In 2021, at the age of 51, the acute effects of CPTSD started to tear me asunder. The mayhem wrought by a global pandemic certainly played a factor, but physically, perimenopause had been underway for a few years and an indescribable anxiety was constant. Unable to stop memories from cycling through my mind, I dove headfirst into waves of old trauma until I finally had a reckoning. After suffering years of sexual abuse in childhood and the sudden death of my younger brother when I was in my twenties, among other incidents, I had become accustomed to living like Mrs. Rochester from Jane Eyre in my own head and limiting my interactions with the outside world. (Mrs. Rochester is my inner critic and Jane Eyre, bless her heart, is trying to very hard to navigate the world.) Repeated dysfunctional relationships added to the shame and stigma. After dissolving an emotionally damaging marriage at 33, I withdrew from the world for ten years. I was stuck in a miserable situation professionally and threw myself into academia, earning one degree or certificate after another. I often worked more than 60 hours a week, paid the bills, and wrote novels, but otherwise lived my life as a zombie. Immersing myself in books or video games had always been my go-to soothing methods.
When perimenopause hit in my mid-40s, so did a resurgence of CPTSD symptoms, but I didn’t understand what was happening, so I did my best to ignore all of it by self-medicating. Throughout my childhood, I was told to “learn to live with it.” Perhaps, if I simply stopped thinking about the bad things, memories of them would fade away. Some specificities of those old traumas faded and resided just under the surface, but the consequences of ignoring it became so embedded that I believed I had “learned to live with it.” It was the ultimate act of deception of my mind against who I hoped to become as a person. For years I wondered with indignation why I didn’t get certain promotions. Some je ne sais quois was missing. Turns out it was diminished executive function and a fear response that didn’t know when to stop.
Then came a series of revelations.
I’m a Gen Xer, meaning I was feral for much of my youth, and especially so because of the violence I experienced. Some parents warned their children away from me because I “came from a broken home.” Subjects like divorce and child abuse were spoken of in hushed tones, and my wild behavior offered plenty of cause for rumor. In an era without seatbelts and where students and teachers alike were allowed to smoke on school grounds, it was a very different time. Where I grew up, kids had to be tough, and there was no way I was going to show weakness. Add to that the fact that I had to fend off the grooming efforts of some predators in my family’s social circle, and I retreated into a stronghold of solitude. Out there in the world, I was just going through the motions.
A Full Reckoning with CPTSD
At one point, I realized my behavioral compass was off after describing what I thought was a funny Gen X story about a series of death-defying escapades in my teens. A friend looked at me with an expression of horror and sympathy. “Honey, what you’re describing is self-harm, whether intentional or passive. Have you ever addressed old trauma in your life?”
Imagine my surprise when I later created a TikTok account for my job as a digital strategist. The assignment was to determine whether it would be a good channel for advertising for the organization I work for, which is in the healthcare industry. But what I found were lots of people ranging from Gen Z to millennials talking very relatable and often eloquently about their trauma. It became a crash course in the recognition of symptoms and coping mechanisms. They had terminology and concepts down. They described my own behaviors so well I spent more time crying over my phone than doing the market research I was supposed to be focused on.
I realized I was trapped in a bleak abyss. I quit drinking this summer and began to address the underlying issue, and it’s been an arduous but rewarding process. As I read books about CPTSD, I feel as though I’m reading biographies that I didn’t know had been written about me. Things I didn’t dare talk about leapt off the page and struck me in the heart like a poisoned arrow. You mean…other people do this too? The pain was almost too much to bear. My muscles often hurt from being tensed up and I have a tendency to hold my breath a lot. It’s not frequent, but I have inadvertently caused myself to faint because of it. My sudden self-awareness of this intense internal struggle could no longer be ignored.
What hurts the most now is calculating how long I’ve been living like this. The abuse started when I was four years old. The very beginnings of my conscious memory is based in despicable violence, and it pains me to think of all the things I never experienced due to not being able to address my CPTSD. With each layer of new trauma, I withdrew further and further until I hit that breaking point, courtesy of my shifting hormones. I am grateful for the help I’m receiving now, as bittersweet as the experience is. I’m finally in therapy and have a wonderfully supportive husband now. I’ve grown much closer to the family that remains in my life. Each day, as mindfully as I can, I make progress, and can finally see a brighter future where I can better manage the old ghosts in a very crowded haunted house.
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Lee Frost has worked for nonprofits and marketing agencies focusing on healthcare for the past ten years. She’s a patient advocate and recently launched a blog about menopause and CPTSD called the Sinsemillier. She grew up in the Boston area and has a BA from UMass Boston and a master’s from Harvard Extension School. Lee lives north of Boston with her husband, where they both love to nerd out on sci-fi and fantasy.
Great article, thanks for sharing must have been quite challenging. Really helped me hear you though, I only recently figured out a name for it all and last year I had therapy that was finally useful in handling childhood trauma. I am about to turn 50 and get that other people seem to have words for all this and am amazed by this daily. How does that happen? I love words and my childlike self escaped in books and my thesaurus so how come I don’t know how to describe how I feel. Thanks for your words, will stay with me for a long while.
Thanks so much for reading it! I totally get where you’re coming from–hiding in libraries was one of my go-to strategies as a kid, and despite all the books I’ve read, I never learned to really talk about what’s going on inside (and to be honest, it wasn’t encouraged by the people around me at all!). I’m still so new to seeking help and finding good resources, and I’m continually stunned by how much I never learned to acknowledge, let alone say or write down. One of my biggest revelations is *how much* I lack in being able to describe how I feel….but I’m learning, and art therapy has been a huge help for me. Anyway….I hear you–and thank you!
Just want to say thank you so much for sharing your life story.
Some of your experiences are similar to mine which makes me feel less alone (always a good thing).
I want you to know that you made a positive impact with at least one person – which I am grateful for.
Thank you for the comment–as hard as this was to write, it did have somewhat of a healing effect. When I was first diagnosed, one of the most helpful things was to find places like this where I could read how other people have coped over the years. Seeing their courage in talking about their lives inspired me to share my own story, and I’m glad that it helped. It’s been such a surreal experience, and I’m so grateful to be connecting with others who understand!
Good to hear about your journey as a gen Xer. I am on a similar timeline – youtube has been an excellent free resource for C-PTSD. I’ve paid thousands of dollars to therapists who could not help over the years.