When My Mind Became My Prison

When my former husband died, I felt shocked, angry and sad. The grief and rage were intense, especially since he died of alcoholism after years of chaos and volatile behavior that left both me and my teenage son walking on eggshells.

I'd lie awake at 1am, physically exhausted, yet mentally wired. My brain would circle endlessly, replaying memories of confrontations and crises and fears, often wondering why our lives had unravelled as they did. Daily tasks became mountains to climb. I felt like I was watching life through a dense grey fog, disconnected from everything and everyone.

The Breaking Point

Without relatives nearby and a son who needed me to stay strong, I was drowning. The insomnia and brain fog got worse. I forgot important details at work. My son had nosebleeds. We both had nightmares, and constant anxiety became our unwelcome companions. I cut back work hours just to keep us both functioning.

Like boiling frogs, we hadn't realized we'd been living in fear of violence. Every raised voice, every door slam, sent waves of adrenaline through our bodies. My son struggled with studying for the HSC (higher school certificate), while I struggled to create any sense of normalcy in our chaos.

I didn’t understand what was wrong with us or anything about trauma or PTSD. We did acupuncture, kinesiology, and therapeutic massage but our symptoms were often overwhelming and healing was slow. We both tried Traditional therapy, but the therapists were not trauma informed and told us to ‘Put all that behind you”: As if we could!!! My mind kept racing, kept replaying the trauma; it kept me prisoner in my own head.

The Unexpected Discovery

Then one evening, during a dark restless moment, I picked up a pen and started making marks on paper. No grand artistic plan, no purpose—just movement. And something remarkable happened: my brain went quiet.A whole hour vanished. For the first time in years, I felt peace.

That single moment became my sanctuary. When anxiety struck, I'd draw. When grief overwhelmed me, I'd scribble marks, draw patterns. When rage bubbled up, I'd let the pen express in jagged lines what words couldn't. Without art, I'd be stuck in my head, circling around and around like a prison of my own making.