I surely can’t be the only one to pin myself up against the wall and peek through the curtains, waiting for the knocking to stop. Have you ever begged the universe to please let the person on the other side of the door be the UPS guy, so you know he’ll be on his merry way? Once, I hid for an hour because someone wouldn’t stop knocking. I didn’t care what they had to sell; I didn’t want it. I didn’t care what they had to say; I didn’t want to hear it. As it turned out, no one was at the door. I’d been hiding from a persistent woodpecker that had decided to tap manically on the side of my house.

Unfortunately, its Morse code failed to reach the logical parts of my brain; I only felt a wave of “baseless” fear. 

After a lot of therapy and work to regulate my nervous system, I have fewer of the moments I described above. I’m getting better at answering the door. These days, I often voluntarily leave my hidey hole to “connect” with others and even socialize.

I’ve come a long way in recognizing moments of emotional hijack, but I still have work to do.

For example, I’m writing this article because I’ve fled my house like a refugee. I’m not in danger, but I feel like I am. Why? Because an event in my neighborhood has suddenly swelled the population of my small community. It’s amplified my general fear of unexpected visits from people. Why would I feel fear in this context?

It’s simple. The anxiety around the unknown catapults me into a state of panic, locking me in terror about what could come next. When my safety feels compromised, naturally, my fear responses kick in. Having a sense of “control” of my surroundings makes me feel safe.

Usually, I’m able to ground myself and connect with the logical parts of my brain that know I’m safe. I’m getting better at working through these mental and physical nightmares. Other times, my fear responses do all the talking. All humans have fear responses, which are automatic, survival-driven physiological and psychological reactions designed to keep us safe.

These responses came in especially handy in prehistoric times when the threat of being mauled by a predator in the wild wasn’t out of the question. In modern times, this bodily and mental alarm system is less necessary most of the time. For those of us who have lived in persistently dangerous situations like chaotic childhood homes or in abusive relationships as adults, however, these fear responses have gotten a regular workout.

Our nervous systems, already hardwired by nature to fight, flee, freeze, or fawn in the face of danger, often become dysregulated. Our mind and body learn to “warn us” in situations that don’t warrant fear in most people because something about the moment sets off the alarm bells in our overstimulated nervous systems. Suddenly, we’re off to the races, held hostage by our go-to fear responses.

Depending on the situation, I freeze and play a solo game of possum, or, if possible, I flee. Although the logical part of my brain steps in sooner than it once did, it can be tricky when I’m going through a depressive slump. My whole system is just enough off kilter that it doesn’t take much to shift into the fear responses that feel as natural as breathing. Add a hefty dose of depression to the mix, and I find myself on the floor looking at dust bunnies long after the knocking has stopped. 

In fairness, my tendency to avoid people is partly a natural extension of my introverted nature. I need my space to recharge. But it’s more than that.

I think, like so many things, it’s related to trauma. For years, I made myself invisible in a way that extended beyond garden-variety introversion. Some of my reactions cannot be attributed solely to wanting to avoid attention or to being mentally drained from too much “on” time. Wanting to avoid people is one thing, but when fear suddenly pulsates through your body like an angry heavy metal song, it’s a clue that there’s more at play.

These strong physical reactions can be debilitating. Avoiding them can become a way of life.

Over time, I learned to avoid connections altogether. No matter the setting—my child’s baseball game, the office, or even the bread aisle at the grocery store—I shielded myself from others’ eyes and interest. These habits started in childhood; I learned early on to blend into the background and hide my presence. When I was quiet and withdrawn, I was out of sight, out of mind. I mastered a kind of isolated invisibility, and for good reason. I did this because I learned early on that people are unpredictable and can be dangerous. Danger can, in fact, be on the other side of your door. 

Accustomed to recoiling or running away in fear since I was in diapers, I’m working to retrain my body. I’m trying to convince myself that not everyone and everything is dangerous. I’m working hard to pull myself out of the shadows. The protective bubble around me is expanding while my perpetual anxiety around the possibility of getting hurt shrinks incrementally. The weight of my self-doubt and fear of falling short or being too much is finally receding. Many days, I succeed in this effort to free myself from the shadows.

I challenge myself to “put myself out there” or, at the very least, not run away. It usually turns out okay. Some days, I take significant strides beyond the dark weight of the shadows. On those days, it feels good to be “seen” after all these years of feeling invisible.

Other days, like today, I silently beg the universe to grant me an invisibility cloak. In these moments, I feel frozen in a place I no longer want to live. At the same time, I realize it’s okay to sit in these dark places and hide occasionally…as long as I don’t linger. Sometimes “hiding” is an act of self-care, but there’s a point when self-imposed social isolation transitions into unhealthy territory. I’m learning where that line is and how I can best support myself in those moments of unsolicited terror.

For a long time, I thought I was the only one who experienced this ongoing battle between a desire for invisibility and a desperate plea to be “seen.” I’m finally realizing I’m not alone in this struggle.

I’ve met more and more people like me over time. I’m one of many hiding in the safe cove of the shadows. Others take back stairways to avoid contact with colleagues or walk across the street to avoid saying “hi” to an acquaintance on days when even a two-word exchange feels like too much. Some days, the internal overwhelm makes it impossible for me to stretch myself. I occasionally worry that if I share these inner thoughts and fears, I will be deemed “insane.”

If you are reading this, you may be shaking your head in camaraderie on some level. Fortunately, our fear responses have little to do with sanity and everything to do with searching for safety. Many of us feel like we will never be safe, but it’s human nature to seek safety. Because we may find safety in hiding, we may subsequently feel resigned to never being truly “seen.” Wanting to be seen and understood, I think, is also human nature. So, here we find ourselves…at these strange crossroads of wanting two things that feel incompatible. They may feel that way, but that doesn’t mean they are.

I’ll never meet most of the people who read my words, but I can tell you this: I see you. I understand. We may be hiding, but we are not hiding alone. Nor are we invisible.

I recently asked myself, “Where the hell were you kindred spirits when I was in my teens and twenties”? I felt “weird” for hiding from people like a vampire fleeing the first rays of the morning sun. I assumed there was something wrong with me and that I was completely alone in my fear of people.

As it turns out, there was nothing wrong with me; my actions were self-protective. And…I’m not alone in this fear of people. Decades later, I finally realized why I couldn’t find “my people” for so long. I laughed out loud when it hit me: you were hiding too! It’s one of those “funny, not funny” kinds of things. Many of us play an ongoing game of hide-and-seek with the world. We all have our reasons. Sometimes, retreating into hiding is exactly what we need. We’ve earned that right. We also deserve to be seen.

One of the biggest things I’ve learned on my healing pilgrimage is that two opposing things can be true at the same time. We can hide while we also seek, and even in those moments of hiding, we can still be seen. I want to remind all my fellow hiders that we’re never actually alone…sometimes we only feel that way because we’re in hiding. That’s okay, though…we’ll come out when we’re ready. Until then, we can keep each other company. And…when we heal, peek-a-boo world, here we come!

Photo Credit: Unsplash

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She hears the voice of the five-year-old shamed for being overly rambunctious, the 12-year-old who struggles to make friends, the 16-year-old who actively fantasizes about death, the 22-year-old who has no idea what to “do with her life,” the 30-year-old who is too depressed to get out of bed, the 35-year-old mother who can’t seem to find joy in every moment of motherhood, the 41-year-old who erupts into tears during a dental procedure, and on and on. They all chime in.

This person in the mirror itemizes every mistake that she has made throughout her life. She criticizes her inability to form and maintain deep relationships. She nitpicks her physical “shortcomings” and catalogs all the ways she is simultaneously “too much” and “not enough.” Unable to answer the question, she carries these shackles of self-deprecation as “proof” of all that is “wrong” with her.

A part of me, however, stands beside her and sees a survivor. I see that there is nothing wrong with her, but rather the situations she faced. I see a five-year-old child who was just being a kid, her noise and frenetic energy not compatible with my young mother’s exhausted and overwhelmed nervous system. I see a 12-year-old entering my third school in as many years, not seeing a point in making new friends. Besides, I was pretty sure my “peers” couldn’t relate to a parent almost intentionally killing them during the first week of school. I see a 16-year-old hunted by a predator in my own home.

As if that wasn’t enough, that year I felt survivor’s guilt for being able to walk while my then-boyfriend lay hospitalized after becoming paralyzed in a car accident months earlier. I see a 22-year-old who, against all odds, graduated from college but didn’t feel “worthy” of a “real job” or healthy relationships. How could I possibly have known what to do, how to be, in those “normal” contexts?

I tried to be “normal,” but couldn’t define it, and only now do I understand that it is because “normal” doesn’t exist.

I didn’t understand it then, though…I only saw someone who felt “wrong.” It would be another decade before I saw beyond the flaws. Within that old lens, I see a 30-year-old who still didn’t know “what to do with my life.” My shame around this only grew under the unforgiving lens of my mother’s criticism, which she unloaded all at once in an argument. Under the influence of a substantial amount of alcohol, she held nothing back in her assessment of all the ways I’d failed.

Apparently, I have crappy taste in men, and my recent attempt to prove my worth by earning another degree had backfired. Mom berated me for supposedly thinking I’m “smarter than everyone.” I didn’t think that, but her words momentarily stole my will to participate in life, which, according to her, I was failing anyway.

A half-decade later, I see an overwhelmed 35-year-old mother of a one-year-old. They say it takes a village to raise a child; unfortunately, that didn’t apply to me in my mid-thirties because help didn’t exist in places where one might expect it, and I simply didn’t know how to ask for it. That word wasn’t in my vocabulary. Little did I know, I would have one more child, and I was only in the dawn of the exhaustion that is now second-nature. It would be another seven years before I had my first and only 48-hour break from motherhood.

The overwhelm and fatigue, along with an overpowering love for my children, is what finally encouraged me to make some changes in my early 40s. Those changes came with some stark realizations and interesting experiences, like having a breakdown in a dental chair at 41 years old when I couldn’t hold my crap together for another second. As my startled dentist tried to soothe his suddenly sobbing middle-aged patient, I asked myself the same question I always ask myself: “What is wrong with you?” (Sometimes I use other words like “Why am I like this?” and “Would the world be better off without me in it?”)

The problem is, all this time, no matter how I phrased it, I’ve been asking myself the wrong question. There’s nothing “wrong” with me. There’s plenty wrong with the circumstances I’ve faced. The real question should have been, “What is happening to and around you to make you feel this way?”

That question, however, was not written into the original script. Five-year-olds who grow up in healthy, supportive environments don’t ask themselves, “What’s wrong with me?” Ironically, those words often first come from the person or people responsible for providing a supportive and secure environment for that child. Having failed to do that and instead of taking responsibility for their shortcomings, these people sometimes direct the blame to the child.

Over time, their voice(s) mingle with ours, and the question that should have never been asked imprisons us in insecurity. We find ways to justify the question. We stockpile our “failures” and can give you a grand tour of places we went wrong. It’s easy to showcase our faults.

What happens if we turn that logic outward? Think about someone you love. Imagine them internalizing the message that something is wrong with them. How do you feel? This piece, inspired by someone dear to me, was born in my anger at her being held prisoner by the very words that are as present in my head as stars in a night sky. Her self-defacing mantra was also planted by a parent and then reinforced by her own inner voices for decades. I look at her and see bravery, humility, and strength. I don’t see anything “wrong” with her. Instead, my focus narrowed to a person I’ve never met. A part of me fought the urge to deliver an unsolicited, unfiltered piece of my mind to her mother.

How dare she say something so awful to this person who brings so much light to the world? I wrestled with how I could remove the sting of these words from my friend’s heart. How could I possibly convince her that there is nothing wrong with her? How could she believe something so ridiculous about herself?

And then…I silently acknowledged that I’d swallowed the same poison. It was not until I heard those words within the context of a loved one’s internal narrative that I so blatantly questioned them in myself. I, too, had been asked that question by my mother. I, too, believed that since she asked the question (repeatedly), there must surely be something “wrong” with me. I have spent much of my life searching for the answer to that question. I’ve identified a slew of potential candidates, but nothing has felt solidly “right.”

Well…at 43 years old, I finally found the answer to the question “What is wrong with you?” Ready for it? It’s a real nail-biter.

Here it is: not a damn thing. Do I have flaws? Areas for improvement? Weaknesses? Yes, of course. We all do. But there’s nothing “wrong” with me. It is “wrong” that my mother ever demanded an answer to such a ridiculous question. It would be easy to get angry at her the way I did at my friend’s mother. In thinking about it, however, I suspect that they, too, have stood in front of mirrors and asked: “What’s wrong with you?”

Likely, long ago, someone carelessly hurled that very question at them. I think asking that question of another person is a sign of something unbalanced or emotional malnourishment within. I feel compassion for anyone who has asked this question of another, for I know it is born in insecurity.

That’s not to say that I’m not mad. This ridiculous question made my blood boil when my friend acknowledged it as an internal mantra. When I internally admitted that I shared this mantra, I decided I’m not buying it anymore. The fact that these words live within me only renews my commitment to healing. I will not ask this question of my children, and I will do my very best to ensure that their environment does not create inner chaos.

Furthermore, though this question can sweep in at the drop of a hat for me, I will be conscious of its roots. I will rephrase the question. Instead of demanding to know what is wrong with me, I will ask myself what was wrong with the circumstances that created these feelings.

So many of us have been asked this question that shouldn’t be asked. Even worse, it has often been asked by the people we looked to for love. Instead of searching for answers we will never find, let’s reframe the question and consider who asked it and why. When we consider the source and motivation for this question and reword it to explore what was wrong with what we faced, we infuse it with what was missing all along: compassion. There was never anything wrong with us.

We simply did our best to handle things we shouldn’t have had to experience. It’s time to stop trying to answer the question that should not have been asked. So, if you, too, have been asked this ridiculous question, please remind yourself that you finally found the answer: not a damn thing.

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.

I wrote this poem a few months ago, drawing from the well of ancient, long-buried feelings about the first time my mom forced my mouth open and poured Dawn dish soap into it. I was four. Although I had received spankings with a variety of objects over the last year (when her new partner introduced physical child abuse to the mix), this was new. As I choked on the pungent combination of soap, snot, and tears, I grappled with confusion and fear. Soapy bubbles of snot popped around my face, and I struggled to breathe. The soap burned my throat and nostrils. My mom, who had never done anything this cruel, tightly gripped the insides of my elbows, screaming at me to stop crying. 

To this day, I am only half sure what I “did” to bring on that previously foreign punishment. I only have a flash of a memory and clues from what came after to guide me in making deductions about what motivated her to unleash a new brand of assault. It was the first time of many. Washing our mouths with soap became a go-to when a hard smack across the face or tightly gripping our cheeks didn’t suffice after we “said something we shouldn’t have.” Sometimes it was a curse word; other times, an opinion. The times when my mom suffocated my opinions stung the most. 

There’s a little part of me that thinks that the first time I “got the soap,” it may have been after I shared my thoughts about her new partner; I didn’t like him and didn’t want him there. I solidly remember saying such while living in the house where I first choked on soap; whether that statement led to my oral “baptism” or not, I will never really know. I only know that time and time again, my words fell silent. The person who should have listened to me and heard me instead again and again gagged me. Had she asked me why I didn’t like him, it may have saved me from nearly a decade and a half of the sexual abuse and mental abuse that he initiated as early as he did the beatings. 

She didn’t ask, though. Instead, she silenced me. I learned to shut myself up, closing off my thoughts and feelings from the world. I sewed them up tightly within, and over the years, I only allowed them to escape when safely veiled beneath the mask of my poetry. 

I learned to suppress the truth of my reality, even from myself. For the next three and a half decades, I downplayed the cruelty of some of the things I experienced. That’s not to say there weren’t parts of me that knew many of those things weren’t right…that they were downright abusive. Of course, I KNEW that. I just couldn’t allow myself to FEEL it for a very, very long time. If you’re reading this from a place of trauma yourself, I suspect you know exactly what I’m saying.

I didn’t want to feel these things for a simple reason: I love my mom. Despite the cruelty of what I just described, I want to emphasize that she’s not a horrible person. She did, however, do some very bad things. Sometimes, even worse, she didn’t always do the things she should have done to protect her kids…like listen to us when we needed her to hear us the most. I have a lot of very strong feelings around those things. Only in recent years have I allowed myself to acknowledge and truly embrace those hard feelings. Those feelings come across strongly in the poem above. There are parts of me that take issue with some of the lines that erupted from me because they feel too binary. I’ve come to learn that life truly is not and does not have to live on a pendulum of sharp swings from one extreme to another. And…despite my hesitation around this “black and white” perspective, I’m keeping those uncomfortable lines in the poem. Those uncomfortable lines are a part of my truth. I need to feel them just as they are so that I can finally work through them and move forward.  

For me, a key part of moving forward lies in putting words to my experiences and accepting my story for what it is. Sometimes I wonder where my ability to string words into powerful phrases originated. I think that maybe it comes from that place within that was time and time again suppressed, choked, and gagged. When I write, I experience a ferocity of feeling, both freeing and terrifying in its ability to help me find meaning in the meaningless. Again and again throughout my life, I have returned to the refuge of my words. Fortunately, there were some things within me that simply couldn’t be silenced. I clung to the life raft of the words no one could take from me. I disguised my feelings in the poetry I wrote relentlessly as a child and teenager, and even sporadically throughout my adulthood, until a year ago when the floodgates opened, and it ALL began pouring out in a river of emotions. These days, I have again begun to write poetry, and I am learning to write my story in a much more direct kind of way. I’m taking ownership of my words and story. We ALL deserve to reclaim the words and the feelings that were taken from us. 

Scrubbed Innocence

You lit a lava fire that blazes in my throat
Its flames engulf me in fear 
They rage, burning the broken bridges
Between then and here 

In silencing my words, you murdered my trust in you
Violent echoes of the past
Color my eyes in lonely shades of blue
Your mutilation of motherhood 
Cast my world in shadows
A violation of my childhood
left me alone, bearing too much to handle

You suffocated my sense of safety
Left me drowning in my tears
Instead of saving me from my hell
You trapped me in yours

Your cruelty choked my confidence
The scorch of my tears ran through rivers of snot 
You scrubbed away my innocence
Nightmares bubbling to the top

You stood center of some of my darkest hours
You were supposed to be my soft place
You were supposed to be my mother
Instead, I’m left with smoldering embers of an unnamed guilt
The parts of you that loved me
No longer felt

I’m still choking on your brutality
Buried beneath suffering remembered
Your conscience stands empty
After all that I endured, after all the pain you rendered

Photo by Alex Shute 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.

As I listen to Elton John’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” on a loop, I mentally counter the lyrics with the fantasy that the sun will just fall from the sky. Can’t it do me the courtesy of burning out and shrouding me in complete darkness at long last? All it does is illuminate the scorch of my pain. The cruelly ironic side effect of CPTSD is that it often leaves us longing for invisibility even as we are desperate to be seen. It seems to “force” us into actions that are counterproductive to our well-being. Take, for example, my self-imposed exile to a darkened room, where I  repeatedly listen to a song that only makes me sadder. I’m not doing myself any favors, but here I sit.

In a deep depression, compounded by the uncomfortable weight of a generalized sense of claustrophobia, I want to hide from the light. As an added bonus, my seasonal depression, which swings in the opposite direction of what many people experience, buries me deeper in despair. Most people afflicted with Seasonal Depression Disorder experience it at a time of year when the world is overcast, gray, and cold. Meanwhile, in the middle of the hottest and brightest month of the year, I find myself barricaded in a completely darkened room, longing for the forlorn and lazy days of winter to wrap me in a blanket of security. I lay shrouded in the comfortable embrace of darkness and the familiar numbness of profound loneliness. I don’t see any reason to get out of bed or find the light in anything. Right now, I only have room in my heart for darkness.

Part II:

Fortunately, before I sank too deeply into the cave of my pain, my therapist coaxed me from my hole. In the previous day’s therapy session, I voiced profound despair; today, I reached out to her via the patient portal to let her know that the spiral continued downward. She asked if a quick call would be beneficial; that’s usually the part where I say “I’m okay” before covering my head with my pillow. Fortunately, a part of me knows that I don’t want to live that way anymore. I’m tired of burying myself in my head and hiding in the darkness. On the opposite end of the spectrum, my other go-to “coping strategy” of working myself so hard I don’t have time for contemplation also holds no allure. I’m exhausted with being a prisoner of the extreme coping mechanisms that long “saved” me while also suffocating me. Things have needed to shift for a long time, and I’ve allowed myself to shift in increments; I thus accepted my therapist’s offer for a call. Accepting help is a sharp deviation from my usual script. I grabbed hold of the metaphorical hand she offered, partially out of curiosity. What would happen if I didn’t fall into my usual patterns?

Our conversation, short but impactful, represents a slight but mighty shift from my “norm.” The fact that I allowed myself to even participate in an introspective discussion while locked deep in the jowls of depression constitutes a bit of a “miracle.” I am not someone who reaches outward when in despair; instead, I deflate, falling inward. So why wouldn’t I use my coveted vacation time to hide in my room and drown myself in a self-defeating soundtrack of sadness? Knowing my appreciation for Bob Dylan, my therapist encouraged me to change the tune to “Forever Young” and venture out into the sunshine. I said I would try, thinking I would do no such thing. After some contemplation, I admitted to myself that she’s usually right about these things. I begrudgingly dragged my emotionally exhausted carcass outside. 

Part III:

Although I have not teleported into the land of rainbows and lollipops, I am surprised to discover beauty in the day. When I close my eyes, the sun glimmers across my eyelids like glitter. Even as the darkness beckons me inward, I feel the current of hope tugging patiently at my heart. I am gently reminded by the breeze that lands upon my cheek that I will be okay. I’ve changed the soundtrack, and tears of gratitude trickle down my face. I reflect on the irony that the words and sentiment of this song, “Forever Young,” make me think of my Grandma (whose upcoming death anniversary has contributed to my spiral). I reflect on how her “youth” rubbed off on my old soul in many of our moments together. I smile in silent remembrance. I am grateful for the love she planted deep in my heart, even as others stripped me bare. It’s a reminder that things don’t have to be “all or nothing.” It doesn’t have to be pitch dark or glowingly bright. I can sit in the sunlight while feeling the darkness within. I’m in pain, and I’m healing; one does not negate the other. 

Healing is a nonlinear process filled with fluctuating moments of despair and hope, sometimes existing simultaneously. Some days I move forward, and others I fall backward. I often stand motionless. Every once in a while, I take a gigantic leap forward. I am taking it all in stride and am confident that I will eventually arrive at a place where I feel at home in my body and mind. For now, I’ll just sit here, patiently waiting for what comes next.

Lesson Learned:

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves.

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves. Although power may have been out of reach in the small and big moments that eroded our confidence in the world, in other people, and ourselves, we do have the power of choice in the small things as we move forward. Shifting just a little bit can be enough movement to redirect our trajectory in a healthier direction, ground ourselves in the place we are meant to be, and/or return us to our path of healing after we have temporarily lost our footing. Although we can’t change what happened to us, we can adjust trauma’s impact within us. We can learn to dance with, rather than battle with, the ghosts of the past. As a child, I could not liberate myself from the isolation created by the secrets that I carried around like an invisible suitcase. Decades later, I finally have the power to unpack the pain. I can’t change where I was then, but I can change where I am now. I can’t change who I was (or was not allowed to be) then, but I can be who I want to be now. 

Much of the pain I feel today lies rooted in the turbulent landscape of the past; it feels simultaneously ancient and new. The truth is that sometimes I need to wallow in it because when I lived it the first time in real time, I did so in survival mode. I couldn’t sit in anything too long. So, now, as an adult sometimes I do surrender to the pain. I’ve earned that right. And…I don’t want to stay in a place of deep pain. I don’t want the there and then of my life to dominate now. I can still honor what I survived, but I now hold the power to remove myself from the darkness. I can change the song and shift the scenery. Doing this enough times allows me to rewrite my script. 

I think that most of us who live with CPTSD have developed coping mechanisms that, over time, have crystallized into patterns. Although these coping strategies are born in efforts motivated by self-protection, they can hurt us and keep us stuck in places we don’t want to be anymore. None of us is ever going to wake up miraculously healed. Some days, it truly is a matter of just getting through the day. That piece by piece, day by day reality of healing can be excruciating and…it can be empowering. Each day is an opportunity to make small shifts that allow us to change the song and scenery. We can rewrite our script one action and one day at a time. We are the writers and directors of our lives now. 

Photo by Hannah Olinger 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.

Today, I know how to replace the arsenal of unhealthy crutches that once helped me blot out feelings

Last spring, I was surprised by how gut-punched I felt, having decided to take an 18-day hiatus from therapy. Previous lapses in my therapy schedule barely registered on my radar, and if anything, carried mild relief. Although my therapist’s announcement of her upcoming vacation didn’t catapult me into panic, it spawned a slight sense of impending doom. I wondered how I, being fiercely independent and stubborn, could possibly “mourn” a temporary reprieve from therapy. I concluded that I probably felt that way because therapy was working. Fortunately, therapy has taught me a broad range of healthy coping strategies to help me navigate my anxiety around this uneasy experience.

Today, I know how to replace the arsenal of unhealthy crutches that once helped me blot out feelings. I had always buried myself in avoidant activities to get through challenging experiences–to feel as little as possible along the way. Thanks to therapy, however, I viewed “the vacation” as an opportunity to continue healing and growing. And while I sought to savor the time, I admit that I simultaneously dreaded it.

To begin, I identified and discussed my concerns about the break with my therapist. If you’re experiencing anxiety around your therapist’s time off, I encourage you to talk to them about what you are feeling and thinking. It can be a great opportunity for therapeutic exploration and relationship building. If you’re not confident you can make it through the break without additional support, let your therapist know. They may have a fill-in, but at the very least, they can connect you with additional resources. It is okay to need support! 

In preparation for my therapist’s vacation, I developed “counseling vacation plans.” I outlined a list of my needs and identified ways of meeting them. If you’re currently sitting at a table for one in “vacation hell,” or if one looms heavy on the horizon, I invite you to borrow from the list of activities below. Maybe you’ll add a few activities unique to your interests: 

• Mental Health: gratitude journal, intentional breathing, feelings tracking
• Physical Health: yoga, light exercise
• Activities: home projects, writing 
• Connection: outings with friends and family
• Rest and Comfort: nature, good food, movies, and music
• Learning: The stories on this blog helped me immensely and I took advantage of a free trial through “Sounds True” which has a lot of great mental health resources. 
• Security: I initiated a “safety scavenger hunt,” and created a list of things/moments that made me feel safe. 

Being busy doesn’t equate to healthy

I went into the vacation having made a silent agreement with myself that I wouldn’t be “forceful” in doing the things on my list. Furthermore, I limited my tentatively planned activities in areas where I usually bury myself. Being busy doesn’t equate to healthy. I also encouraged myself to approach each experience in moderation. I am happy to say that I succeeded.

You might think, “Good for you, but this is hell.” I get it. Although chock full of lessons and new experiences, these vacations also included moments of spiral, such as sobbing for an hour on Mother’s Day (which is a day that almost always triggers grief and was not an opportune time for my therapist to head out of town). That said, the healing process is full of ups and downs, and life happens whether our therapist is on vacation or not. Ultimately, we need to learn to draw from the strengths within our reach and within ourselves. We can use this time to sharpen and expand our coping skills and experiences. 

I’ve continued to lean into the gifts afforded by the spring vacation, long after it came to an end. For example, I tracked my feelings three times a day and was surprised to discover I found so much value in the exercise that I continued doing it for months afterwards. Doing so shifted my thoughts in a more positive direction. Before the vacation, feeling like a child about to have her favorite stuffed animal snatched from her grasp, I sought a way to “connect” with my therapist in her absence.

Knowing that I draw comfort from music, I asked my therapist what genre of music she likes in the last session before her vacation. As it turns out, we enjoy similar music, and she mentioned an artist I hadn’t listened to much. I entered that artist’s name into Pandora, and it generated a playlist that helped me discover a singer-songwriter I have grown to love. I also experienced an adventure that I might not have embarked on if not for the excuse of my therapist taking time away. I talk about that in my article, “Going With the Flow: Up Life’s River Without a Paddle.” In these ways and more, I came out of the spring vacation even stronger and with new skills (and joys) under my belt. 

From this experience, I also saw that I was increasingly willing to ask for help. Being less afraid of rejection, and at my wits’ end with the stresses of parenthood with minimal support, I recently reached out to my beloved aunt and asked for help. She gifted me 48 hours of freedom from responsibility, which is the longest break I’ve had in eight years. Breaking under the strain of seasonal depression and the anniversary of a loved one’s death, I found myself in need of additional external support. As much as I detest asking for help, I took up my therapist’s invitation to reach out to another therapist (whom I am fortunately very comfortable with) in her absence. The new therapist helped walk me through a transformative experience, which would not have happened had I not sought help. Confiding in another person on this level, I stretched my circle of vulnerability a little bit further.

Was I the picture of complete “sanity” throughout the 18-day springtime vacation? No! How could I be? I’m still navigating the hell that is a “disorganized fearful/avoidant” attachment style while I’m forming the first truly secure attachment of my life. The little girl in me is screaming, “She’s never coming back!” The adult me knows she’s simply on vacation, but that doesn’t stop my fear of abandonment. Part of me wondered if the anxiety I felt was normal.

I know that a lot of people would react the same way–especially for those of us with deep attachment issues. As long as we don’t veer into stalking or violating boundaries, it’s natural to crave the connection we share with our therapists during prolonged absences. It can be a struggle to get through the time without them. That said, as we’re feeling pain around our therapist’s absence, we are likely also benefiting from developing/sharpening our skills to get through it. As we continue to build strong relationships with our therapists, we will be less gripped by the childlike fear of being abandoned by them when they need personal time. Furthermore, it will also encourage us to lean into self-care and other people. The point of therapy, after all, is to establish the tools and connections we need to navigate life in healthier ways.

Another takeaway from this experience: my therapists’ act of self-care was itself a learning opportunity. When my therapist takes a vacation, she’s practicing what she preaches. As painful as it is for me to go however many extra days without the comforting blanket of her presence, I admire her dedication to self-care. Outside of medical leave, I’ve never taken a full week off from work, despite having the flexibility to do so. Like so many other healthy behaviors she has modeled, my therapist taking chunks of time off gives me hope that someday I will give myself the permission to do the same. Breaks in therapy allow us to lean into what we’ve learned in therapy. Accepting our therapists’ need for time away means that we embrace it as an opportunity: we can use this time to support ourselves!

Photo by Guzmán Barquín 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.

It was easy to fall into a language of extremes to define the world around me

For most of my life, I’ve been an “all or nothing” kind of gal. Either all in or all out, I left no space for the forgiving landscape of a “middle ground.” This black-and-white kind of thinking left little room for color in my days. Even though, like many of you, I was wise beyond my years and recognized the complexity of the human spirit from an early age, it was easy to fall into a language of extremes to define the world around me. Things were either all “bad” or all “good.” Words like “always” and “never” wove into my expressions like a chorus line in a song. Sometimes they still do, though not quite as often as they once did. And not quite as loudly.

I don’t always feel hopeful or strong.

Abandoned insecurities masquerade as anxiety
Splintering me into a million shards                                     
I seek safety in an impossibility                                           
A home to isolated and shattered parts                      

The weight of my sadness                                               
Sits idly at their feet until they kick it away           
Severed connection to nothing but loneliness                 
An open rejection of my pain

Forbidden feelings cast love in violence             
Attached to nothing but despair                         
Neglected needs gone cold, I suffer in silence     
Shadows of comfort stripped bare

Choking on my emotions                                                     
I live in desperate loneliness                                 
Where I roll through the motions                                   
That ride a wave of emptiness               

I stand alone in alienated isolation                         
Handing out pieces of unsanctioned love                           
I stand apart from the separation                                   
On this side of never enough

I hurl my love into an open pit and listen for it to land
Wait for the earth to swallow it                                       
Like water soaked up by the sand

This is the truth of abandonment                                       
A malignant curse coated in disgust                         
These are the scars of misaligned attachment         
Raw, gaping, and unversed in trust

My heavy emptiness stands unhealed by time         
There’s only one thing in life that’s permanent and it’s not life                                                                                   
My worth lies untouched by love                                         
A shadow of myself hides beneath the emptiness
Where it is lost between too much and never enough

If you’ve read anything else I’ve written, you may have noticed a strong undercurrent of hope and strength woven within my reflections. Unfortunately, I don’t always feel hopeful or strong. At times, I am crushed by the weight of my pain. The words above capture a jagged sliver of the darkness that sometimes brings me to my knees. As I heal and grapple with tending to my long-ignored attachment wounds, I am furious and gutted by grief. A few steps into my healing journey, I am learning to really feel. The pain was always there, clinging to me like a soaked shirt on wet skin.

Of course, I felt it to a degree, but not like this. The universe has cranked up the volume of my emotions. Sharp lines and vibrant colors have replaced the blurriness that once robbed my vision of clarity. I see my life through new eyes. It’s simultaneously blindingly beautiful and mercilessly gut-wrenching. Not that long ago, I couldn’t feel what I didn’t have in my life. Now I feel it all. I feel all of what I never had, and I hate it. I hate the canyon of loss it has carved into my soul. I hate it even more that my therapist is right when she reminds me, “the only way out is through.” I don’t want to listen to her because I know it means embracing this pain and feeling the burn of its raw rage and gut-churning grief. How can there possibly be more pain? And yet there is.

It’s unfair that so many of us live with these deep wounds that can only heal by being opened again. If you’re reading this and you relate, hugs to you. Then again, if you’re battling an insecure attachment style, you might not want one anyway. Or maybe you want a hug, but are terrified of the implications. It’s one of those things where if you know, you know. I’m not making light of the destruction created by these wounds; I’m simply pointing out that they are the gift that keeps giving and these “gifts” suck. The stupid things don’t have a return policy; they are ours to carry. It’s infuriating. I’m not going to sugarcoat it; this is a crap deal, and we didn’t do anything to deserve this. We have every right to feel the way we do, whether it’s rage, sorrow, denial, or an unappetizing stew of all these feelings.

Many of us find ourselves suffocating beneath the unforgiving weight of this heavy emptiness. Unfortunately and fortunately, even though we may often feel alone, we are not. As I mentioned in my article, “The Club We Never Asked to Join,” many people share similar experiences and feelings. Thanks to the way our traumatic experiences have disfigured our ability to connect without fear, we may doubt that we can be loved and that it is safe to love others. Love can feel like the riskiest feeling of all. Recently, I realized that I’m terrified of embracing love because in my mind, it so often comes with strings and/or a price. This discovery of my distorted thoughts about love ignited my rage. It also solidified my commitment to doing everything I can to heal the wounds I’ve carried for decades.

Although our strength and hope are at times submerged, it doesn’t mean they’re not there. They are there. If they weren’t there, we wouldn’t be here right now. We’ll get through this. We always do. I have to think that when our wounds heal this time, thanks to the tender love we give them, the scarring will not carry the sting that it started with. I also believe that we will come out the other side with a relieved and much-earned smile on our faces. Mine will be a little bit cocky because I just can’t help it. Love has its place in the world, but sometimes it’s okay to be fueled by the fumes of our rage. I will heal this gaping, bloody abyss because I’m irate and I’m too stubborn not to at least try. I hope you do as well.

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP 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.

Usually, with the flames barely contained, I walked away from the embers, the pain invisibly burning holes in my soul

In previous rounds of therapy, after the crisis or crises had settled, I never stuck around long enough to dig too deeply into the still-hot cinders. Usually, with the flames barely contained, I walked away from the embers, the pain invisibly burning holes in my soul. But…a few things were different this time. For one, my therapist responded to my rage with what I would later learn is the most powerful resource of all, and we all possess it; her compassionate state of “Self” hit me with the intensity of a firehose on full blast. Her soothing nature, ability to bring clarity to chaos, and courage to remain calm amid my meltdowns ignited my curiosity. Trained to conceal my feelings, I couldn’t understand how she didn’t admonish me for my uncharacteristic, dramatic display of emotions. I was so intrigued that I decided not to ghost her after she helped me extinguish the blow of the most recent inferno.

In hindsight, my foray into feelings in those early sessions suggests that something in me was tired of my lifelong pattern of skimming the surface of my problems. Instead of retreating after smothering the flames, I paused long enough to survey the ravaged landscape around me. Devastated by what I saw, I knew I didn’t want to pass this world on to my kids. Exhausted and defeated, I was sick of choking on the smoke of the past and crawling from one fire to another. I was tired of fighting fires alone, and I finally had a therapist who seemed to see through the smoke and flames. She recognized that beneath my molten lava rage lay the embers of one compounded (largely ignored) trauma after another.

Realizing I had an ally to help lead me out of this fiery hellscape, I began resurrecting myself from the still-smoldering ashes of the past. I turned inward and began exploring the sources of my internal “fires.” Without the flames dancing around me, I finally had the mental capacity to learn skills that could not only help me deal with the present chaos but also give me the stability to dive deeper into past traumatic experiences. With an Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) score of 9.5 out of 10 (because I stubbornly refuse to accept full “points” for two of the criteria), it’s been an odyssey through hell. Although the healing process started with a firehose, the efforts to dampen the scorch of long-neglected trauma have been gradual, but productive. Over the past year and a half, I’ve sometimes extinguished one fire only for another to start. Through all of this, I have persevered in a renewed effort to inspect my “faulty wiring” and to assess the hostile conditions that sparked the fires. The initial lag of this work finally freed me from the shackles of survival mode.

And…just when I began to feel the blossoming fruition of unfettered joy, everything began to sour and darken. After four decades of moving from one fire to the next, the slow, painful excavation and examination of my long-held maladaptive beliefs incinerated my newly found sense of peace. Much of this anxious awareness has risen to the surface since starting Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy a month ago. It’s working. Almost too well. EMDR can be a highly effective treatment, but it can come with unpleasant physical effects and provide insight into things that previously hid in the dark. Add to this new-to-me therapy, severe seasonal depression, and the reignition of an old fire (or rather, a fresh perspective of an ongoing problem), and I am suddenly finding myself once again gasping for breath. Almost overnight, a fresh wave of depression has pulled me below the surface. The colors and sounds of the world are suddenly too much and I struggle to draw myself out of bed each morning. I gag on the “truths” I’m discovering about how I view myself and the world. I am devastated to discover that despite my beautiful family and my accomplishments, I am crippled by the belief that I am alone and I am terrified of abandonment. Somewhere along the way (pretty early in life), I became convinced that people are dangerous, feelings are unsafe, and I am worthless. With these painful discoveries, the sunlight within has withered into pungent decay.

This decay, however, will eventually give life to new growth. I, like so many of you, am a survivor and a little darkness (okay, fine, sometimes pitch blackness) will not scare me from this path. I am fighting with everything I have to not just pull myself from this darkness, but to revive my commitment to my healing journey. I am strong-willed and appreciate a good challenge, no matter how painful. Sometimes the pain propels me to dig my heels in even deeper. I will accept the next leg of this journey, even if it is filled with fatigue and a choking sense of claustrophobia. Tempted to escape the intensity of each sound and sight by retreating to the sweet and silent shelter of dissociation, I will continue to face life’s “fires” that I long suppressed. I feel like I have a sunburn and the world is clawing my tender skin, but I will not retreat into the shadows.

Like last time and unlike all the times before, I will stay put to move forward. I have already made it through so much, and I will not stop fighting for freedom from this pain, though I doubt I’ll ever be wholly emancipated from the shadows of my past. Still, I continue building the resources, strength, and support I need to wake from the nightmares of yesterday and get through future crises.

Thanks to decades of experience with depression, I know that eventually the pendulum will swing the other way. With that shift, like always, I will carry the lessons learned in pain to the other side. This time, I will also carry the lessons of healing. I have accepted that the road to healing is not linear, nor is it static. A healed version of ourselves does not lie positioned at the apex of a mountain. Life, whether filled with trauma or not, has its natural highs and lows; I’m riding a low at the moment. The shadows that dampen the light within will not stay. No matter how strongly the fires around me rage, they cannot extinguish the glow of the fire within me. I am a fighter, and I will keep fighting for freedom from the maladaptive beliefs that threaten to suffocate me. I will not suspend my ongoing efforts to tend to the gaping attachment wounds that leave me hollow. I will continue to persevere, just as I always have. This time, armed with more resources, support, and strength than I’ve ever had, I’m fighting fire with fire.

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.

The awakened possibility of feeding this long-denied hunger is both overwhelming and intensely satisfying.

I am writing this a few weeks after learning I randomly lost ten pounds in a month…without diet, exercise, or effort. I don’t own a scale because I don’t want to be ruled by one. The only time I see a scale is when I visit the doctor, because I don’t care what number it generates. I haven’t always been so cavalier about my weight. Like so many others, I long struggled with insecurities about my body. Ironically, as I’ve aged and my body has taken on a mind of its own, I’ve finally found self-acceptance. 

These days, I don’t get worked up about the number on the scale…until recently. Last month, I had two doctor appointments, scheduled just over a month apart, including the typical pre-appointment weigh-in. I was alarmed by a sudden dive in my weight. Although I’m still 20 pounds north of having a body mass index (BMI) that is considered “normal,” I feel healthy, and that’s good enough for me. So what if I’m “overweight.” Not particularly attached to labels or popular culture definitions of beauty at this stage in my life, I had no strong feelings around that transition other than concern. As I’m creeping into the early days of middle age, I am becoming more concerned about my health. I derailed the scheduled appointment to review my health history with my doctor. I wanted to identify the “culprit” behind my random, unplanned weight loss. Six blood tests and a CT scan later, I learned that I was mostly healthy. With a loaded Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) score, I’m not particularly surprised that my blood pressure and cholesterol are a bit high in my early 40s. A sudden drop in weight, however, generated genuine surprise. That said, as of right now, there is no medically “provable” explanation for randomly accomplishing what I never could with diets and exercise regimens.

So what else could it be? A few things, I think. For one, I am finally living more fully in the present. I don’t feel locked in a constant state of flight or freeze, which are my go-to fear responses, though I’ve also been known to fight and fawn. Waves of the stress hormone, cortisol, less often flood me. I have long heard that elevated levels of cortisol can contribute to increased abdominal fat and impact the body’s ability to use insulin effectively, but I never really believed it. Not so long ago, I didn’t realize I could turn down the stress valve in my life, so I can understand why I would not have wanted to see the connection between a constant flood of cortisol and retention of fat. I can’t really prove a connection between spending less time locked in fear responses and my weight loss, but I have to imagine that not being inundated with a stress hormone around the clock has to be a good thing, right?

Although I’m not counting calories or hitting the gym, I am taking care of myself in other small ways. I’ve slowed down and I am committed to spending more time engaged in activities that support my mental health. As I examine the traumas I’ve experienced head-on, I am less prone to relying on some of the coping mechanisms I long used to submerge them. Ironically, a year ago, when I was still locked in my longtime favorite defense mechanism (workaholism), it was common to physically exert myself for 12 hours at a time on laborious weekend yard projects. Although considerably more physically active, I was emotionally drained. All. The. Time. I’ve actually cut back on physical exertion while increasing time spent relaxing, and it seems to be paying off.

Additionally, although I didn’t recognize it without the guesswork of my always astute therapist, I may have inadvertently cut back on emotional eating over the last couple of months. I had never really had a conversation about my stress eating with my therapist, but she’s a great listener. She probably recalled the multiple times I talked about the joys of all-you-can-eat sushi; in fairness, I didn’t discover I liked sushi until two years ago, so I’m catching up on lost time. (The only thing that stops me from eating it daily is the price tag.) My therapist probably also mentally noted my casual mention of stocking up on chocolate chips, chocolate syrup, and cocoa powder in fear of increased prices. I never told her about my “stress stash,” but my thinly veiled obsession with food probably gave me away. She was right, though. I have long fluctuated between mindless eating and conscious “stress eating” to try to lift myself out of the fog or pain. If you’ve ever found yourself hiding in the pantry, rabidly devouring a hidden candy bar like a raccoon raiding a dumpster because you’ve “had enough,” you know what I mean. In the past few months, though I continue to be a “foodie” (that’s never changing), I haven’t felt compelled to keep my “stress stash” stocked to the hilt. I call on food less often to “save me” the way I once did…not that long ago. Similar to the way my approach to life in general is changing, I have taken a more “moderate” approach to eating than my previous all-or-nothing ways. I’m finding balance.

The pain doesn’t have to devour us, and it’s OK to sink our teeth into the sweet flesh of life. Healing is the ultimate act of nourishment. Bon appétit!

I suppose that collectively, all of these things add up to weight reduction. These things also all circle back to healing. Healing is hard work, but I’m coming to believe that living in survival mode around the clock is actually much more taxing on our bodies and minds. Because I’m not a natural optimist and because I don’t really care what I weigh as long as I don’t have to buy new clothes, I’ll probably regain the ten pounds I so mindlessly shed. In this experience, however, I think I also gained insight into the things I really need to nourish my soul. I’m not going to lie; sometimes I do need to gorge myself on all-you-can-eat sushi and dip into my chocolate stash. But, I also need rest, self-compassion, and connection. We all do. It’s okay to savor the ordinary and to live in the moment. The pain doesn’t have to devour us, and it’s OK to sink our teeth into the sweet flesh of life. Healing is the ultimate act of nourishment. Bon appétit!

Photo by Mick Haupt 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.

Like so many others living with CPTSD rooted in childhood trauma, my parents couldn’t regulate their emotions

Like so many others living with CPTSD rooted in childhood trauma, my parents couldn’t regulate their emotions. They dismissed and sometimes even punished me for expressing my feelings. As a child, I heard the line, “I’ll give you something to cry about” A LOT. This well-worn threat often culminated in a beating or a mouthful of dish soap if I said something “disrespectful.” The wounds delivered by the mental impact of their words cut just as deep. Their words loosely translated to the message that my feelings were not warranted.

Over time, I learned to bottle up my emotions, shunning them like dirty secrets. I mastered the ability to hide my feelings and the most vulnerable parts of myself from the light of day, which often left me living in the dark. As a teenager, I wrote: “Crash these colors in my head. I’m emotionally sterile again. I hope you’re happy, because I can’t be. My dreams are full of lead.” Like so many childhood trauma survivors, I excelled in the art of self-suppression to preserve a mostly false sense of “safety.” Now, decades later, I’m living in the toxic afterglow of this emotional negation. As my young children learn about regulating their emotions, I am finally learning this rudimentary skill alongside them. In doing so, I’m learning to acknowledge my feelings about the things I wasn’t allowed to express as a child. I’m discovering I have every right to feel the way I do, even if I fight myself on feeling the sting of the truth.

Though not an end-all, be-all fix, I discovered a potential elixir for the mentality that my feelings don’t matter, and by extension, the belief that I don’t matter. By reframing my experiences, I unearthed a counter-narrative to the never-ending mental loop that has long berated me with the message: “Stop whining…it could have been worse.” If you’re nodding your head in silent camaraderie, I invite you to try something that helped me acknowledge and accept the weight of my experiences for what they were.

I’m discovering I have every right to feel the way I do, even if I fight myself on feeling the sting of the truth.

Think about a loved one. Are they in your head? Now set them down into your life and imagine them living the experiences you so casually dismiss. Is your mind and body flooded with the urge to rescue them? Are you deeply disturbed that they are facing these horrors? Are you thinking something like, “No one deserves to go through that!” Now, look in the mirror and ask yourself why it’s okay for you to have lived through that. I imagine this mental exercise played out similarly to what I experienced when my therapist applied this little script adjustment to my self-defacing narrative. Awash in fear and anxiety for the person I mentally set in my life, I immediately wanted to remove her from the very pain I had so casually dismissed when applied to me. I couldn’t bear to imagine her being crushed under the weight of the experiences that pulverized my innocence as a child. Here’s where this exercise made a turning point for me: These waves of empathy for this other person were quickly followed by a rush of compassion and love for myself. I lived through things I shouldn’t have had to endure.

Through these eyes, I can finally acknowledge that while it is true that others do indeed unfortunately have it worse, that does not diminish the pain of my experiences. Also, just because my childhood also included bouts of happiness does not mean that these positive experiences erase the painful things I am fighting tooth and nail to work through. These things can exist in tandem and are all valid experiences. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing, and in fact, things rarely are that way. It’s okay for me to appreciate the valuable lessons I’ve learned from the heartaches I’ve endured, while being irate that I had to learn such lessons in this way. I’m not suggesting that we marinate in our trauma or wear it like a badge. I am, however, saying that we deserve to grant ourselves credit for making it through whatever nightmares we lived. We have a right to call it what it was. It’s okay to call yourself a survivor and acknowledge what you survived.

When we acknowledge what we survived, we are acknowledging who we are and giving ourselves credit for where we are right now. If you’re reading this, it’s likely because you’re making an effort to free yourself of the chains of trauma. Coming from someone doing the same, I just want to say good for you! Keep at it. This sounds annoyingly congratulatory, but I’m saying it from the bottom of my heart. I know it’s hard, hard work that, frankly, we shouldn’t have to do. I think that’s the part that bothers me; I’m cheering us all on for running a marathon that we never wanted to run. That said, if we only focus on the fact that we never wanted to be in this “club,” we can easily overlook what we’ve overcome. We deserve more than that because, despite having so many choices cruelly removed from our grasp, time and time again, we made the choice to keep going.

We are still going. No longer at the mercy of those who hurt us, we are laying claim to the feelings that fear and dissociation stole from us. Learning to feel for the first time and facing our experiences for what they were is not easy. It’s painful, messy, and downright annoying. But…our feelings matter. We matter. We’re still here, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not shutting up or tuning out anytime soon. I’m done biting my tongue and hiding from myself. I’m done being alone, making myself small to fit into narrowly defined expectations, and letting the pain color my perception of the world. After all, if we’re going to be a part of this club we never signed up for, I think it’s only fair that we write the “rules” and have a say in where we go from here.

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

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