TRIGGER WARNING: Writer’s Note: This post contains references to suicidal ideation, sexual assault, and psychiatric ward experiences.
Names have been changed.
Five words got me tied up on a stretcher in the back of this ambulance. Five words, starting with “I want” and ending with “myself.”
I was enrolled in a rigorous academic summer intensive. My courses at the intensive included cryptology, calculus, cognitive neuroscience, and yoga – a little break from the books. I’d been struggling with my mental health for a few years, but I did what I did best to escape my excruciating pain: I stuck my nose in the books.
After a sleepless night, tormented by my flashbacks, I let those five words slip to my roommates. Word got back to a counselor, and within a couple of hours, I was hospital-bound. No attempt, no real threat, just a voiced desire to escape this life.
Watching the world disappear from the back window of the ambulance, I felt a sickening mix of emotions as I knew my life would never be the same again. I had no clue where these guys were taking me. All I knew was it wasn’t going to be a vacation.
My home for the next few days
The paramedics wheeled me into a dingy hallway, untied me, and turned me over to the hospital staff. Now that my tears had dried and I could see the guys in better light, I noticed that both of them were actually pretty cute.
How embarrassing that they saw me like that, I thought to myself, brushing my hair with my fingers a little.
I begged them one last time, “Do I have to stay here?”
“Yes,” they said. “You’ll be okay. It’s safe here. And they’ll give you the help you need.”
The evaluation phase
In the evaluation room, there were four nurses: two male and two female. They asked me dozens of questions, and I answered them robotically.
Whatever the paramedics put in my IV really doped me up, I thought. But it’s nice not to be feeling any anxiety right now, I thought to myself, negating the fact that I was so numb I really wasn’t feeling anything at all.
After dozens of initial questions, the male nurses left the room, leaving me with the two females. They ordered me to strip naked. The last shreds of my dignity disappeared as they began strip-searching every crevice of my body. I stood awkwardly with my arms out to the side in a “T” position like I do during TSA checks at the airport. Their final request came as a surprise to me.
“Lastly, we’re gonna have you turn around, squat all the way down to the floor, open your butt cheeks with your hands, and cough as loud as you can.”
I almost laughed because I thought they were joking.
“What?” I asked, confused.
They were serious.
“Why do I have to do that?” I asked, ever-so-innocently.
“Sometimes, people carry drugs or contraband down there. It’s for your safety. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Contraband? What’s contraband?” I asked, genuinely confused.
At just seventeen years old, I had no reason to believe that anyone, especially myself, would carry a weapon in their private parts. I also knew nothing about drugs beyond my school’s “Don’t do drugs, kids!” campaign.
There was no point in arguing. I was here, by law. My body was no longer my own.
I stood up, slowly released my hands from my butt cheeks, and looked the nurses in the eyes again. I felt different, like a ginormous chunk of my purity had just been stolen. Over the next three days, my innocence was going to be ripped to shreds even more.
My living quarters
Next, they showed me around my living quarters. It was a glorified version of the prison cells I had seen in some of my favorite movies, Escape from Alcatraz and The Shawshank Redemption.
The bedroom had dirty grey concrete walls and a small shelf built into the wall for the limited toiletries they gave me. Only one small bed sat smack dab in the middle. I could tell from one quick glance at the pillow that it wasn’t my favorite Tempur-Pedic kind.
Night number one
In the night, I tossed and turned. The messages inscribed in ink on the wooden headboard and armrests by previous patients swirled batlike in my mind.
“Fuck you.”
“You deserve to die.”
“Burn in hell.”
“Weak.”
“You didn’t succeed.”
“Coward.”
I sobbed into the pillow that was as hard as a brick.
None of the patient rooms had doors. Directly across from my room was another room identical to mine. Its occupant was a girl of about fourteen. All night, she sat on the edge of her bed, catatonic, staring me down with penetrating eyes of disgust and horror.
What does she have against me? I literally just got here… I wondered, taking her staring contest a little too personally.
And then, another game of hers began. Every few minutes, she would slowly open her mouth and scream bloody murder while continuing to stare deep into my eyes. Then, she would slowly and silently walk around her bed in circles, before sitting back down and repeating the whole cycle.
I shrank under the covers and hid from her haunting stare so she wouldn’t perceive me as a threat anymore.
It didn’t work. I made up my own game to distract myself. I’ll count sheep in between each scream and see the highest number it gets to. That’ll be the number of the puzzle I’ll do in my Big Book of Sudoku once I get out of here.
After a few hours, exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I slept through her cacophony – the most unique lullaby I had ever drifted off to.
The next morning
When I awoke, she was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring. I flashed an awkward smile at her as I scurried out of my bedroom.
“Good morning, Natalie. Would you like to take a shower?” a nurse greeted me with a smile, offering me a thin, white towel and two tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
Ugh. She’s had too much coffee this morning, I thought to myself, as I rubbed my eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” I gladly accepted.
My shower was my ten minutes of privacy and peace. It was a dark room with a single light shining down from the center of the tall ceiling. It reminded me of a dungeon. I looked down at my toes and cringed as my bare feet caressed the tiles that housed years of the feces of my psych ward ancestors.
In the dungeon, tears overtook me. I cried softly so that no one would hear me. I tried to visualize the clean water washing away my despair. It didn’t work. I felt like I was bathing in raw sewage.
The view from up here
With my hair still wet from the shower, I brought one of the chairs to a barred window and looked down at the outside world. I saw birds, cars, pedestrians, trains, hospitals, billboards, and freedom. I counted pedestrians as they crossed the intersection and made up stories about them – their names, their professions, their hobbies, and their favorite songs. I could see them, but they had no clue I was up here.
I wrapped my palms around the cold bars and shook them, fantasizing about my Escape from Alcatraz. They didn’t budge.
Acceptance washed over me. I had no other option but to be here and sit with my own mind. I guess I’ll just have to make the best of it.
My fellow inmates
I made a point to talk to some of the other patients and hear their stories. The outside world may have seen them as unworthy, but, to me, they were beautiful souls in desperate need of help. They just needed to be heard. Many were hesitant to talk to me. They seemed intimidated by the fact that I was patiently listening to them, unlike the professionals from the system who had devalued their experiences. Slowly, some opened up.
Their stories were a museum of cruelty. One thirteen-year-old girl told me nonchalantly, “I’m pregnant with my uncle’s baby, and my parents don’t know yet.”
The banality with which she told me was heartbreaking. I dug more into her story and found that incest had been going on for years. This place was clearly safer for her. I would have preferred her to stay here rather than go back home.
My new friend
The ward was always chaotic. Patients gibbered, screamed, hissed, and threw things. But in the very back corner of the ward lobby, a girl sat quietly at a table alone, coloring. She looked peaceful, so I sat next to her.
She was slim with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes. Her face looked pained, but there was still a little light in her eyes. Even though I’d just sat next to her, I felt like I’d known her my whole life.
She handed me some broken crayons and said, “Wanna help me color?”
And that is how I met Lucine.
The conversation flowed naturally. We began talking about our lives. I loved to dance, and she loved horseback riding. She gushed about her horses, Bread and Butter. She spent her summers in Northern California training for riding competitions. Tears filled her eyes as she said, “Each day at school, I just couldn’t wait to get home to Bread and Butter. They were my only friends.”
Lucine had the sweetest heart. I saw myself in her. I thought: If there were a girl like this at my high school, she’d totally be my best friend.
To make her feel more comfortable opening up, I told her that I was lonely and bullied at my school.
“So was I,” she said.
I shivered as her honesty sparked flashbacks within me.
“You know,” she said, “There’s a national school that takes on students for personalized learning. It wasn’t safe at school, so my parents signed me up for this new school. I was scared, but I love it now and will stay until I graduate. All my courses are just with me and one instructor. It goes at my pace, and I don’t have to worry about dealing with all the bullies from my old school. Plus, I get out of school early, so I have time for my horses. What city do you live in?”
I told her where I lived.
“I know they have a location there. Ask your parents about it.”
Even though I only had another year of high school, going back for that long made me feel sick. It was worth a shot to look into this.
I made a mental note for when I got out of here: Beg the ‘rents to take me out of my high school and enroll me at Lucine’s school.
Talking about school reminded me of what I was missing out on. It was July, and I was coloring a paper Christmas tree with scraps of crayons. I desperately wished I could be in my cryptology class. Instead, I was serving my time for those five words.
I made another mental note: Next time, I need to be more careful before letting those five words slip out of my mouth.
Recess
We were allowed 30 minutes of daily “recess” in a cage on the roof of the building.
The other kids immediately grabbed the red balls out of the bin. Some played dodgeball, others played foursquare. This was part of their daily routine – some of them have been here for weeks or months.
A staff member stood, watching over us. I retreated far enough away from the action so that any balls that lost control wouldn’t peg me. I sat against the concrete wall with my knees buried into my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs.
“Hey, Natalie, do you want to play dodgeball with us?” one of the girls asked me.
“No, thank you.” I just wanted to keep to myself.
The kids were smiling and laughing as they played. Everyone seemed genuinely happy.
It’s weird they seem so happy. The sun isn’t even out. Don’t they realize that this place is literally a prison?
And then, it hit me. They’re happy because this place is safer than anywhere else for them, including their own homes. My heart broke when I realized this. I curled up into an even tighter ball as I felt their pain wash over me.
Lunch time
Lunch was meatloaf, a stale slice of bread, applesauce, some dried Lucky Charms, and orange juice. One whiff of the meatloaf made me gag. I picked the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and ate them one by one. I washed them down with the OJ. That was all I ate that day.
Group activity
After lunch was activity time. We got a piece of paper, markers, and fifteen minutes to draw the voice in our heads.
Once people began to share their drawings, it was clear that most didn’t draw anything, or only drew some scribbles to play along and convince the staff that they were “getting better” so that they’d have a chance at an early release.
It was Lucine’s turn to share. She drew a vividly intricate monster that haunted her thoughts. It belonged on the walls of an art gallery, not a psych ward.
She gave voice to the hidden symbolism in her artwork. Every part of the monster’s body represented something in her head. She fought back tears as she poured her heart out in front of the strangers around her. Her raw authenticity was so refreshing. My eyes welled with tears.
She finished her presentation; then there were a few seconds of silence. The others in the circle burst out laughing.
What’s so funny? I thought, as I looked around the circle, bewildered.
Oh. They were laughing at Lucine.
Lucine hung her head and sobbed. I wanted to run over and give her the biggest hug. But physical contact with patients was one of the many things on the list of “no-nos” they gave me when I arrived. I resisted the urge.
When she finally looked up, she caught my eyes, and I gave her an empathic pouty lip to let her know that I felt her pain and did not participate in the laughter. That was the only hug I could give her.
“Well, okay then…” The facilitator frantically looked around as her voice shuddered. “Who’s next?”
I spent the rest of the day making Lucine feel appreciated. We colored some more, made up our own dance routines together, played the pedestrian game, and talked about our futures.
“That one’s Danny,” Lucine joked, pointing to a pedestrian in a suit. “He’s an investment banker, but he hates his job. He only works to support his wife’s spending habits. What he really wants to do is play the drums in a heavy metal band!” We giggled. That day, we shared laughter together until our starved bellies couldn’t take it anymore.
My new friend was ripped away from me
After what felt like an eternity, my prison sentence had been served.
It was time to say goodbye to Lucine. She was sitting at the coloring table, frantically scribbling something with a crayon.
“Wait! Natalie!” She ran over from across the ward. “Take my number!”
A nurse intervened before Lucine could give me the paper. The nurse held her arms out and ripped the paper out of Lucine’s hands. “There will be no contacting other patients outside these walls.”
Lucine looked shattered. We looked at each other with the saddest eyes. I wanted to hug her so badly.
“Time to go, Natalie,” the nurse told me.
It felt like my only friend was being ripped away from me.
“Stay strong, Natalie!” Lucine yelled loud and proud. “You can do this!”
Speechless, I could only raise my hand in farewell.
Lucine lives on
It’s a shame the psych ward didn’t let me keep in touch with Lucine. All I ever wanted was a friend like her. But I think I made the best of my time there. Many others lashed out and acted out. And, rightfully so. That place was horrible. I squashed all my desires to scream bloody murder and cry rivers of tears. I didn’t want to give the staff any reasons to extend my stay. I still can’t believe how many of those beautiful children were forgotten and neglected, with stories and lives that no one heard or valued.
Today, I am free of all my suicidal ideation. I want to believe that Lucine has found that same freedom. She was not the type to give up.
On occasion, when I’m driving through the countryside and see horses in their pastures, free as can be, I can’t help but think of Lucine. A decade has passed, and I have no way of knowing for certain. But I just know deep in my soul that Lucine is still here with us. I know that she’s somewhere out there, riding bareback in the California sun, her blonde hair trailing behind her, forever free of the monsters in her head.
“I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice.”
~ Red, The Shawshank Redemption
Photo by Joonas Sild on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/photos/empty-bed-bpMiUGF2Cps
To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.
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My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms that manifested as crippling anxiety, depression, obsessive compulsive symptoms (in the form of religious and moral scrupulously), extreme dissociative symptoms, insomnia, sleep paralysis, night terrors, and narcolepsy. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently “messed up” and broken beyond repair. I spent about a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it, managing all this while attending school and holding full-time jobs. I thought the way I felt in my body was “normal” because I had no sense of what the other side was.
♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡
Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Humans are social creatures, so the things that happen to us really can affect our nervous system, and the body reacts accordingly. The types of trauma that cause CPTSD can affect the brain long term and shrink the size of the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. I believe everyone has the power to tell their story if they wish, and it is up to them if, when, and how they choose to do so. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I kept quiet about mine. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.
♡ My Story ♡
In general, I endured multiple types of traumas throughout my formative years, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty, some of which caused me to have to switch environments. Due to what I was going through, my body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I felt guilty for simply existing. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping, so I couldn’t fathom what was going on. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did.
The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in — religion and the medical system itself — caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.
As an empath, I absorbed the negative emotions of others as if they were my own, and I did not know how to release them from my body. In my solo healing process, I had to quite literally disappear from everyone and everything to protect my vulnerability and allow myself to process what I had been through during my formative years using my own mind and body without the persuasion or invasion of others.
♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡
What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain, even if others did not believe in me.
Many CPTSD survivors receive numerous diagnoses before ever hearing anything about complex trauma, and some are overmedicated to try and “fix” their symptoms, usually to no avail and with further side effects. I was told I would need to “manage my symptoms” and be on medication for the rest of my life. It was all lies. Today, I am on zero medications (including sleep medications) and am completely divorced from the disease management system.
♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡
I am excited to share many tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome my complex trauma symptoms like extreme dissociation, excruciatingly painful flashbacks, severe sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, worthlessness, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I have so many exciting tips to share related to grounding, nervous system regulation, somatic healing, and more to offer survivors other ways they can learn to regulate their nervous systems on their own without spending any money. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.
I am on a journey of rediscovering who I am at my core after letting so many other people infiltrate my mind for far too long. The five most important things to me in my life (in order of importance!) are: my health, my happiness, my family, my friends, and my creativity. My parents, my sisters, and my friends are my absolute rock and biggest cheerleaders. They were cheering me on all those years, fully believing that I was capable of overcoming my excruciating pain, even when I did not believe so myself. While I was repeatedly able to forgive others and extend the olive branch, I was never able to forgive myself. My loved ones kept telling me that there is nothing I need to feel humiliated about and that I should be able to see what everyone else sees in me. I have finally given that kindness to myself and have started to see what other people saw in me all along. I am so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable.
I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I know that I still chose to keep a smile on my face and be kind in the face of it all. In reality, it’s because I didn’t want another person to go through even one ounce of the suffering I was in. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. My story is not a story of defeat but a story of victory.
I hope that by sharing my story, I can convince other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did not become a voice for the voiceless and share how I overcame it. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.
“My story isn’t sweet and harmonious like invented stories. It tastes of folly and bewilderment. Of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.” ~ Hermann Hesse
~~~~~
♡ Personal Blog ♡
To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com
