I wake up drenched in cold sweat, just like yesterday and likely tomorrow. Today I am in bed, the right way up and everything which, unfortunately is not always the case. Sometimes I remember the bad dreams and they play inside my head like a bad movie on repeat. Other times I don’t remember the dreams at all and am instead, engulfed head to toe in a paralysed state of fear. There’s a chance my bladder will give way and I’ll wet the bed before I can convince myself to move. It’s happened many times over the years and it brings so much shame. Rationally I am aware that my body has entered ‘Freeze’ mode following a night terror and my central nervous system cannot tell the difference between back then, where the trauma happened, or the here and now.

It’s loud. Too loud. I can hear people downstairs sorting breakfast as if they were right next to me, each noise makes me jump and I’m surprised I can hear anything at all over my own racing heartbeat. I shut myself in the bathroom and breathe a little slower, the door shutting out some of the noise. I step into the shower, the water scolding hot, and wash myself over and over again. If I lose concentration for even a second, I can hear the abuser; “you’ll never be clean”, “you’re a filthy whore”, “You’re unlovable, who would want to touch you.”

Who is this woman looking back at me?

I climb out, towel wrapped around myself, and stare into the mirror as I brush my teeth hard. Who is this woman looking back at me? What am I doing here? I don’t even recognise myself and the cloak of shame that settles around my shoulders makes me turn away, unable to meet my own reflection anymore.

I sit on the bed and start to panic. I feel nauseous, my heart is racing, and my tongue has cemented itself to the roof of my mouth. A small part of my consciousness reminds me to count my breathing, ball up my left hand, and lower my tongue. No one is going to hurt me here. No one is going to see me this way. I just need to get dressed and I’ll feel better. Mantras relay themselves in my head as I move on autopilot to put on the most baggy, unflattering clothes I can find. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, I don’t want to appear pretty or alluring or in any way that might elicit comments or simple acknowledgment. I want to be invisible.

Downstairs it so loud. People talking, the TV on way too loud, plates and cutlery, pots and pans in the kitchen. The dog is winding herself around my legs demanding attention, someone somewhere is asking what I have planned for the day. Another person is clearly in a bad mood, tired, ratty, and short-fused. I clock that energy almost immediately and instantly I am awash with desperation. I dare not open my mouth in case I say the wrong thing and cause a full-scale argument. The news is on, fuelling everyone’s unhappiness and angst. Inside I want to cry, want to run as fast and as far as I can. I want to disappear into thin air. The longer I stay in this negative tidal wave of energy and emotions, the more triggered I become. I can’t concentrate, can’t think through the overwhelming emotions threatening to suffocate me.

I grab my lunch from the fridge, kiss my wife goodbye, and tell her I love her, mustering up the little strength I have left to offer her a smile and then bolt through the door. Shutting my car door again, I can breathe. I can release all of the tension I have absorbed that morning throughout my drive into work, soft music playing, and giving 100% of my attention to being ‘in the moment’ as opposed to where my mind takes me back to. I feel a bit better, some relief, I am in control of the car, I am in control of my space and I feel little threat. It’s just me, the M27, and my lovely little car.

I get to work and am instantly transported back to my own childhood. Angry mothers who shout and are frustrated at the justice system or their abusers. I’m triggered over and again, by visual flashbacks, emotional flashbacks, and auditory flashbacks. I relive my own abuse, neglect, fear, harm, and pain on repeat. I nip to the toilet and submerge my face in cold water several times a day in an attempt to circumvent a full-blown flashback. I nip out to have a vape when my abusers are the loudest voice in my head, try to shut them up, argue with them, and tell them I am not disgusting. I try and tell those voices I am worthy of love. I am strong. I am better than them. The abuse does not define me. I am not useless. Sometimes they quieten, other times they grow stronger and my attempts simply cannot match their hatred of me. I return back inside, unable to speak or meet my colleague’s eyes.

I can feel hands on my skin, invisible hands, repeating what happened to me all those years ago. I flinch and I itch, I want to scream for them to get off me but I know it’s just my mind playing tricks. I don’t want to look like a crazy person hallucinating. I get no real work done, I can’t concentrate on anything. Every noise startles me and causes me to hit the ceiling, a certain smell can send me into a spiral, and people touching me – even by mistake, make me tense up and stand rooted to the spot. I have completely sober blackouts and don’t remember seeing people, having conversations with people, or performing certain tasks. It’s such a pain to try and manage my own workload let alone a social life; if I wasn’t so hot on Gantt charts and logging things into the system, I would be lost on a daily basis. As it is, if my manager wants to speak with me I panic as though I am going to lose my job at any moment and no longer be able to support my wife and our little family.

I sometimes eat, but generally not. Feeling full is a trigger and I usually end up losing it to the downstairs staff toilet anyway. Eating reminds me of too many torturous memories and too much trauma.

It feels as though I have physically run a marathon and emotionally

When finally the day is over, I get back in my car exhausted. It feels as though I have physically run a marathon and emotionally I have been under extreme duress for 9 hours straight. Effectively since the moment I woke up, my mind has been held captive by terrorists invading and torturing my mind and my body. I am not being hyperbolic here. In somatic flashbacks or full flashbacks, sufferers relive the memory completely, and all of their senses are engaged. These types of flashbacks are horrendous because I am genuinely reliving traumatic experiences, it hurts at that moment, as much as it did when it originally happened, I am as terrified, I can see the abuser, hear them, smell them, and feel them. The rest of the world melts away and I am back to being a young person as if no time has passed at all.

I drive home and each mile closer to the house I get, the more tension coils in my stomach. I know that when I get home, I am going to have to interact with people that know me behind the facade, to varying degrees. I know I am going to be pressured, shamed, or guilted to eat dinner because they care for me and want to ensure I stay fed. By the time I have actually pulled up outside the house, I am a ball of shaking, panicking stress.

People are tired after work. They are done with the day, frustrated at colleagues, had a generally bad or stressful day, and, like most healthy humans they diffuse their stress in their safe place, home. However, those of us with Complex Trauma, soak up all of that stress, anger, and frustration and internalise it. Empathetic to a detriment, it is unbearable being in the same room as more than one person (and the dog) for longer than about 5 minutes. There are too many emotions, undercurrents, passive-aggressive behaviours, and completely normal behaviours, that all trigger extreme reactions within me that are hard to compress. It’s both a sensory and an emotional overload. I concentrate as hard as I can to shut it all out but if I go too far, I’ll shut down and dissociate for an unknown amount of time. That balance is like finding a needle in a haystack. A haystack made of other needles.

By the time I eventually fall into bed and into the arms of my loving, compassionate wife I am beyond exhausted. I want to cry, have her hold me, and tell me that none of it was my fault. I want her to love me into a normal existence where I can believe her words. I toss and turn, gaining an average of 5 hours of broken sleep. With too many bad dreams, and occasional sleepwalking, it’s certainly not a restful night. And then the alarm goes off at 6 am and we rinse and repeat.

***

It’s important to remember that everyone who has CPTSD will have different traumas, different triggers, coping mechanisms, and burn out levels.

What is true for me, may not be the experience of someone else with the same disorder. The best thing to do … is ask. Ask and then actively listen. Listen with the intention to really hear them and learn don’t listen with the need to respond.

Namaste Friends ???? ☮️