Writer’s Note: I previously wrote about my experience being a victim of psychological abuse. Two years from my first writing, I find myself in a much better place in my recovery, and I want to share new insights. I also want to recommend a book by Shannon Thomas that greatly impacted my life. 

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I’d had enough of the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles and decided it was time to escape to a simpler place to clear my mind. With a long weekend approaching, I booked a shipping container on a farm in California’s wine country. As I drove through the rolling hills and sun-soaked vineyards of Central California, I finally started to relax. This weekend was for me and me alone. 

At the top of my weekend to-do list was unpacking an Amazon package containing a book I had been itching to read: Healing from Hidden Abuse by Shannon Thomas. I had read dozens of other books in search of clarity regarding a specific trauma from high school and college that still inhabited my body, but none had provided the understanding I was seeking. Little did I know that within this little package lay the answers I had been desperately searching for. 

What is psychological abuse? 

Psychological abuse is a sophisticated form of brainwashing, stalking, and mind control. The perpetrator(s) deliberately selects a target and employs subtle and strategic methods of coercion, intimidation, and manipulation, gradually wearing down the victim’s mental state without leaving any evidence. Due to its covert nature, when the victim speaks up to ask for help, she is often not believed and is labeled to be the “crazy” one. Meanwhile, the abusers walk away with no blood on their hands.  

Psychological abuse is not limited to romantic relationships or parent-child dynamics. I didn’t seek it out, nor did I cause it. It didn’t happen in my home, and it wasn’t the result of a silly conflict with a boyfriend. It happened at school, where I became the target of covert bullying by two individuals–twin sisters. They used me as a measuring stick for their academic success, believing that if they could extinguish my bright light, it would make them appear more successful in comparison. 

My abusers were deranged. They had a sick obsession with identifying my internal weaknesses, insecurities, and fears. They weaponized this information against me, attacking me where it hurt the most. Over time, they eroded everything that mattered in my life: my relationships with family and friends, my love for learning, my sense of safety, and my innate zest for life as an empath. And they did it all in a way where not a single soul would notice. Except for me.

A silent murder: no words to describe the pain

To explain what psychological abuse feels like to someone who has never experienced it, I would compare it to what the prisoners endured in the Stanford Prison Experiment of 1971. It felt as though I was curled up into a tight ball, starving in a solitary confinement cell of my own mind, body, psyche, and soul. My abusers and their “flying monkeys” would occasionally pass by my cell, gawk at my suffering through the narrow window slit with smirks on their faces, and dangle a carrot in front of me to taunt me. I would crawl closer and closer to the carrot with my trembling hand extended, but at the last second, they would rip it back through the window slit and walk away laughing, leaving me to starve again in the darkness. 

Though I had seemingly more significant traumas to recover from, I wrestled for years with post-traumatic stress symptoms related to these bullies. My abusers took over my mind uncontrollably. I couldn’t clearly describe what they had done to me. My reality had been distorted. Even after they were long gone, they continued to dictate what I did, said, and thought. I was utterly terrified of them. I avoided anyone and anything that might remind me of them or trigger flashbacks related to their abuse. This avoidance grew exponentially over the years, and I ultimately lost everything from my hometown because of them. I didn’t trust anyone anymore. I couldn’t even trust myself.

Misdiagnosed, misunderstood, and revictimized

It takes someone who has survived psychological abuse to truly understand its impact on the mind, body, psyche, and soul. Throughout their time tormenting me, my abusers caused me to end up in the hospital numerous times. I learned the hard way that most mental health professionals do not understand psychological abuse and mind control, which can lead to further gaslighting of the victim. The medical providers labeled me with schizophrenic and psychotic diagnoses and injected various anti-psychotics to calm me down. While these short-term treatments numbed and tranquilized me, the long-term effects of the abrupt medication changes only created more side effects after each discharge.  

I didn’t see any improvement with a therapeutic approach either. The fact that my experience stemmed from school bullying, rather than in a romantic or familial context, made mental health professionals take it even less seriously. I was laughed at, misdiagnosed, and dismissed as overthinking, paranoid, hysterical, even obsessed. 

Some professionals took things even further. Being upfront about my Stockholm Syndrome reactions to the abuse, including suicidal ideation, got me in trouble. Multiple professionals diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder and ordered me to be institutionalized. Another diagnosed me with Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly Multiple Personality Disorder), suggesting that my perpetrators were one of my “alters.” He convinced me that my abusers weren’t real people but rather figments of my imagination, and then spent three months brainwashing me into communicating with numerous other alters he fabricated. If the psychological abuse hadn’t already done enough crazymaking, these medical providers, who groomed me to fulfill their own sick agendas, made me feel even more insane. 

Topo Chicos and Central California cafés 

Sitting at a quaint café in Paso Robles, California, I was at my wit’s end. My body couldn’t take it anymore. I ordered a Topo Chico, poured it over a glass of ice, and began reading Healing from Hidden Abuse. 

I had only planned to read the first couple of chapters and then get on with my day, but three Topo Chicos and a multitude of tears later, I had finished the book cover to cover. 

I sat there in awe. I did not know this woman, and she certainly didn’t know me. But she understood me. It was like she had written the book specifically for me. In that moment, she was sitting across the coffee table, holding my hand and wiping away my tears, reassuring me that one day everything would be okay.

This was in the summer of 2022. Over the next two years, I reread the book four times and listened to the audiobook on repeat during long drives. At the time, I was still living in California, but I noticed in Shannon’s bio at the end of the book that she was a counselor in the metroplex of my hometown. I knew in my heart that one day, I would meet the woman who validated what I had been through.

Deprogramming and recalibration

Fast forward to 2024, and I found myself living on the outskirts of my hometown. I reached out to Shannon and was accepted as her client. 

Meeting with Shannon was my saving grace. As I stepped into her office, I was terrified to face yet another mental health professional who might revictimize me. But the moment I entered her office, I felt a warmth that I hadn’t experienced in any therapist’s office before. The Christmas decorations filled me with a childlike joy, and the Diet Coke from the mini-fridge was so refreshing. 

In her book, Shannon guides readers through the six stages of recovery from psychological abuse. It’s safe to say that I had been stuck in Stage 1–the Despair stage–for many years. When therapy began, I could barely articulate what had been done to me. I was dissociated, overmedicated, and sleep-deprived.

Additionally, I was still concerned I might be The Girl Who Cried Wolf. In a world where the words narcissist, sociopath, and psychopath are thrown around carelessly, I felt guilty for calling myself a victim. Was I no different from all the tone-deaf TikTokers who sling these labels onto the slightest person who annoys them?

From despair to restoration

Shannon assured me I wasn’t overthinking anything and that my pain was valid. With patience and empathy, she began walking me through the stages of recovery. 

At that time, I was still meeting with several other therapists and psychiatrists across different parts of the state, along with multiple hospital visits, including what would become my final suicide hold of my life. In environments where my suffering continued to be pathologized, Shannon listened with open ears and didn’t add fuel to the fire.

My recovery process from psychological abuse, both in therapy and on my own, felt like I was deprogramming from a cult. My body had to recalibrate itself, and my mind needed to register that I was no longer in danger. But I didn’t want to spend any more time rehashing and ruminating about what had been done to me; I had already endured enough of that in my head for years. While I did some of this with Shannon, and it was necessary at first, the real work was in reclaiming my power.  

What Shannon did so well in our work together was fast-track my healing to what she identifies as the Restoration phase (Stage 6) of recovery. I took active steps to begin rebuilding a life of peace and contentment. She encouraged me to get colorful decorations for my blank apartment walls, take on part-time jobs to have social interaction during my recovery, and get a little bit of exercise each day. Therapy became an opportunity to create a beautiful painting from a blank canvas. 

Taking my power back

The panic attacks, crying spells, and paramedic visits are long gone. I no longer have emotions attached to the abuse. The only things that remain are the visual and auditory remnants of the trauma, in the form of flashbacks, and I won’t stop until they are eradicated as well.  

Because of what the twins did to me, I have unlocked an internal strength I didn’t know I had. During my healing process, I discovered that my abusers were ten thousand times more afraid of me than I ever was of them. I was not targeted because I am weak; I was targeted because of my strengths. I was targeted because I possess the very qualities that my abusers never will. While they had me fooled for quite some time, with a clearer head and a restored subconscious, I can finally see them for the con artists they truly are.

It is possible to recover from the crazymaking

Survivors, if no mental health professional has given you this validation, I hope you can hear it from me: You are not crazy; you were just damaged by crazy. You are not sick; you were just injured by truly sick people. You do not have a personality disorder or any other extreme diagnosis as a result of what you’ve experienced; you are a trauma survivor who had healthy reactions to being violated. You are not broken beyond repair; you are simply a survivor of an insidious form of hidden abuse that is widely misunderstood by both mental health professionals and laypeople. 

Rest easy and know this: You are normal. You are healthy. You are human. You have survived pure evil, and you just need to be listened to.

Baby steps to a beautiful post-abuse life

I hope my story encourages survivors that healing is possible. Over the past two years, after receiving proper support regarding the reality of what I experienced, I have worked tirelessly to rebuild what my bullies robbed from me. Slowly but surely, I am restoring my life to a sense of normalcy.

My work with Shannon has shown me that there is life, freedom, joy, and peace after psychological abuse. Each time I left Shannon’s office, I felt a renewed sense of hope that it would be possible to return to the “me” I once knew. In both her writing and in the therapy room, Shannon leads with compassion, empathy, and a tender heart for survivors of psychological abuse. In Shannon, I have gained a lifelong confidant and therapeutic relationship that I know is 100% safe to return to if I ever need it. 

For those seeking clarity on their suffering, I encourage you to curl up with a cozy blanket and read Healing from Hidden Abuse. Please visit www.shannonthomas.com for more information. 

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Featured Post Photo by Oscar Keyson Unsplash

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To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

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.

One sweltering July when I was fifteen, I was camped out on a shaded picnic bench at nerd camp. While furiously pushing the buttons on my calculator and drilling exercises for my upcoming exam, I heard rustling in the grass ahead of me. When I looked up, I saw a small army of dudes wearing backwards hats marching toward me. 

Oh, it’s Brad. I rolled my eyes, wondering what he wanted this time. 

Brad stood, arms crossed, at the head of his minions. (Brad had the illustrious role of the most popular guy at nerd camp. And, please, take that with a grain of salt… because it was still nerd camp!) In perfect formation behind Brad were two of his posse members. Let’s just call them both Chad. 

With an intimidating demeanor, they stopped in front of the picnic table. Brad looked me in the eyes and blurted out:

“I’ve got to tell you something, Natalie. You’d be so pretty if it weren’t for your skin.” 

With that, Brad and his Chads turned around and walked away laughing. I buried my head, and the symbols, notations, and numbers in my textbook became indistinguishable from my sea of tears. 

My skin condition develops

I wasn’t born with severe acne and rosacea. I went through the usual phase of adolescent acne, which cleared up as I went through puberty. However, during my first year of high school (and coinciding with the onset of my CPTSD), my skin began to deteriorate. At the time, I didn’t understand what these flashbacks were or why they were triggering such intense emotions in me. Nevertheless, at age fourteen, I began a more than ten-year battle with both cystic acne and rosacea.

Endless criticism and mockery

Brad and his Chads definitely weren’t the only ones who shamed me about my skin. For years, not a day went by without someone mocking it or, at the very least, pointing it out for me – as if I wasn’t already aware of it.

I wanted to scream back at them: “I’m not stupid! I know it’s there. It’s literally burning right now. Please, be my guest and touch it! Make it burn even more!” 

But I kept quiet and internalized the pain. Nightly, I writhed in bed, haunted by traumatic memories. I screamed agonizingly into my pillow as my akathisia made me restless and agitated. Through it all, my skin burned and burned. 

No filters and unsolicited advice

Some people have no chill. The comments I received were ruthless, with kids being the harshest. I can’t blame them – they say exactly what they think. Even more biting than the blunt munchkins were the elderly Southern women with no tact who offered me unsolicited advice in that condescending “awww, bless your heart!” kind of way.  

One woman told me she believed Jesus had the power to heal my skin and asked if she could pray for me. She grabbed my hand, bowed her head, and asked Jesus for a miracle. Another woman interrupted a Zoom call I was taking outside a coffee shop, sat down at my table uninvited, and gave me a five-minute pep talk, telling me to “keep fighting and stay strong.” 

While much of the criticism was petty, belittling, or condescending “help,” some people were just downright cruel. I’d like to award silver, bronze, and gold medals to the most creative names that hateful adults called me over the years: “Girl on Fire,” “Tomato Face,” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” 

(I admire your creativity, but please, find your humanity!)

Regardless of their approach, they would always conclude their condescending remarks with a “positive” reminder like: “Don’t worry, you’re still so beautiful” or “Keep smiling, though. Your personality makes up for it.”

I’d wait until I got back to my car to let the tears flow, their saltiness making my rosacea burn even more. 

Frantically searching for a cure

If these tone-deaf women were right about one thing, it’s that I kept a smile on my face regardless. Each time I moved my facial muscles to smile, though, every centimeter of my skin would burn in agony. I didn’t wear makeup because it only accentuated the redness and intensified the pain.

For years, I tried all sorts of dermatological treatments to eradicate my Tomato Face. I took antibiotics that ranged from mild to the most potent available. I underwent laser and microneedling treatments. I even went through multiple rounds of ActiveFX surgery, where I was put under anesthesia and had to recover for an entire week indoors, avoiding sunlight as the blisters healed. I tried everything, but nothing dermatology offered could make my face the same color as my body.  

The reality of my condition

It wasn’t until embarking on my healing journey and rejecting the narratives of mainstream medicine that I realized my skin condition wasn’t strictly dermatological. Once I quieted the outside world, I realized my skin condition was emotional. Although I couldn’t articulate this understanding until over a decade after its onset, my heart conveyed what autoimmune blood tests, Dr. Google, and dermatologists’ confusing opinions could never validate: the redness stemmed from the repressed emotions linked to my trauma.  

My skin knows what I’ve survived

While the outside world may have only seen my Tomato Face for its fiery color, my skin understood what I was enduring better than anyone.   

My skin believed me and listened to me when no one else would. 

My rosacea comprehended the traumas I was enduring during a time when I desperately sought answers from “specialists” and “experts” who dismissed me as mentally ill and suggested I was worthy of institutionalization. 

My rosacea reflected the pain of the blood-curdling screams that erupted when I was alone in my apartment, tormented by the flashbacks I had no idea how to exorcise from my mind, body, psyche, and soul. 

My rosacea was the barrier for all the times I wanted to lash out at my perpetrators, scream in their faces, and give voice to the pain they caused me. Instead, I kept silent and went home to scream at myself in the mirror.  

My skin reflected the red flashing lights of all the ambulances that arrived at my apartment in the middle of the night because of panic attacks, hallucinations, and akathisia. 

My skin was a billboard, screaming my inner turmoil even when the world assumed I was in control.

A love letter to my skin

My skin is far from perfect today, but I’ve made incredible progress since discovering the root cause of its issues: my bottled-up emotions. I wrote a love letter to my skin and hung it on my mirror so I can read it aloud every morning. 

To my precious skin, 

How are you doing? Really, how are you? Has anyone asked you that lately? If not, I want to be the first to do so. 

You’ve been through so much pain. I’m truly sorry for all the ways you’ve been violated over the years. I know the comments from outsiders don’t make it any easier. Sometimes, people mock you. Other times, they stare in horror, disgust, or bewilderment. Or they offer unsolicited advice on who you “need” to be to be considered perfect. 

I believe you are already perfect, and I love you very much. I never intentionally harmed you. I have been doing everything I can to nurture you and protect you. I am working hard to give you the life you deserve. One day, you will be completely restored, just as I will be fully restored to who I always was. The flashbacks will be gone. 

I will never give up on you. Thank you for never giving up on me. Thank you for showing the world that I am a trauma survivor. Thank you for believing me, seeing me, hearing me, listening to me, and understanding me. Thank you for being one of the most beautiful aspects of me. Thank you for making me… me. 

Take all the time you need to heal. You are perfect just the way that you are. 

With love, 

Natalie

All the progress I’ve made

Recently, I was sitting at a picnic table in a local park, enjoying the sun. Two little girls, around the ages of four and six, pranced up to me from another picnic table. They began climbing all over me, showering me with compliments. 

“I love your earrings! I love your shirt! You’re so pretty! Can you be our big sister?”

I braced myself, anticipating the moment they would stop being so sweet and start laughing at my skin. I followed their eyes, expecting them to linger on one of the bulging cysts on my chin. However, their gazes never went where I thought they would. They were focused on me, the whole Natalie. 

I was filled with an overwhelming sense of love, reminding me how much I look forward to becoming a mother one day. I fought back tears, realizing for the first time in a long time that children no longer see my skin that’s the color of a firetruck. They see me. I’ve made so much progress in my recovery. 

They turned back to their mom, shouting across the way, “Mama! Can she be our new sister?”

My skin makes me… me.

My skin is a symbol of my strength. I am confident that one day my skin will fully heal. However, no matter how much I desire its complete restoration, I will never expect perfection. Even if traces of my past skin condition remain, I won’t fret. I will forever cherish the scars that stay with me. They are the souvenirs of everything I’ve survived. 

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To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

Photo by El S 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.

The scene: a quiet Sunday evening at home. I was doing a routine password change on my online accounts. The first password to change was for my email and its cloud backup. This is where I store my entire digital life. 

My attempt to change the password threw an unknown error. I went back to the login page, clicked “forgot password,” and followed the prompts. 

Done!  

A little later, I went to access my Drive to view something completely unrelated. A banner in bold, bright red font loomed over the page: 

“Your files are no longer accessible due to a password reset. Re-upload the old encryption key to regain access.” 

What on earth?  My eyes darted around the page, and I gasped in horror. My heart stopped as I saw a completely blank drive. A wave of panic swept over me, and my knees went weak. I clicked on the banner. It asked me to type in a previous encryption key or an old password. 

I rummaged through the old passwords in my password booklet. I found the most recent one and translated my own secret morse code from the paper to my screen. (My passwords on paper aren’t the exact passwords; I change them up according to a pattern I’ve memorized, and those are the real passwords.) 

“Zero keys reactivated.”

More panic.  

Let me try my password from two weeks ago…

Even with five or six old passwords, the same message kept popping up. 

I must have set an encryption key when I set up this email. Where would I have kept it? 

Nope. I never set one up. 

Why didn’t you take five seconds to set up an encryption key, Natalie? You’re so lazy. 

Panic had given way to full-blown self-punishment.  

Losing my entire life

I paced frantically. I couldn’t even begin to catalogue everything I lost. I kept everything there–my photos, documents, all the notes from my healing journey for the book I was going to write one day, medical records, college transcripts, data projects, my tax returns, etc. I hadn’t backed up my files since forever because I hadn’t made the time to do so. I was so mad at myself. 

This can’t be happening.  

I submitted a contact form to the support team. The subject line: “PLEASE HELP!” 

C’mon now, Natalie, there’s no need to scream at them. It’s not that serious. 

But it is serious. I NEED these files! 

I calmed myself down and erased the all-caps. 

Pouring my desperation out, I told them how important it was I get these files back.  

Ping! My email sang at me a few minutes later. 

Woop! They responded. 

“Thank you for contacting us. We’ve received your support request. We’ve assigned the request to our appropriate team, they will get back to you as soon as possible.”

But I need you to contact me RIGHT NOW! 

Just breathe, Natalie. Everything is going to be just fine. You’ll get your files back, and all will be right in the world. 

Tossing and turning 

I went to bed preparing for the worst-case scenario. I began rationalizing the reasons why everything would be fine, even dandy, if all my files disappeared permanently. 

There’s nothing super important on there. I barely had any photos from the past because I was living in seclusion. I deleted most of them because they reminded me of too much pain. Even in the ones I wanted to keep, my smile was so forced, and I looked so sad. I don’t want to remember what Natalie looked like. She was overmedicated, dissociated, terrified, and pretending to be someone she was not. Maybe it’s a good thing those photos vanished into the ether.

The notes for the book I was going to write one day? I started writing those a year ago when I was locked in the depths of my despair. That’s not the place I want to share my story from. I still had so many emotions I hadn’t worked through. I still couldn’t fathom what had been done to me, and my mind was disjointed. Things that were so “big” back then are minuscule and even non-existent today. Maybe it’s better that I don’t remember where my head was during that time.

All my medical records? I don’t want to rehash the past anymore. My recovery is progressing so well that I’m nearly to the point where trauma and survival aren’t full-time focus anymore. Why should I continue to wallow? Most of the records were riddled with lies anyway, crafted from biases of the providers who thought they knew me better than I know myself. If I really need these medical records in the future, I can always request them.

What if I need my tax forms from previous years for the next time I file taxes? I can do without those. Who cares about taxes, anyway? 

The next morning 

I woke up the next morning to an email from the support team. The customer service rep had just copied and pasted a standard answer that I had already found on a web forum. 

Frustrated, I responded quickly, “I’ve already tried all this. There’s really not anything you can do to restore my files?”

The next response was what I expected–because the entire email service is encrypted, and I had not set up an encryption key yet. Bottom line: there was nothing they could do. 

A test of acceptance

There was no point in trying anymore. My files were gone.  

Had this happened even a year ago, I would have obsessed about this for a painfully long time, punishing myself for a lack of foresight. However, once I got the final answer that there was truly nothing the support team could do, I felt an almost immediate wave of acceptance wash over me. 

To tell the truth, I felt liberated. Not everything on my Drive was replaceable, yet I realized that I didn’t actually want to replace them. Everything on the Drive was a remnant of my old life.  

Starting fresh

This loss was a chance to start fresh. It was time to begin a new life, build new memories, take new photos, and write my story from a place of healing and wisdom gained from all I’ve survived. Everything I need has always been within me, is still within me, and will always be within me. My Drive echoed with outside voices–medical providers, friends who never were worthy of the title, and even the person I used to be. There was no need to hold on to how others wrote my story. I know what I’ve survived. I know the lengths I’ve traveled to find answers. 

Losing my Drive was a metaphor of how much progress I’ve made. During my recovery, I have worked tirelessly to shed 99% of my past and move toward the future. Perhaps my own technology, through its sneaky schemes, was trying to whisper something in my ear: 

“There’s no need to continue to dwell in the past. You don’t live there anymore. Your life now is the life you always deserved.”

Moving forward fearlessly

To heal, I had to confront my demons, stare down the memories that violated me, and learn to hear my own voice again. I refuse to wallow. For a while, I put everything on pause and moved to a cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere, which gave me the opportunity to slow down and mindfully decide my future path. Losing my files was the push I needed to completely move forward.   

As I write this, it’s been a few weeks since my files were lost. Today, I feel liberated. I can’t believe how concerned I was about getting every single file back. I don’t want to remember who that Natalie was. She wasn’t the real Natalie. With each passing day, I immerse myself deeper into the freedom that I have today, living my new life. I’m feeling wonderful, and the hard work has paid off. The real Natalie is back. I’m almost completely “graduated” from therapy. Any remnants of my old life don’t belong in my subconscious or on my computer screen. The past is over. It doesn’t haunt me any longer–nor do I need to hold on to computer files.

I no longer look back at the past to grieve, hurt, or regret. I only look back to reflect on all the progress I’ve made and to feel proud of my perseverance. I always knew I had it in me. I am excited to start fresh with a new Drive and fill it with files that reflect the peaceful, free, and joyous me. 

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Photo by Norbert Levajsics on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/photos/apple-imac-on-wooden-desk-near-window-BMYQaySauY0

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To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

Photo by Ilya Pavlov 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.

Writer’s Note: This article discusses topics related to spiritual abuse. My purpose in sharing my story is not to single out any specific faith. While my negative experiences occurred within Christianity, it is important to recognize that religious abuse can happen in any belief system.

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“You shouldn’t have done that, Natalie. That’s hypocrisy. And hypocrisy is the yeast of the Pharisees and teachers of the Law. Pretty soon, the Christians will be separated into the sheep and the goats. You don’t want to be a goat, do you?” Another member of the congregation admonished me, referencing the parable of Matthew 25:31-46.  

I always knew I’d be a goat. I was never going to be good enough for God and make it into heaven.

Spiritual abuse at the hands of my eternal “family”

What “sin” had I committed? After years of suffering in silence, I finally stood up for myself against my church group leader, who made a habit of humiliating me in front of the congregation. I politely asked her to stop mistreating me, and that she and her superiors stop meddling in my private life, including their demands to oversee my medical decisions.   

I knew that any church member who pushed back against the leaders faced strict discipline, accompanied by Bible verses thrown in their face as a reprimand, but I was at wit’s end. The congregation had exerted control over my life–dictating who I could talk to, what I could wear, who I could date, what I could read, and even my access to the Internet. But their demand that I surrender control over my medical care was intolerable. Once I set this boundary, I was shunned and excluded from participating in church activities. 

Leaving religion

It’s been over two years since I’ve been involved in any religious communities or surrounded by the people I once considered my spiritual family. I grew tired of feeling insecure, inadequate, humiliated, uncomfortable, unworthy, and terrified around other Christians. Was it too much to ask that my “brothers and sisters in Christ” treat me better? After all, they had promised me that they loved me far more than my friends and family did and that we would spend eternity in heaven together once our physical bodies were united with the spirit and perfected in Christ.  

The doctrine of eternal life gave me immense hope. It connected Bible verses in a way that promised that one day everyone—including those whose physical bodies had already died—would all live together in a beautiful heaven on earth with God.

Previously, I wrestled with the idea that this same loving God would send some people to hell. I didn’t want that to happen to anyone. My new understanding of the Book of Revelation was the hope I had been searching for. I longed to be in heaven with everyone I knew, in a world with no more death, mourning, crying, or pain. The church continued to reassure me that things would get better; it was just a slow healing process to cleanse the world of sin. In the meantime, I needed to work hard to help God by sacrificing my health, sleep, career, relationships, and sanity. I clung desperately to this hope as I continued to struggle with my anxiety, flashbacks, and suicidal thoughts, not understanding why I still wanted to die.

Eventually, I woke up to the fact that my pure heart had been manipulated. I was flabbergasted that I had ever believed these people truly loved me, preached the only correct doctrine, and had the right to control every aspect of my life. I needed to completely remove myself from the grasp of all religious communities I had been connected to. I packed my bags and trekked to a small town across the country to be closer to home. 

I changed all my contact information to prevent congregants from harassing me. This may sound extreme, but it wasn’t. These people habitually showed up at members’ workplaces and homes, reminding them of the consequences of leaving. If members choose to abandon the flock, they were labeled betrayers, akin to the beast with seven heads and ten horns described in the Book of Revelation. Biblical plagues were wished upon them, and they were excluded from heaven. At this point, I was officially a “betrayer” in their eyes.

My “pagan” life

Losing my eternal hope—the very thing that kept me going—was a type of anguish I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I couldn’t believe in God anymore. I wish I could say that after escaping those people and starting a new life in a tiny town, it was just God and me. But it wasn’t. It was just me. 

For the first two months of my pagan life, I genuinely thought I was going to burn in hell. My suicidal thoughts peaked, and I was bedridden in terror and guilt. 

One frenzied night, I finally carried out my fantasy of destroying my Bible. I grabbed it, threw it on the floor repeatedly, stomped on it, ripped out its pages, and smeared leftover pizza grease all over it. I tossed every remnant of it into a bag and watched it fall down the trash chute of my apartment.

Picking up the pieces

I could write volumes about the effort I invested in going down Internet rabbit holes, listening to podcasts, and meeting with theologians to seek answers to my questions. However, it’s best to focus on the positivity that emerged from my despair, with the hope of encouraging other survivors that it is possible to restore their faith in a healthy and meaningful way–only if it feels right for them.  

I still hold profound hope for meaning beyond my physical body. Throughout my healing journey, I have worked hard to let go of the false narratives others instilled in me about what my faith should look like. I define my faith on my terms. While I still have many unanswered questions, I am at peace with my faith. I accept that I don’t have all the answers, yet I can still hold onto hope for something greater than this life.  

Practical ways I restored my faith during my healing journey

There was a time when I never thought I could utter or hear the word “God” again without experiencing a trauma response in my body. However, I have gradually reached a point where I can listen to discussions about religious topics and read faith-based literature. Here are some practical ways I’ve grown in my recovery: 

#1: I prioritized my recovery from Complex PTSD and put my search for spiritual answers on pause

In the past, I wanted answers. And I wanted them now. I accepted that I could never find those answers while I was still grieving, dissociated, and going through intense medication withdrawal.

I took the time and space I needed to heal all aspects of myself. I mourned the years I lost while living under the control of others who falsely positioned themselves as religious authorities. Pausing my faith was not a sign of weakness or a lack of belief; it was a mature choice, with the understanding that rebuilding my life of peace, safety, and contentment must take precedence over everything else.

#2: I recognized that my religious trauma was not my fault and allowed myself to feel the emotions I had internalized for years

I now understand that I didn’t deserve the spiritual abuse I experienced. I no longer blame myself for failing to recognize it as abuse. I allowed myself to be angry about the unfairness of having to work through years of indoctrination that violated me, all to release emotions that weren’t truly mine. I processed these feelings in therapy, and as a result, I no longer have any emotional attachment to my religious experiences.

#3. I stopped pressuring myself to attend a physical church and looked within my heart

After leaving religion, the thought of stepping into a church again made my heart race. Embracing small-town life in its truest form, I began working with an equine therapist on her farm. Who would have thought that horses could calm the nervous system?!

My equine therapist kindly offered that, when I felt ready, I could join her at church, sitting in the back, and we could leave the minute I felt uncomfortable. I appreciated her gracious offer, but my pounding heart told me I still wasn’t ready. 

Letting go of the pressure to find a new church community was incredibly liberating for me. I no longer believe that I need to be around others to grow in my faith. My faith is private and personal; it resides within me. 

#4 I focus on a faith that promotes positivity, love, and non-judgment

Currently, I engage exclusively with faith-based topics that emphasize love, acceptance, and personal growth, rather than fire and brimstone. I read what aligns with my heart’s current state. I don’t pressure myself to delve into complex theological works that dredge up painful memories and stall my personal growth. I do not subscribe to any doctrines that lift one group of people above another. 

#5 I set boundaries with those who use their religious beliefs to judge and criticize me

I only discuss faith with those who don’t pressure me to conform to their personal beliefs. I set boundaries with many people in my life who tend to correct, criticize, or analyze me through the lens of their own religious beliefs. I no longer consider religion to be a safe topic of conversation with them and prefer to focus on other subjects instead. 

It is possible to recover

If my story inspires anyone wrestling with their recovery from spiritual abuse, I want to emphasize that it is possible to experience tremendous growth and healing—both within yourself and in your faith—beyond what you could have ever imagined, despite everything you’ve been through. I am truly sorry that you have been hurt by those you placed your trust in. Remember that you always had good intentions. It is possible to find peace as you separate yourself from the lies of what you endured under the guise of love, salvation, edification, sanctification, and charity. There are no requirements for the future. Your faith is on your terms.

Making my faith my own

My faith helped me navigate my struggles long before anyone else became involved. It was other people’s motives that corrupted my genuine desire for answers and community. I always set out with good intentions, extending my time, love, energy, money, possessions, and friendship without expecting anything in return.  

Although my autonomy, voice, and strength were stolen from me in the past, I no longer carry any guilt or blame. Today, I am stronger than I have ever been. I no longer let the lies others try to plant in my mind about who I am affect my beliefs and my relationship with my faith. I will never again allow another person, group, or institution to extinguish the flame of my eternal hope.

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Featured Photo by Guilherme Stecanella on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/photos/closeup-photography-of-woman-wearing-floral-skirt-holding-red-gas-lantern-at-brown-grass-field-smCn7Cbhk_c

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To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

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.

Recently, while I was waiting at a crowded restaurant, I found myself interacting with a toddler and his mother. I smiled, played peek-a-boo, and gave him a playful “Hello!” At first, he hid behind his mother’s legs, peeking out at me every few seconds. Suddenly, he ran to me and wrapped his arms around my calves, refusing to let go.

It was the sweetest thing! His mother laughed a little and apologized, but I wasn’t mad. This is normal for me. It served as another reminder that the pure-hearted can sense my motherly energy. I knelt down, reciprocated his embrace, and felt empathy connecting us.

What is an empath?

Do you often find yourself to be overly generous and highly sensitive to your surroundings? Do you prioritize experiences over material possessions? Do you crave solitude? If so, you may be an empath.

While many people are capable of feeling empathy, being a true empath involves a deeper level of emotional intelligence. With proper discernment, empaths can understand and appreciate the suffering of others without directly experiencing it themselves. Dr. Judith Orloff has a helpful list of twenty traits that characterize empaths, which I found valuable in confirming my own empathic nature—I checked “yes” to every single one of them!

Empaths are curious about strangers, exhibit more interest in others than in themselves, and are less likely to hold to social stereotypes. Unfortunately, their authenticity may come across as disingenuous to some. Empaths may find it challenging to fit in, and relationships or social events can be draining. We can also be very forgiving, which can make us appear weak or naïve.

Scientific research on empathy has shown that only a tiny fraction of the population consists of true empaths. Dr. Michael Banissy and Dr. Natalie Bowling at Goldsmiths University of London conducted years of research on empathy. Their findings concluded that mirror-touch synesthesia—the phenomenon of mirroring and feeling the emotions of others—is present in only about 1-2% of humans with hypersensitive mirror neurons.

My own empathy

I’ve often heard others remark that I’m an empath. I must admit: I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I’m an emotional creature and a deep thinker; I feel the emotions of others as if they are my own. Pain, happiness, joy, anxiety, fear, sadness—I absorb them. It can be overwhelming.

In the past, I jokingly responded, “It’s a blessing and a curse! Mostly a curse!”

The empath’s “curse”

I once cursed my empathy. The ability to feel another’s pain meant that I absorbed it without being able to distinguish it from my own. My body reacted in visceral ways, and I wanted to be able to release the stimuli that had violated my inner peace.

Reflecting on my years of anxiety, chronic fatigue, panic attacks, and autoimmune symptoms, I see that these signs were a direct result of my tendency to internalize the pain of others. To stop viewing my empathy as a curse, I learned how to better control it. I taught myself to differentiate my own emotions from those of others so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed by what I now consider my superpowers. Today, I am grateful and will never again curse my empathy.

Feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated as a child

From a young age, I was easily overstimulated, but I struggled to articulate how “different” I felt compared to the other children. I wanted to fit in, but I just couldn’t. While my classmates effortlessly went to football games, concerts, and busy public places, I found these environments overwhelming. Sitting in the crowd of a large stadium was not exciting for me–it was torturous. The bright lights were blinding, the billboard graphics pierced my amygdala, and the crowd hooping and hollering brought me to tears. I wondered what was so wrong with me.

As I got older, the overstimulation persisted. In college, I spent countless nights tossing and turning in bed, disturbed by the sensorial overwhelm of sounds from the city below me. Why couldn’t I find the peace I so desperately craved? All I wanted was to retreat, escape to the middle of nowhere, take a bubble bath, binge Gilmore Girls, and forget about the outside world.

The innate beauty of high sensitivity and empathy

In the past, I wasn’t certain about identifying as an empath or a highly sensitive person. The only descriptors that I came into contact with were the dehumanizing and inaccurate diagnoses I received from healthcare providers. The opposing narrative of what medicine labeled me had me feeling like an imposter. I was told I had a kind of “problem,” so that I felt guilty for even possessing such beautiful qualities associated with empathy and high-sensitivity.

How I embraced my own inner empathy

Recently, I have grown confident in calling myself an empath and highly sensitive person. Embracing my true gifts isn’t pathological; I had to look beyond the DSM to find confidence in my superpowers.

#1: I studied different personality types and accepted that not everyone reasons, thinks, and feels as I do

It was difficult for me to accept that some people blatantly lack empathy and do not have small egos. Encountering Machiavellian personality types—people who prey on compassionate individuals like empaths—led me to being exploited numerous times in the past. I poured my heart into many relationships in a desperate attempt to have friends, but to them, I was nothing other than a source of supply for their own gain.

I have too much respect for myself to continue to go on with energy vampires and emotional barnacles. It took me a while to identify who in my life genuinely supports me and is safe to trust. One of the greatest gifts from my healing journey is that I now know who those individuals are.

#2: I stopped trying to “fix” things external to me and overcame my people-pleasing tendencies

Realizing that not everyone is an empath, I learned to manage my empathy more effectively. In the past, when someone violated my trust, I would forgive them and empathize with them, trying to justify that their actions stemmed from their own pain. I often felt the need to get on their level and “help” their issues out of the goodness of my heart. This approach backfired; I unintentionally made myself easy prey for sick people.

I used to believe that it was my obligation to use my gifts to make the world a better place. However, I eventually came to realize that my people-pleasing tendencies put my health and safety at risk. I learned that my authenticity can’t change deceitful people, my kindness can’t soften hardened hearts, and that the only person I can change is myself.

#3. I slowed down, adopted a quieter life, and put my healing first

For years, I lived in a big city while wrestling with Complex PTSD symptoms. To kickstart my healing, I moved to a rural area, where the pace of life is slower. My only regret was not packing my bags sooner!

After about 18 months in the countryside, I felt replenished, and I was ready to return to the suburbs. I took all the tools I perfected in my cabin in the woods and implemented them as I moved to a new environment. After giving my psyche the time it needed to repair itself, I am now able to handle the stimulation of the city. The difference is that I know my needs and boundaries, and seek balance for a lifestyle that is mindful and consistent.

#4 I stopped blaming myself and developed self-compassion.

Looking back on all the ways I used to react to the trauma I endured, I have so much compassion for myself. That wasn’t the real Natalie; she was an overmedicated and dissociated caricature of me who was doing her best to survive. But rather than allowing medical providers to pathologize my sensitivity, I  realized that I was someone who had normal reactions to abnormal situations. This means that I am a healthy person–not weird, incapable, or unhealthy. There is nothing to be ashamed of; in fact, I would feel ashamed of myself if I didn’t react to injustice with so much heart.

Something that helped me was taking one of my difficult experiences and imagining if it happened to someone I cared about. A daily ritual during my healing journey was to take a situation that was still contributing to my inner critic and envision how I would compassionately counsel my future daughter about it. I would look in the mirror and pour my heart out to her. Once I got over the initial awkwardness of doing this, it became a habit, and I developed true self-compassion.

#5 I stopped consuming media and began communing with nature

As humans, we are not designed to be confined to a desk, hunched over a computer. There came a point when I had grown exhausted with staring into a computer screen for ten hours each day. My attention span had become so short, and I had lost touch with my true home: Mother Earth. I made a point to spend more and more time outside and, now, I crave it daily. To regulate my circadian rhythm, I start each morning with my bare feet in the grass while the sun is rising. I also try to get as much mid-day sun as I possibly can. I hang out with any animal pals who want to join me for my grounding sessions—ducks, deer, lizards—and relish in the colors and textures of the leaves on the trees. Nature really is an empath’s refuge.

Learning self-compassion

I am proud to have finally grown out of survival mode. I have worked so hard, both in therapy and on my own, essentially making healing my full-time job. I have learned that with the right tools, I can release emotions and stimuli that do not belong to me. I once thought it was impossible to let go of the damaging emotions I took in (that kept my inner critic on infinite loop). Today, I am proud to say that the emotions I absorbed from my perpetrators are now disconnected from my flashbacks. What remains are the visual and auditory remnants of my trauma–but with no emotions attached. I am now beginning a thorough brain-retraining process, and I will not give up until every last little bit of flashback is eradicated forever. I am not afraid anymore.

My commitment to working on myself has paid off. I have developed a deep sense of empathy for myself (touché!) and my subconscious has been renewed. Ultimately, I want to experience high levels of sensitivity across the spectrum, rather than be someone who feels very little–or nothing at all. I choose to focus on empathy as a gift that has positives, rather than punishing myself for feeling or caring too much. Of course, this takes self-knowledge and patience. Today, I pride myself in my ability to make a difference in the world by simply slowing down, listening to myself and others, and being in tune with my surroundings.

I am proud to be an empath

Growing up, some teachers and mental health professionals misunderstood and shamed my gifts. However, I now know that being different is a good thing. My sensitivity is an integral part of who I am, and the world needs as much empathy as it can get. I am no longer worried about fitting into other people’s standards, and don’t hold myself to their false narratives. This newfound confidence has helped me persevere through difficult experiences and even shielded me from others taking advantage of me. By listening to myself and nurturing my empathy and sensitivity, I have become wiser, stronger, and better prepared for the future. Now, my greatest challenge is how to use my gifts to impact the world around me.

I have always felt a little different from others–and I still do. And that’s a good thing! I will never again curse my superpowers.

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Here are some books that helped me understand being an empath and highly sensitive person:

• The Highly Sensitive Person by Elaine N. Aron
• The Empath’s Survival Guide by Judith Orloff
• Highly Sensitive People in an Insensitive World by Ilse Sand

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Featured Photo by Satit Wongsampan on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/photos/woman-in-white-long-sleeve-dress-standing-on-green-grass-field-during-sunset-vG46wEciGSg

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To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

 

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.