I ran across a link to the study titled “Family Experiences Study” when it came across a support group’s combined chat labeled something like PENN State University ACES questionnaire.

Seeing that title pop up on my screen (having a few minutes to kill), I thoughtwhy not?!  I already knew I had 7 ACEs, so I doubted this would enlighten me much, but I was curious about the “science” behind it. So, I answered the questions.

I think I was the third person to share my ‘score’ in response to the post. I did so as a way to communicate that I found the criteria for the study rather unrealistic–impossible even.

The divisions for the results were presented as follows:  

• 0-84 = Non-Clinical Range (unlikely PTSD)
• 85-167 = Subclinical Range (potential for PTSD)
• Greater than 167 = Clinical Range (likely PTSD).

My score was 319. Another member in our support group posted their number, and it was even higher (it smacked my gob good and well!).

I shouldn’t have been that surprised. The survey just confirmed what I already knew. The idea of going from 7 to 319 was a bit of a whiplash, but I recognized that different scales measured different things. Best to not get hung up on numbers.

The amazing thing about this combination of events, and the reason for this little foray, is not the number the test gave me (a score 45 times greater than the number previously in my head): it was the shockwave sent through our online support community.

As one might imagine, since we were all CPTSD types, we were data- and information-oriented. Thus, there was a lot of curiosity about how this survey worked.

*Ping. 245
*Ping. 303
*Ping. 287
*Ping. 333

And on it went. I’m surprised we didn’t freeze the server.

Along with the numbers were lots of jokes:

“What did I win?”

“Hey, I ACEd it.”

“Hold my beer.”

“Perfect Score!” 

Some of the humor got pretty dark.

However, it also provided a sense of validation.

“I feel seen.”

“That was on the nose.”

“I think it’s time to find myself some real support.”

However, we knew that these weren’t school grades and that there was no competition. None of us saw this as a race–and it certainly wasn’t something one might “win.” Overall, there was tremendous support for one another, and it was a beautiful thing to see.

Still, there was one thing that we largely agreed on: how was it possible for anyone to land in the Non-Clinical range?

The idea that there are ideal normal people out there running around with (I’m not sure how to say this) a supportive family, good childhood memories, a yard full of unicorns and bunnies–this was, frankly, unbelievable. Personally, I can’t imagine what it might look like. The concept is completely alien.

Well, good for them, I guess. I hope they realize how fortunate they are. 

To wrap up this little news report (not really a proper essay, is it?), I guess I’ll give a shout out to the researchers at Penn State and a Thank You for providing a resource that let, at least, one CPTSD community laugh, cry, think, and come together in mutual support.

Photo credit: 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.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

As can be attested by thousands of writers, and by the thousand more moldering corpses of writers locked alone in garret attics still vigilantly at their desks pen clutched in hand or face-down over a keyboard, publishers do not come looking for writers. It falls to the writer to produce a piece of brilliance and then to make that humble effort (you gotta be humble, you walk up to an editor saying ‘I’m brilliant, you’ll get shown the door) anyway– you take your humble effort off to do the ’rounds’ of the publishing ecosystem.

This process, universally dreaded by the writing community, is called querying.

So, how does all this tie into Complex PTSD? Like this — In querying there is a great deal of ‘putting yourself out there’ and in Complex PTSD there can be a near-pathological need to ‘be unnoticed.’

Recently I’ve run across yet another area where the demands of querying are in complete opposition to what my brain tells me is safe.

Let me explain a bit about one aspect of my Complex PTSD. In my childhood home, it was much better to be unnoticed. Blending into the wallpaper was an essential skill learned early and perfected quickly.

You didn’t storm off in a huff in my home; you didn’t huff at all if you wanted to avoid the inevitable backlash. My brother was the one who gained attention through challenging authority and risk-taking.

I saw what that earned him in return.

My reactions fell into the ‘fawn’, ‘freeze’, and ‘flight’ range

Nope, that was not my way. My reactions fell into the ‘fawn’, ‘freeze’, and ‘flight’ range. Back me far enough into a corner and I would hit ‘fight’, but you’d have to catch me first and that was not going to happen if I could possibly avoid it.

My brother provoked confrontation; I avoided it.

So, our family proceeded through the day-to day-motions of normalcy, my parents rigidly locked into their roles, me not causing a single ripple in the air with my presence. I perfected personal stealth technology in the 60s.

There would be this stagnation that functioned as the ‘status quo’. Although those days were still somewhere in ‘yellow alert’ status, they were the better days in our house. And, it is a strange thing that when the alternatives are bad or worse, you start thinking of ‘bad’ as–if not enjoyable–at least, not directly threatening your existence.

Yeah, days where the sirens aren’t going off, and the conversation stays in tight monosyllables, are good days. You learn to jealously guard that status quo because it is safe.

How does all this tie into querying?

Well, given the above, I am a person who believes that ‘no news’ is ‘good news’. It means the status quo hasn’t shifted, and the inevitable crash didn’t come today.

Because the crash will come. Have no doubts about that.

However, there are situations in querying that need to be nudged along. The idea, the very thought that I would do anything to break the delicate status quo, is terrifying. It means bringing the crash, provoking that eruption that obliterates everything in its path. And that disaster is only ever a sigh away.

As a result, my thinking goes something like this.

I can stay here, quietly waiting, until I hear a response. If I hear a response.
By sitting here quietly, I could be overlooked. It has happened many times before, because isn’t that what I have practiced and perfected my entire life?
Non-being. Not taking up space. Invisibility.

But, in querying your writing, that survival instinct doesn’t move you to your goal. It shackles you in the shadows.

By putting a hand up, or asking a question, you break the shield of invisibility surrounding you, intentionally. What your experience tells you is an act of pure madness because: ‘no news’ ‘is good news.’

By bringing attention to yourself, you are asking to be removed, denied, or dismissed.

So, what do you do? Sit, patiently for the inevitable to descend or do you send the gentle ripple out into the world that will reflect back to you as a crushing blow?

It’s like a game of Russian roulette, but every barrel is loaded.

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.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

Today’s topic is rather hard for me to define upfront so let me start off with an apology as I try to sidle my way up to my topic.

The idea is a tangle of threads.

Among the contributors are loneliness, social media, emotional manipulation and blackmail, responsibility, and the denial of the same, entitlement, victim claiming and victim blaming. Plus a good deal I suspect I haven’t touched on yet. As I said, it’s a mess and I’m going to have to think my way through this essay very carefully.

First off, what got me mulling over this tangle in the first place?

It is something I have seen repeated again and again in online CPTSD communities. Now let me put in the caveats of not everyone, and not every community, so if you think you’re gonna slam me for absolutism — you can just put that  ‘not all’ comment back in your pocket. I am talking about a phenomenon I have seen several times now in online CPTSD communities.

So what is this phenomena?

It is when a person (person A) enters the space with a great whopping load of ‘Oh poor me the world is so unfair, people are icky and I am the victim of everything.’

Well first off, you’re in a CPTSD forum, so yeah, those things are pretty much a given by most of the folks in here. What else is new? In the specific cases I have in mind the individual went on to proclaim that they needed support. Ok. Fine, that’s pretty much why we are all here, what can we do for you? Slowly the person unwinds their tale of woe. And pretty much folks are like, ‘Yeah, been there done that’ and some ask questions like ‘What have you tried?’ ‘How are you working on yourself?’ ‘Can you see how your actions contributed to your problem?’

This is where things go a bit pear-shaped.

In the instances I have in mind this point is where the person in question jams on the brakes–full stop. And fires questions back like “How dare you not support me fully?’ ‘How can you call yourself a support group, when you are attacking me?’ ‘How can you imply that I did anything wrong because I am the VICTIM? Look at my amazingly long line of ill fortune, neglect, abuse, and suffering.’

Oh, really?

Something interesting happens at this point. In essence, the responses fall into two camps: hawks and doves.  (blankets and bootstraps, maybe?)

Dove’s answers are, in general, the folks in the group who agree with the assessment of Person A that everyone is being icky because they are not rolling out the red pity carpet. They are comforting and validating. Safety blankets, soft landings.

The hawks tend to be the folks asking questions about how Person A’s personality/CPTSD responses might have added to or shaped their perception of events. They tend to ask questions like ‘What are you doing to overcome your CPTSD?’ The bootstrap camp.

Both camps are caring. Both camps want to help. Both camps are needed, at all times. Who hasn’t really appreciated a soft landing when we needed one? Who hasn’t benefitted from some hard questions from time to time?

This is where what I have seen really grows teeth. It is when Person A actively fuels this divide within the community. Their need for chaos and drama drives them, and their responses amplify the differences between these two styles of help. I have seen Person A respond with name-calling, hostility, divisive language, and accusations of victim-blaming. They take no responsibility, they pursue no solutions, they can make no connection between their actions and consequences, and they are present to be soothed and validated, they are owed.

In short, they drain a great deal out of the community and sow division.

In a recent example, Person A came to the group with tremendous loneliness, something almost all of us can relate to very well. In the course of the rambling explanation/complaint of their situation, they described a social experiment they had conducted ‘online’ just to see who cared. It didn’t go as they had hoped, and indeed when their hoax was discovered, many of their online connections severed contact.

Immediately people came to support this person, some as doves, some as hawks, but each one of them cared. The outcome, again was not what Person A wanted. The mere question that their actions provoked some of their connections to leave was met with outright hostility, name-calling, and a good many aspersions flung about.

The generous doves of the group did their best.

And they also tend to have pretty good boundaries and are less likely to buy the “pity me, give me all the validation, because I have had it so hard-line” because– we all have.

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.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

The relationships between those with CPTSD and family are usually difficult. Typically the problems fall beyond the usual ‘you took my sweater’ level of travail.

Last night as I was trying to keep my mind off some of the very many stupid things I could do, I trolled through Facebook. Probably not the best idea at the time. But, hey, emotional storm and compromised rational thought.

So, I see a set of lovely photos posted by my sister-in-law of the family vacation at the lake house. The vacation is currently in full swing, and I am not attending.

I didn’t get left out, even if my fear of missing out is running rampant, I remind myself I bowed out. I declined. I chose to stay at home, in the heat, waking up at 4 am to walk the dog, and again at 7 am, and at noon, and at 5 pm, and at 9 pm. In the daylight hours between dog walks, I try to keep busy. No, edit that, I keep busy. It is a desperate business that sorts the laundry cabinet. It scrubs the baseboards. It mows the yard in 90-degree heat. It drives mindless, repetitive motion.

Anything to keep moving and not to think. I chose this. I remind myself. Every minute that drags by. I chose this.

So they are off having fun and enjoying each other’s company and I am here. Alone. And fighting off a crisis and the urge to do something stupid with senseless housework, while the work I want to do, but can’t face because it would allow me to think, languishes.

Yeah, it’s not pretty. I knew it wouldn’t be. I knew I would feel like I was missing out. Like I was forgotten. Like I was supporting everyone else’s fun, at my own expense. Cue the resentment — everyone gets a vacation, and I don’t.

But, I chose this. Don’t ever forget that part of the equation.

Yeah. SIL is posting vacation photos. And I’m feeling depressed because of FOMO. But I also know that my mental status is not up to it. So I’m sitting here in the metaphorical dark feeling sorry for myself. And my consolation is that at least I’m not ruining things for everyone else.

FML.

Why?

Good question. The reason is in the quoted post above.

Because I knew that I would not be able to handle a family vacation. I was terrified of falling apart or blowing up. And, hey, I’m falling apart. So, I guess I was right. Wasn’t I?

Or have I fulfilled my own worst imaginings? Wait a sec, I’m still here, so not THE WORST imaginings. But, still pretty grim, not a happy place, and sucking majorly. I knew I would struggle with this situation. And I still said – I would rather struggle alone than be with you all.

That sounds pretty damning, doesn’t it?

I should provide some context before you think my husband’s family is some parody of terribleness. They aren’t. They are probably relatively ‘normal.’ But, I don’t know “normal”.

Normal feels, rowdy. It feels loud. It feels crude. It feels seriously uncomfortable. I don’t know normal.

Besides, my family only gets together if there is a corpse in the room, so a life-oriented gathering is really bizarre.

And there are young children and emotions, and I said loud already didn’t I?

Plus I know that MIL isn’t my biggest fan. Hey, she tried to set my husband up with a girl she liked better than me. I’m not exaggerating there. Yeah, that one still stings.

So, a really alien type of setting, all crowded together in a house, having FUN! Their kind of fun. Boisterous, rowdy, loud, drunken, crude, no boundaries fun. And it freaks me out, to one degree or another, every time.

And I don’t do well. I retreat. I shut down. I try to escape. I sleep or try to at least, but that usually doesn’t work well. I walk, a lot. And I spend my vacation, trying to avoid the gathering, as we are all crammed together in one house.

Not a recipe for success.

I don’t want to explode. I don’t want to irreparably damage my already tenuous relationship with his family. So, I chose, as I have several times in the past, to miss out. I choose to isolate myself because it is better than inflicting my emotions on the family.

And there’s the second point of this little exercise. “Inflict my emotions on others.”

I operate, 90% of the time as an automaton. Rational, logical. I can out Spock, Spock. Emotions are dangerous for me. Exhibit A, I’m sitting here writing this so I don’t do anything ‘stupid’.

It’s not that I really like it, but this is how I remain functional. I function. I don’t live, but that is another essay entirely.

But, maybe that thought is a part of this essay.

Emotion, as we are told, is a cornerstone of feeling ‘alive’. So a big part of my journey has been trying to connect with – well pretty damn near anything: my body, my emotions, people. I don’t think it’s going well.

I have come to a point where I have found some of my emotions. Big, scary things like rage and resentment. And I can’t share them. They render me mute. I lose all my words. (You wouldn’t think that from the length of this ramble, but there it is.)

What remains is me, soaking in this unexpressed torrent of emotion. And, even if I could speak, I wouldn’t.

I wouldn’t speak, yell, scream or express myself in any number of ways because in my home growing up showing emotion was dangerous. People left. People hit.

And when it got loud, when the dishes flew, when the walls were punched, and the doors are broken, I hid. I withdrew. I became small. I waited for the quiet after the storm. My emotions I tucked away, well, stuffed away is more accurate. I was the sunny child. I was the happy child. I was the easy child. I had to be, or *poof* people vanished.

I learned to like the house when it was empty. I learned that solitude was a haven. And that the price for my peace was loneliness.

So, yeah, I knew this would hurt and I chose it anyway.

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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

One question I have seen repeatedly about Complex PTSD is “Why am I having to deal with all this NOW? Why not when it was happening? Why 10/20/30/40 years after the fact?”

In the past, I have often explained that when disfunction is your norm – you don’t see it as dysfunction.

Recently I thought this idea needed to grow. While comparing the environment to a minefield works it doesn’t go far enough. The minefield only addresses the environment, while Complex PTSD is the product of how we adapted to that environment.

Think of all those adaptations we learned or created to keep us safe as a wetsuit. See it in your mind and make it as thick or detailed as you like. Maybe you have one of those ‘survival suits’ for the North Sea, light blinking on the top and bright orange. Perhaps your wet suit is more like the body glove of neoprene we often visualize on Navy Seals and Frogmen.*

No matter how you envision your suit to look it all served one purpose – to preserve your life in a hostile environment. By ‘hostile environment’ any diver will tell you – you don’t need sharks to make the water dangerous. The water itself – everything surrounding you – is quite capable of ending you.

That is the mental state in which many of us grew up. Life itself, our most immediate environment posed an imminent threat to our survival. Perhaps there was a shark – a person(s) with the ability to harm you. Perhaps there was not – but your surroundings were as cold as Arctic waters. And some of us endured both.**

To survive we adapted. Those adaptations became the ‘wetsuit’ we wore to help us survive.

Our ‘wetsuit’ served us while we were in those dangerous places. But as we grow, age, we leave the environment(s) that caused us to make those adaptations.

When we no longer need that wetsuit because we have left the freezing water we don’t abandon it. Primarily because we are unaware of it. Those adaptations are integrated. Our ‘wetsuit’ is an intrinsic part of who we are.

Over time, out of that hostile environment, that wetsuit – our adaptations – no longer serve us. The neoprene becomes hot, binding, restrictive, and could even become more than an impairment, but a danger. ***

It is not a sudden appearance of Complex PTSD. We have carried it with us since we entered that hostile place. The reason for the sudden appearance is not because the wetsuit has changed, but because they have changed their environment and no longer need it.

Now – comes the work of peeling that sucker off. And that’s part of the reason you always have a dive buddy. It is easier to get out of the wetsuit when you have help.

At least, that’s one way to think about it.

*Note: I met one of the original ‘frogmen’, once, years ago. His stories were beyond impressive.
**Note: Just imagine a shark wearing a wooly knit jumper.
***Note: A good friend went to a Halloween party dressed as a ‘diver’ – full suit 5mm – almost cooked himself into heatstroke.

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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

People usually don’t understand why I pick “The Lion in Winter.”

That is the film that most closely depicts my family in “The Holidays”. All of us crammed together on our best behavior and underneath everyone seething. So many emotions just under the surface. No one talking about them. Just playing out our roles until time to do it again.

I think my favorite line is spoken by Katherine Hepburn’s Eleanor, “Of course he has a knife, he always has a knife, we all have knives! It’s 1183 and we’re barbarians!”

Don’t get me wrong. My family was not pulling steel over the Holiday bird. Nor did anyone ever get shivved in the kitchen – as far as I know. But, in my family words were wielded as weapons.

My brother’s outright threats were almost a relief from the snide commentary from my father. At least, I knew where I stood with my brother – well out of arm’s reach was a good start.

Mom spent the days prior and the day of any big winter holiday, frantically trying to knit together some type of “traditional” celebration. It was an unspoken law of the house, we were all on notice that we were not allowed to flub our lines, mar the scenery, or otherwise break the illusion. We were going to be a happy normal family, damn it.

For many, many years after I left home I was still drawn back to the family for “the Holidays.” Somehow the idea of ‘not going’ never even – hold on. Yeah, it did register – and the guilt that landed at my feet the times I tried to avoid the celebrations was monumental.

So, I formed a new pattern. I drove three hours, at least, to the chosen spot of the production. Three hours to run through every possible scenario of what could go wrong. An hour to eat, another hour to try to escape, and then three hours driving home where I contemplated driving into a highway overpass, off the side of a mountain, or into a river. Oh, fun times.

Even after I moved a thousand miles away there was still this inescapable, I don’t know what it was. But, even then, it was expected that I would drive a thousand miles and then go ‘a progress’ through the state to visit every uniquely dysfunctional member of the family.

The mind-boggling thing was – I went. I would dread my way down and then try to piece myself back together on the way home. Every year. I look at that now and can see that pattern was genuinely insane.

It hurt to go see my family. It was sharp, dangerous, deadly. I knew this – and I still went. I wonder how many other folks with CPTSD struggle with this need to return to our families of origin even though we know it is not in our own best interest. I can only guess it is because we are still hoping, perhaps subconsciously, for some type of connection.

Since the discovery of my CPTSD I have changed my pattern. I don’t say I have solved all my problems, but I know what my triggers are. I know what an emotional flashback is. I have developed ways to manage myself when I am off-balance or caught in a flashback.

The “Holidays” are not merry, nor happy for me, still. But, they have crawled over the line into the realm of the manageable. And, that is more than I ever thought possible.

Give “The Lion in Winter” a watch if you have never seen it. The Burton/Hepburn version is my favorite, but I’ll admit that the Stewart/Close version also had some brilliant moments.

One day, perhaps, I will be able to look at the “Holiday Season” without my teeth grinding. Until then, enjoy the movie.

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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

For many years, and I know I’m not alone in this, I avoided this holiday in any way I could. I worked. I was “on-call”. I watched a sick kitten. Even sitting here thinking of those past gatherings has my stomach trying to tie itself into knots. Easy stomach. Down boy.

Being an analytical sort I thought I would sit down and dissect exactly what was going through my brain. Plus, it takes me out of the arena of emotions and solidly back on the ground of intellectualism. Hooray for avoidance.

What is Thanksgiving at its very core?

• A historical commemoration
• A family gathering
• A celebration of (something?)
• A time to reflect on what we are thankful for

I have no problem with these ideas.

I believe in commemorating historical events. I don’t believe in most of the myth that surrounds the discovery and early European colonization of the Americas. That is a history lesson for another day.

Family getting together is not a bad thing. Not in the main. Some people simply have ‘chosen’ families rather than biological ones. I know that it is common to trot out the old saw that ‘Blood is thicker than water.’ Indeed, some folks have wonderful, giving, supportive families. Others, don’t.

Celebrating something. Sure. Why not? But, to celebrate something doesn’t require mounds of excess that devolves into this frenzy of acquisition. Again, that is a different essay.

A time to reflect on what we are thankful for. Yes. This is, in my opinion, the reason to celebrate Thanksgiving Day.

So what do I have a problem with? The expectation is that the day will be perfect. That the family will rise to some level of decency and caring that isn’t there the other 360+ days of the year. That in one day we can reach over the chasms between us for appearances. To provide the feeling, no matter how false, that we are a close loving family.

I stopped being able to do that years ago. The mask and the costume wouldn’t fit anymore. I was tired of pretending.

It’s a sad thing to think about. There are lots of ‘maybe’ and ‘what if’ and ‘why’ in all those memories. There’s a yearning for something that we pretended to have really been true. It’s a lovely wish.

I know it is just a “fancy”. Insert all that stuff about wishes and fishes and bicycles and beggars.

I would rewrite Thanksgiving and I would make the center of it consist of gratitude. I admit I would strip it of most of the bells and whistles. So what might it look like?

It would look like me writing and contemplating all the people who have helped me this year. I would take a moment to say “Thank You”.

Thank you to the people of the CPTSD community for your support when I have needed it. Thank you for allowing me to help and offer support where I could.

Thank you to the mental health professionals who have helped me find more pieces of myself.

Then I would probably go into a long litany of individuals of who I wanted to thank, for their help, their encouragement, their kindness. The occasional dose of reality and keeping me on track. My chosen family whom I miss and pray that you all stay safe and healthy.

I would finish by thanking those who are on this journey. Thank you for supporting me, for understanding, and most of all, for sharing this road with me.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

These events have really taken off in the past couple of years. From initially a few hundred pitches over the day agents and publishers can now be bombarded with thousands of pitches an hour. How they wade through all that, I have no idea.

How you stand out as a writer is even harder.

This is where my Complex PTSD enters the picture.

For someone who has grown up in an environment where they were in essence ‘invisible’ learning how to be seen, and heard, and noticed is an exercise in something not only new but frightening in cases. If like me, your home was dysfunctional with explosive anger you might also have learned that being unseen was safer. I learned early that it was better to be the child that didn’t need, or want, or ask.

I learned that lesson so well, so many times that I even made up a little catechism that I recited every night.

Don’t Ask – You’ll be denied.
Don’t Rely – You’ll be disappointed.
Don’t Trust – You’ll be betrayed.

By the time I was 13 I had carved a reminder of this into my arm so I would never forget it again. I still have those scars forty years later.

But, I’m trying not to live by those rules anymore. Trying. The healing doesn’t always go smoothly or in a straight line. Think of it more like a mental health cha-cha. Sometimes you go forward, sometimes you go back. You get the idea.

To tie these two things together – PitMad and CPTSD recovery – think of it as peeling off layers and layers of habitual camouflage. Rule one of PitMad is if you want to ‘win’ an agent’s attention via the event – you have to enter. You must put yourself out there. An agent is not going to come knocking on your door.

The problem isn’t being rejected. The problem is feeling invisible. Like I’m not even being seen in order to have a chance.
Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay
Words by Author

Participation, putting myself ‘out there’, that means making an active attempt to be seen. That idea just registers in my core as pure insanity.

Be Seen. NO! That’s when ‘bad things’ happen. You get ignored or hurt when you are seen.

Don’t touch it! Just, put the idea down, and slowly step away.

One day you finally figure “Meh, I’ll try it.” So, you do. And you hear the worst thing you could. SILENCE.

Why is silence the worst? When in a situation like PitMad it could mean –

• The agent just isn’t looking for a fantasy book about a mentally challenged heroine.
• The agent blinked when your pitch scrolled by.
• They stepped away for a minute (they’re human, too)
• Their dog farted and they had to clear the room.
• They already have a book that is a fantasy about a mentally challenged heroine.

Who knows? There are literally millions of reasons that no one put a little red heart next to your entry. And the competition is stiff. Thousands of entries for all kinds of books scroll by during the day. There is not enough time to respond to them all.

But, though my rational brain knows this, my emotions tie themselves into knots and I’m that small, inconsequential, invisible girl again. Being back in that place makes me wonder if I ever left it at all. Maybe that invisibility is permanent? Perhaps there is nothing I can do to be seen or heard. I will forever be shouting into the void. And, even there, drowned out by millions of others. Never to be more than a dull anonymous speck among stars.

Ouch.

After a few tries you wonder if the voices of the CPTSD are right. You fear you never will be ‘visible’.Part of me contracts with the pain of the idea. Trying to shelter myself from more disappointment. But there is a tiny voice within undulled by all the abuses and fear that whispers – “Try.”

That seed, our original and true self, is the one we must nourish.

So, rest when you must. When you can, move on; sure in the knowledge that the Universe sees you.

Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com

Or, at other times, it stops me dead.

I am not the only person to experience this complex tangle of emotions. From speaking with other Complex-PTSD survivors I gather a common thread ties us to this unknottable clewe.

That ever-present thread is time. More precisely, it is the sense of lost time.

Imagine being lost for 40 years wandering your own internal deserts of depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts. You manage to function, but you pass through the world like a shadow. You touch nothing and nothing touches you. Knowing all the while something was deeply wrong. Unable to find the cause of your distress you think, “Well, I must be the problem.” The only way you can explain the misery of your existence is that the fault must lie within yourself.

For me, learning the source of my suffering was like walking out of the desert. The wild emotional swings, the numbness, the dissociation, the stoicism, and the inability to maintain a connection with people all snapped into focus and became understandable when I learned of Complex-PTSD.

Learning the name of my condition delivered my first step towards healing. It also brought something I had not anticipated, this intense undeniable knot that refuses to resolve itself.

I can identify parts of the tangle. One of the components is grief. It glues everything together with a dark sticky tar that cannot be washed away. That darkness coats every part of my childhood I remember. At the time the darkness was invisible because I existed within the murk. That was the only place I ever knew until I left home. With adulthood, distance, and a growing understanding of C-PTSD came the ability to see clearly.

I had always thought my childhood was pretty benign, boring, average to a fault. Realizing that my perfectly normal, sitcom fashioned, childhood was far from normal and even farther from perfect was tectonic. I experienced amazement and hollow incredulity as my world shifted. I swear it felt as if I was picked up and moved bodily to a new position. From that angle, I could see the façade clearly. My carefully constructed understanding of the world was not simply flawed, but fundamentally wrong on so many levels.

I discovered that there was no single source of this grief, no pinpoint event that festered and poisoned everything. Instead, layers of dysfunction emerged. Disappointments were wrapped around scars that covered wounds. Suddenly, not remembering most of my childhood made perfect sense.

I find I grieve “what could have been” not what was. I regret the things that never were. What I mourn is as much a fantasy as my childhood. In reality, though, I am no more alone without my family than I was with them. I don’t feel the loss of those connections, because they were never really there.

Strangely, I can accept the loss of my childhood illusion. Where I find myself caught in the dark tar-like substance is now and as I try to move into the future.

Although I still feel my own hollowness, I no longer see it as an inherent flaw. I see it as the product of a childhood spent trying to be invisible to my family. I erased my needs. I stifled my desires. All to be low-maintenance. Invisible. The good kid. I worked so hard at being easy and agreeable.

I grieve for the person I could have become. All the tantalizing’ what ifs’ play on loop. That is a labyrinth best avoided.

There is comfort in knowing I am not ‘wrong’, or ‘broken’.

There is acute distress knowing I am in essence just starting. The sense of having fallen behind my peers and friends is weighty enough. But add to that the knowledge of the years I have lost. At times this has left me feeling hopeless.

Aside from grief, I know one other thread in that knot of emotions, rage. Not just anger, which can transform adversity into art, but rage. A feeling that wants to destroy everything around it. It is a rage that unless tempered will consume me. Unlike the grief which is so amorphous and permeating, I can point to the exact source of my rage.

I discovered my C-PTSD at 50. Imagine how much life I feel robbed of: my childhood spent erasing myself, my 20s spent in a dark depression, my 30s numb to the world around me, and my 40s in a struggle to prove my own validity, to myself. It seems beyond cruelty to wake to reality just to be told there is no time. No time to finish who they are. No time to free ourselves from our past. No time to heal. I feel given just enough time to realize what I have missed, what I surrendered to survive and so little time to live.

Now, I have more life behind me than I have in front of me. At 50 as a person with five (six?) points on the ACE continuum. I am likely to live 15-20 years less than the average for my generation. (https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/19840693/, Adverse childhood experiences and the risk of premature mortality)

That is where my rage lives: In the feeling of being robbed of who I could have been, the time lost in my past, as well as the time I may lose in the future.

My grief for the lost pieces and futures is valid. My rage is valid, too. I will continue to tease apart the emotions of that knot. I will find and process each and every haunting piece. Because I cannot remain in this state or it too will rob me of my opportunity to live.

Time is a precious commodity.

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Mari Stewart

Currently I’m trying to find a publisher for novel 1. Writing. Writing. Editing. Editing.
And trying to tame the feral kittens that overrun the tiny town I call home.

mari-stewart.com