happen.
Much of my anxiety was connected to my experiences in the workplace. Just hearing conversations about work could bring back memories and emotions that left me feeling tense and unsettled. I found myself replaying situations over and over again, analyzing conversations, questioning decisions, and trying to predict outcomes before they happened. I was constantly searching for ways to protect myself from being hurt, criticized, or blindsided again. The problem was that no amount of worrying ever provided answers. It only stole peace from the present moment.
Another part of my anxiety showed up in ways I never expected. For a long time, making or receiving a simple phone call felt overwhelming. Before answering the phone or dialing a number, my anxiety would become so intense that I could barely get the words out. Often, the stress would build so quickly that it triggered a PNES seizure almost immediately. What had once been a routine part of daily life became something I dreaded. There were times when I would rehearse conversations in my head before making a call, worried about saying the wrong thing or being misunderstood. Anxiety had convinced me that even small interactions carried risk.
Trusting people was also difficult. After years of carrying emotional wounds and experiencing situations that left me feeling hurt, unsupported, or betrayed, I found myself questioning people's intentions and expecting disappointment. I often assumed that if something could go wrong, it probably would. Even today, trust does not come easily for me, but it is slowly getting better. Through therapy, faith, and the support of people who have consistently shown they care, I am learning that not everyone is going to hurt me and not every situation is a threat.
One of the most important lessons I have learned is that anxiety wants me to live in tomorrow while life is happening today. It wants me to solve problems that do not exist yet and prepare for outcomes that may never come. I remind myself that I am safe. I am home. I do not have to solve every problem immediately, and I do not have to predict the future.
Even now, anxiety still finds ways to creep into my thoughts. There are days when old fears resurface and the "what ifs" return. There are moments when uncertainty feels overwhelming and my mind wants to race ahead looking for answers. The difference is that I no longer believe every fearful thought that enters my mind. Exercise, journaling, prayer, therapy, and spending time with Diane help ground me in the present and remind me to focus on what is true rather than what I fear might happen.
Anxiety may still visit from time to time, but it no longer gets to dictate every decision I make. I am learning, one day at a time, that peace is not found in controlling the future—it is found in trusting God with it.
Living with Self-Harm Thoughts
One of the hardest parts of my journey to talk about is the battle with self-harm and suicidal thinking. The truth is that this battle did not begin with PNES. I had faced it before during one of the darkest seasons of my life following the collapse of my first marriage. The feelings of rejection, betrayal, and loss became so overwhelming that I reached a point where I no longer saw a way forward. Although I survived, I never fully understood how deeply those wounds continued to affect me for years afterward.
When PNES entered my life, many of those old fears and feelings resurfaced. The weight of depression, anxiety, disability, uncertainty, and loss often felt overwhelming. I worried about what would happen if I returned to a stressful environment. I worried about becoming a burden to the people I loved. I worried about a future that looked very different from the one I had planned. There were moments when the combination of grief, fear, and hopelessness became difficult to carry.
One of the most important things I have learned is that thoughts are not always truth. Depression lies. Anxiety lies. They tell you that things will never improve, that you have no value, that you are a burden, or that people would be better off without you. None of those things were true, even when they felt true. For a long time, I treated those thoughts as facts. Today, I see them differently. I have learned to recognize them as symptoms of pain rather than instructions to follow.
The thoughts did not disappear overnight, and if I am honest, they still occasionally appear today. The difference is that they no longer have the same power they once did. When those thoughts show up, I have learned to recognize them much sooner. I understand that they are often warning signs that I am overwhelmed, exhausted, discouraged, or carrying more than I should on my own.
One of the tools that has helped me most is something simple but powerful: recognizing when my brain is lying to me. When those thoughts appear, I remind myself that I do not have to believe everything I think. Feelings are real, but they are not always accurate. The voice telling me there is no hope is not telling the truth. The voice telling me I have no value is not telling the truth. The voice telling me that nothing will ever improve is not telling the truth.
When those moments come, I have learned to reach for my escape hatch instead of retreating into isolation. I talk to Diane. I reach out to my therapist. I pray. I journal. I exercise. I remind myself that feelings change and difficult moments pass. Most importantly, I remind myself that asking for help is not weakness. It is one of the bravest things a person can do.
Today, when those thoughts try to convince me that there is no hope, I recognize them for what they are—a lie born out of pain and fear. They may still visit from time to time, but they no longer control the direction of my life. Instead of listening to the lie, I choose to hold onto hope, faith, and the people who have walked beside me through every step of this journey. Some days that choice is easier than others, but it is a choice I continue to make, one day at a time.
The battles described on this page are part of my story, but they are not the whole story. Healing is still happening. Hope is still growing. And by God's grace, the journey continues.
