I still recall with almost crystal-like clarity the day my therapist first said I might have a form of PTSD. I found the idea to be ridiculous. I was so very normal. Nothing had ever happened to me. Nothing.
As a matter of fact, that was one of the primary reasons I was sitting in that dark blue chair in a magnolia-colored office decorated with sea-glass and turtles. Nothing had ever happened to me. I was nearing fifty and I felt as if my entire life I had simply paddled in circles, going nowhere. Doing nothing. Accomplishments, zero.
Oh, I had done all the things expected of me. I had excelled academically. I had my degree, and then another, and then another. I was the recipient of so many advantages, I should have felt blessed. Most of the time though, I didn’t feel anything, except hollow.
This was not my first time trying therapy. I had found a therapist in my 20s for a short time. I had gone to her with that same feeling of hollow and stuck. I saw all my friends stretching out and expanding. They were going places. I was depressed, anxious, and actively ideating suicide. I even moved in with a friend – because committing suicide in her home would have been rude. That was what kept me going. I couldn’t be a bad houseguest.
The relationship with that therapist didn’t last long. I moved to NY state and found another therapist. Then another. No one seemed able to find the ‘why’ behind all my numbness and those other times when I was swept away on such emotion that I was crazy. Those waves that could crash over me – I’m still amazed that I’m here. Those waves were always unexpected, seemingly random, always overwhelming. Sometimes I fought them, but most of the time I simply let myself drown in them. I dissolved into nothing except sharp fragments of my pain dispersed throughout the tears.
To wake again was a miracle and a curse. “Why?” Why was I condemned to live with such pain? Where did it come from? My life was so normal, so absent of anything. My brother had always been the focus of my father’s rages. Except that once. My mother was always composed. Except that once. There was never a raised voice in our house. Well, except for those times when my brother angered my parents. I wasn’t involved in that. That wasn’t my relationship with my parents. We were always –
and here I had to stop.
Loving wasn’t the right word. Warm wasn’t right. Huggable, no. Invested? No.
I swear I sat in that blue chair and exhausted every word I could bring to mind. Finally, Rachel, my therapist, asked me how did I feel. And I realized – I didn’t. As I tried to feel something the words that popped into my head were siloed, masked, dangerous.
Dangerous?
How could it be dangerous? I was never struck by my parents, except that once. I was never terrorized by my parents, except that once. I had everything I needed, clothes, food, shelter. There were so many that had it so much worse. I had no right to complain. How could I call my childhood home dangerous? Well, there was that little thing. That background hum of tension. I could gauge the feeling in a room by the tension in the air. What went unspoken was thick as dust and muffled everything. I learned to walk softly, so as not to disturb that fragile covering. At times, I didn’t even dare to breathe.
Then I saw it. A gray landscape draped across my life. It was there in my early days of creeping downstairs to watch to the cartoons on Saturday morning, sitting inches away so I didn’t disturb anyone with my sound. It was there as I curled into the corner between the car seat and the door away from my brother. It was there in how I wove my way through the halls of the school, never touching anyone, never causing a ripple. It was there in how I never objected, never complained. Never wanted. Never asked. And how, it always left me feeling hollow.
It – finally had a name. Complex-PTSD.
Ok. I thought. Maybe she’s on to something.
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Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.
Wow–excellent article, Mari!! Thanks so much for sharing!!
Thank you so much for reading. I am so sorry it has taken me this long to respond.
Wow, very powerful piece. I can definitely relate to that “hollowness”. I feel it too and it is constant. I’ve not had the CPTSD diagnosis but my doctors and therapist have agreed with me when I tell them what I’ve been through. I don’t think all doctors know about CPTSD yet. PTSD yes, but not complex PTSD. It is frustrating.
Yeah. Frustrating is a good word to use. It’s not easy to find a therapist qualified to take on developmental trauma, at least in my experience in my one-horse town. But, they are out there. And more and more professionals are becoming qualified. So, I hope the field is getting a bit thicker. Happy hunting.
Yeah, frustrating to have to fight for what is obvious – to feel better. Doctors are supposed to know how to do their job not to be told how to help. I once wanted to become a doctor but my past stopped me. I set my target lower and didn’t get there either, my past getting in the way. I have a good therapist now. I’m sure things will get easier soon.
Good luck with your book, Mari! It’s hard to get a publisher. I guess our stories are too harrowing for someone who has never lived through abuse. I self-published in the end with my memoir and I’m glad I did. My story is out there, just the way I wanted it to be.