Drowning in Drama: When Calm Feels Like a Threat Instead of a Relief
The most misunderstood trait in trauma survivors isn’t volatility, mistrust, or emotional escalation. It’s the fact that many of them can’t tolerate peace. Not because they’re wired for chaos by choice—but because the traumatized body doesn’t recognize calm as safe.
For survivors of long-term relational trauma, especially those with complex post-traumatic stress strains, calm feels suspicious. Silence can register as danger. Something on a normal Tuesday afternoon might stir up the same physical warning signals as a life-or-death emergency. And when life gets too quiet, the nervous system doesn’t say, “Ah, finally!”—it says, “Brace yourself.”
This is not a personality quirk. It’s a biological glitch rooted in trauma adaptation and reinforced by an overstimulated digital environment that keeps survival patterns running on a loop.
Before smartphones, the system had natural limits.
We couldn’t talk 24/7. Long phone calls, handwritten letters, or occasional drop-ins served as the main outlets for emotional expression. There were enforced pauses: time gaps softened intensity. We had the chance to catch our breath.
Now, constant contact is normalized. One person’s panic can be offloaded onto someone else with a single swipe. Notifications hit like lightning strikes. The nervous system barely gets a second to recalibrate before another wave of adrenaline spikes. The result? We’re watching generations of trauma survivors stuck in a real-time panic loop with no built-in off switch.
Only, it doesn’t look like “doing the best we can” survival behavior from the outside. It looks like drama. Overreaction. Manipulation. People start using words like “toxic” or “high-maintenance.” And because it’s happening in group texts, comments, Discord servers, and encrypted messages, it creates the illusion of choice—like the survivor is selecting chaos, rather than reflexively reenacting it.
But chronic hypervigilance isn’t a lifestyle.
It’s the symptom of a system that has felt unsafe for so long that it doesn’t know how to stand down.
Behavioral science and trauma research have already mapped the internal terrain.
A dysregulated amygdala—essentially the brain’s alarm system—fires prematurely and doesn’t shut off efficiently. The prefrontal cortex, responsible for rational judgment, gets overridden. Survivors are conditioned to feel like they’re responding to something life-threatening, even when nothing’s wrong. In clinical terms, the threat is gone, but the body doesn’t know that yet.
In these cases, the survivor doesn’t want drama.
But they don’t know how to trust the absence of it.
The brain, wired for pattern recognition, starts to correlate calm with the start of something worse. If the abuse always came after a good moment, that becomes the template. The body prepares itself, emotionally and physically to feel poisoned when things are nice and pleasant. It can’t relax, even though life got better. The wiring needs time—and structure—to rebuild.
That’s where things get even more complicated.
Some trauma survivors struggle with far more than stress symptoms. They also show clinical traits that resemble or overlap with personality disorders. This isn’t pathology in the traditional sense–it’s behavioral adaptation shaped by years of inconsistent attachment, emotional neglect, or outright abuse. Common overlaps occur with Borderline Personality Disorder and Histrionic Personality Disorder—both of which involve intense emotion, identity diffusion, and an unstable sense of relational security.
These traits, under strain, can look explosive in the digital world. The need for response, reassurance, and reactivity becomes relentless. Every pause feels like abandonment. Every comment feels like rejection. For the person on the receiving end, it can feel like emotional blackmail. But to the survivor, it feels like the edge of a giant cliff.
Add in technology—platforms designed to bypass patience and reward immediacy—and the entire situation escalates in a matter of minutes.
This is where compassion fatigue sets in.
Not because the supporter doesn’t care, but because their capacity gets exhausted. Every ping starts to feel like a threat. They go silent. The survivor feels abandoned. The cycle repeats. Emotional debt builds on both sides.
The solution isn’t cutting off the connection, though that’s often what happens. The actual fix is introducing digital boundaries that protect both parties. Not rigid rules disguised as punishments—but carefully defined limits that reduce reactivity and reintroduce appropriate pacing.
Mute is better than block. Scheduled responses help more than open-ended replies. Short, honest statements like “I can’t respond to everything, but I still care” preserve trust without sacrificing sanity. Most importantly, removing the guilt tied to these boundaries is essential. Real compassion isn’t measured by how fast someone replies. It’s measured by they can thoughtfully stay well in the relationship without burning out.
This isn’t just emotional hygiene–it’s ethical care. Survivors need time and repetition to rewire their survival responses. Supporters need respectful bandwidth to stay human. Technology, while useful, tends to make everything feel urgent when it’s not.
Understanding this doesn’t mean that we are excusing anyone’s behavior. Rather, we are promoting clarity.
When someone constantly collapses under the weight of a good moment, they’re not trying to ruin it. They’re trying to prepare for loss. That’s not immaturity–it’s traumatic muscle memory.
And until the body learns that calm is safe and silence isn’t a setup, every good thing will feel like bait.
Final Thoughts
Chronic crisis behavior isn’t a personality issue. It’s a conditioned reflex amplified by the pace and permanence of modern communication. Not everyone feels peaceful when there is peace, and constant digital access can be extremely disruptive. What happens is that the line between survival and sabotage blurs. And while we know that boundaries don’t fix trauma, they do create the structure needed for something far better than survival: stability.
That’s not drama. That’s science.
Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.
References:
Figley, C. R. (2002). Compassion fatigue: Psychotherapists’ chronic lack of self-care. Journal of Clinical Psychology, 58(11), 1433–1441.
McEwen, B. S., & Morrison, J. H. (2013). The brain on stress: Vulnerability and plasticity of the prefrontal cortex over the life course. Neuron, 79(1), 16–29.
Herman, J. L. (1992). Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror.
Van der Kolk, B. A. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma.
Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash
Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.
Dr. Mozelle Martin is a retired trauma therapist and former Clinical Director of a trauma center, with extensive experience in forensic psychology, criminology, and applied ethics. A survivor of childhood and young adulthood trauma, Dr. Martin has dedicated decades to understanding the psychological and ethical complexities of trauma, crime, and accountability. Her career began as a volunteer in a women’s domestic violence shelter as a hospital advocate, later becoming a Police Crisis Therapist working alongside law enforcement on the streets of Phoenix. She went on to earn an AS in Psychology, a BS in Forensic Psychology, an MA in Criminology, and a PhD in Applied Ethics, ultimately working extensively in forensic mental health—providing psychological assessments, crisis intervention, and rehabilitative support within prisons and jails. Dr. Martin is also pursuing advanced legal studies at ASU Law, focusing on internet/cyber-defamation and constitutional law to advocate for stronger protections against targeted professional attacks online. A published author and lifelong student of life, she continues to explore the intersections of forensic science, mental health, and ethical accountability in both historical and modern contexts.
