As much as I hate to say it, I may be taking the "BMX Mom" bumper sticker off my car this summer. Bob hasn't really expressed much interest in racing so far (I believe he's mentioned it once in the past few months), and frankly, I'm not eager to drop that kind of cash for his activities when his behavior and attitude are as lousy as they have become.

Now that I'm out of my abusive marriage, I never want to enter another abusive relationship again. I think about how I came to believe my ex-husband was my knight in shining armor and how I fell under his spell. Although he alone is responsible for the abuse, the abusive cycle was partly my fault; in effect, I gave him permission to abuse me. I don't want to give anyone permission to do that again! Here are four signs I ignored that warned me of future abuse in the relationship with my ex-husband.

It was inevitable. The first step in recovery from anorexia nervosa is weight restoration. I knew that I had to gain weight and that it eventually would be noticeable.  I often wanted to crawl in a shell like a turtle during the early stages of my weight gain because I felt so different. So much larger. I took up too much space, and I still wanted to hide. I wasn't entirely comfortable in this new body. However, I slowly grew used to my body with its feminine curves, and several times I would look in the mirror and think how much better I looked than when I was emaciated and skeletal. But I knew what was coming... One day I was in the bathroom with a friend. She commented that the new weight looked good on me. Unfortunately, she didn't stop there. She then went on to point out the slight roundness of my stomach, and helpfully suggested I could wear looser clothes if it bothered me. It hadn't bothered me until then. But this seemingly innocent comment reverberated throughout my mind days afterward.

Recently I read a great article on the use of brand names when referring to drugs. The author, a doctor, decries the practice and says doctors should use the name of the drug rather than the brand name. The brand name of the drug, after all, was chosen by a marketer and a focus group and is really just advertising for the drug. The only trouble is, patients don't know, or can't remember, the actual names for drugs.

Even after all this talking, and doing, fixing, and mulling-over, and redoing, I still find that I go through stages of really, really disliking dealing with myself, all this: the anxiety. I worry about the things that maybe I can't fix. That's potentially the hardest thing to face about the words which preface my diagnosis; It isn't PTSD. It's 'chronic, severe' PTSD. So you see, there's really no getting out of it. I can't say, "well, I only have a little post traumatic stress," or "Anxiety only gets this bit of my life!". It gets rather a lot, actually. And people with anxiety disorders don't get nearly enough say about it. Not. nearly. enough.

If I've learned one thing over the past two years, it is that our society is ill-equipped to deal with emotional and verbal abuse, and more than 75% of the time, we do not recognize it when it happens to us. And if we do know it is happening, we're reluctant to label it as abuse. Instead, we seek to "understand" and "forgive" or "toughen up and deal with it" believing our minds and hearts should be able to "overcome" somebody's hurtful words and manipulations. We think we should be "better men" and "rise above" the verbal violence via passivity and silence (and maybe an apologetic smile if the abuser lashes out around friends, family, or the strangers in the canned goods aisle at the grocery store).

I come up against this wall plenty, in treating anxiety: Combating the sense of hopelessness, of powerlessness, that only too often accompanies the worst symptoms of anxiety disorders. How do I not get stuck when simply feeling things seems way above my pay grade? "If you know neither yourself nor your enemy, you will always endanger yourself." -The Art of War

Ten years ago, if you'd asked me where I thought I might be in 2011, the last thing I'd have said is "I plan to be a writer." Yet, here I am: blogging for HealthyPlace.com, and about to be a published author. When I go to Amazon.com and search for my book (which, I must admit, I do at least 5 times a week, just to make sure it's not a dream), I'm still amazed to find myself with an "author's page" and a biography on Wikipedia. Oh, I'd hoped to be a "wiki girl", but I'd thought it might be because of my work as an actress, radio personality, voice talent or singer. Life is funny that way. You make your plans, and sometimes you follow them. Sometimes, too, the universe sends you elsewhere, like a stream cutting through the forest. It goes where it needs to go.

I could get technical and discuss what clinicians, researchers, doctors, and advocates believe. I could also separate the physiological from the behavioral. I think the path from substance abuse to substance addiction is complex and the best way to discuss this is to share part of my story.

Today, I sit and wonder how it all got to be this way, how did I end up with this long-lasting battle with depression? Often, it does us little good to think too hard on the how and why, rather it serves us better to focus on "what do I do now?" It feels impossible not to ponder the rest of the story at times. It can creep into our lives or it can launch a sneak attack; no matter how it strikes it can be really confusing and difficult to determine the cause of depression.