Tonight, I told myself, I’m going to have the best sleep of my life.  

I had saved up a few hundred bucks to purchase a singing bowl. I had heard they’re miracle workers for people with sleep issues, and I just knew I had to give it the ol’ college try. 

I blocked out a Saturday afternoon to drive to a metaphysical store in the big city to pick out the perfect singing bowl. I spent about an hour testing dozens of bowls, allowing my body to feel the frequency of each sound to determine which one was the right fit. After completing my rounds, there was one that kept calling my name. I grazed the mallet around the bowl one last time. It felt like music to my ears.

That night, the only thing on my bedtime agenda was to relax. I put away all my screens and spent the evening cooking, cleaning, painting, and reading to calm my nervous system. I concluded the night with some restorative yoga poses. I fought back trauma responses to the flashbacks, but they were manageable.  

My singing bowl symphony

It was time to begin my bedtime symphony in hopes that tonight would be the first time in ten years I would sleep more than three hours without sleep paralysis or night terrors. 

I turned the lights down low, lit a candle, folded my fuzzy blanket onto the floor, and got comfy, straddling the singing bowl between my thighs. I lifted the mallet with my right hand and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. 

I tapped the mallet on the side of the bowl and began to circle it around the rim gently, allowing the healing frequency to seep into every pore of my body. What had initially sounded like music to my ears at the metaphysical store was starting to feel a little intense as the flashbacks began to rile up. Still, I decided to sit with it. 

You spent three hundred bucks on this thing, Natalie. See it through, I reminded myself. 

I continued to play softly, but the flashbacks weren’t having it. They began to scream louder than the bowl could sing, and my body began pulsing with rage. The soothing sounds of the singing bowl must have been too beautiful for the flashbacks to handle, and they got jealous. They clearly weren’t going down without a fight.

I screamed in agony as I battled the trauma responses festering in my body. Finally, I had had enough. My body impulsively carried out one final jolt: my right arm darted forward with a violent, uncontrollable punch, like I was chopping a tree stump in half with an axe. The mallet struck the edge of the bowl, shattering it into a million pieces.  

The mess I made

I sat dumbfounded at the mosaic I had created between my crotch and my feet. After about fifteen seconds of pure shock, the wave of self-punishment began. I hurled obscenities at myself, scolded myself for my lack of control, and listed all the other things I could have spent those three hundred bucks on. 

The flashbacks now lay on the floor, transformed into tiny glass particles sparkling before my eyes. With each glimmer of light, I felt them mocking me. I could hear their taunting laughter and see their evil eyes in the shards, reminding me that I would never be free of them, no matter how hard I tried. 

I gingerly picked up one of the miniscule particles and caressed it between my thumb and index finger. A tear fell onto it, and I tossed it back into the sea of mockery and hopelessness. 

“You win again, flashbacks,” I muttered.  

Picking up the pieces

With trembling hands, I managed to push myself up, but I quickly lost my balance. My thigh scraped against the glass, and dozens of shards embedded themselves in the fabric of my leggings. I screamed again. 

I trudged to the bathroom to grab my tweezers, but after just a few steps, I realized that more glass was stuck in the soles of my feet. I screamed once more and collapsed onto my hands and knees, crawling on all fours until I reached the toilet. The sensory overload was unbearable. I puked out my only meal of the day. 

Finally feeling a release, I spent the next hour on the bathroom floor, tweezing out the microscopic glass particles from my feet as tears flooded the floor around me.  

The next morning

The first thing on my to-do list the next morning was to purchase a sack of potatoes at the farmer’s market. 

When I got home, I sliced each potato in half, got down on my hands and knees, and rubbed the mushy side of the potato against the cabin floor, picking up every glass shard, no matter how small. As I vacuumed and mopped, I felt bummed. It was time to go back to the drawing board. 

The painful sleep that comes with CPTSD

As a child, I never had any sleep issues. However, when my CPTSD symptoms began around age 13, my sleep started to deteriorate. For over a decade, I battled severe sleep issues: insomnia, sleep paralysis, night terrors, and narcolepsy. I absolutely dreaded going to bed each night. In fact, I hated sleeping more than I hated being awake. 

My trauma manifested in extreme ways during my sleep, often worse than the flashbacks I experienced at every second of the day. I managed to get through my waking hours by drinking eight cups of coffee, which only skyrocketed my anxiety. Even after episodes of sleep paralysis, I would eventually wake up and try to go back to sleep, but the cycle would continue. At one point, my night terrors were so intense that I had to set a 15-minute alarm to wake myself up, reset it, and then try to sleep again, terrified of the next round of torture. This cycle kept my nervous system in a constant state of hypervigilance during a time when I should have found refuge from the world.  

Over the years, I consulted numerous sleep doctors and psychiatrists in my quest to restore my sleep to its natural state. I begged my doctors for answers, asking why the meds weren’t working. They had no answers. Deep down, I knew that I would have to take control of my sleep on my own. During my East Texas cabin journey, I took active steps to learn how to sleep independently while working through withdrawal from high doses of Prazosin and Trazodone. 

Back to the basics

At the beginning of my cabin journey, I was gifted a book called “How to Break Up With Your Phone” by Catherine Price. With an open mind and a willingness to confront my digital habits, I read the entire book in one day. In it, Price highlights the detrimental effects that our addictive handheld devices have on our sleep. I had never considered that using my phone right before bedtime could affect my sleep, or that even leaving it on my nightstand as an alarm clock could send signals to my brain while I slept. Price challenges readers to go on a phone detox for 1 hour a day to reclaim their power. 

I’ve always been a “go big or go home” kind of girl. One hour a day? Pssh.

That’s too easy. So, I decided to embark on my first-ever 7-day complete tech detox. While Price didn’t suggest anywhere near this level of commitment, my sleep was poor enough that I was willing to do whatever it took to turn my bedroom into my sanctuary.  

Sitting with my own mind and setting intentions

My transformative week of being unplugged will be the subject of a future blog, but it served as the catalyst for figuring out my sleep issues. My goal was to fall asleep each night during those seven days without relying on Trazodone. 

I knew that the first step in falling asleep was to overcome my fear of getting in my bed. Each day, I went to my climbing gym and sat in the sauna. I did some deep breathing exercises and focused on setting positive intentions throughout the day to prepare for nighttime: “I am not afraid to fall asleep.”

I repeated this statement out loud over and over again, (sometimes even screaming it!) through agonizing physiological pain. I must have said it hundreds of times. I also voiced numerous other mantras, such as: 

• My sleep is peaceful. 
• I will 100% be at rest tonight.
• My sleep is transformative, lucid, and creative. 
• Nothing is allowed to interfere with my sleep. 

Five in, five out 

That night, as I lay in bed, I practiced a breathing technique I had learned. I placed one hand on my heart and the other on my stomach. Breathe in for five seconds, breathe out for five seconds. Fighting back flashbacks, I repeated this exercise over and over. I screamed in agony. Rolled around. Punched my pillow. Reset myself again. Five in. Five out. Just as I had been taught. 

After six hours of this, I finally drifted off to sleep. The next morning, when I glanced at the clock, a tear trickled down my cheek. I had only slept three hours, and I still had sleep paralysis, but I had done it without my Trazodone. I felt so proud of myself. 

My new favorite part of the day

During my first tech detox, I established a consistent sleep routine. I maintained this routine, among other habits, over the next year. On February 6, 2025, I had my first ever 7-hour night of sleep without experiencing sleep paralysis or night terrors since I was a teenager. It took about a year of persistent daily practice to reach this point, but I finally got there. Now, in 2026, this has become my norm every single night. 

I never needed any external aids to help me sleep. I had spent years experimenting with sound machines, sleep trinkets, prescription meds, over-the-counter drugs, and home remedies like herbal teas. Ultimately, I realized that in order to restore my sleep to its natural state, I needed to reclaim my power through somatic methods. How could my sleep ever be truly restorative if I relied on synthetic substances to induce an artificial state of rest? Nothing worked as well as setting aside all distractions, allowing the sounds and sensations of my own breath to fill my body with complete tranquility, and letting my subconscious take over. 

What was once the most dreaded part of my day has now become my favorite. I love going to sleep. Every night, I fall asleep within 10 seconds of lying down. I no longer have a sleep routine because I remain consistently calm throughout the day. I no longer experience sleep paralysis or night terrors. Instead, I build my dreams and fly through alternate worlds that I create with my subconscious mind. I wake up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and I don’t need daytime naps. Oh! And I haven’t had a sip of caffeine in two years. I used to think none of this was possible.  

Never give up on conquering insomnia, sleep paralysis, night terrors, or narcolepsy

To any survivors struggling with sleep, I encourage you to be patient with yourself. Your sleep will ebb and flow during your recovery as the trauma is released from your body. But once you reach a more stable phase in your healing process, you’ll find that sleep becomes easier. Don’t give up. Explore different options that work for you, whether they are medications, natural remedies, or other methods. Remember, what works for one person may not work for another. Everybody and every body is different! You have the power to cultivate control of your sleep.  

My sleep is my refuge. It is my creative canvas and my slice of heaven. I am no longer afraid to fall asleep. 

Photo by Sherin on Pexels

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: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

Natalie Rose

My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently sick and broken beyond repair. I spent over a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it.

♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡

Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Trauma can damage the brain and shrink the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.

♡ My Story ♡

I endured multiple types of traumas starting at around age thirteen, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty. Some of these situations forced me to switch environments. My body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did. The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in—religion and the medical system itself—caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.

♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡

What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain.

♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡

I am excited to share tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome things like dissociation, flashbacks, sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable. I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. I hope to encourage other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.

♡ Personal Blog ♡

To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com

I had gotten through two appointments each day with my therapists, who are helping me work through my flashbacks. I was exhausted, but I wanted to move my body at least a little. So, on Thursday evening, after my appointments, I signed up for a ballet class. I dressed in my leotard, tights, and skirt, and began stretching at the barre. I was excited. 

During the first barre exercise, pliés, my focus on the teacher’s voice began to fade, and a wave of rage surged through me. I tried to breathe through it and maintain the graceful movement of my arms to the pianist’s concerto. But the flashbacks grew louder with each passing note. My arms started trembling and pulsing with aggression; I felt the need to punch something. Afraid I might have a trauma response that others would notice, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get through class. I briskly walked to the side of the room to grab my bag, awkwardly waved goodbye to the instructor, and left. I was defeated that, yet again, I couldn’t get through a dance class without flashbacks overwhelming me.  

With compassion, I told myself, I’ll try again tomorrow.  

The next day

Friday was my day off from therapy. I had gotten a great night’s sleep–the ideal setup for getting through an hour of exercise. Today’s jam was cardio dance class. I put on my tennis shoes and favorite pink tank top, ready to work. 

Once again, the intensity of the music was overwhelming. With my head hung low, I walked out. 

As I sat in my car, I couldn’t shake my embarrassment. How can I still not get through even one song? I’m so weak.  

I really wanted to move my body, and I knew it’d make me feel better. But clearly, my body wasn’t ready to move. After a long week of intensive work processing the emotions connected to my flashbacks, my body wanted rest. 

But today’s Friday, Natalie! Do something fun! Be normal for once. Go out to eat, or shop around a little bit.  

But even that sounded like too much. I sat quietly in the parking lot, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I asked my body what it needed.  

“A massage,” it quietly whispered. 

A massage? You sure?

I was skeptical, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my recovery process, it’s that my intuition is always right.   

Do I even have the money for a massage? Eh, I’m sure I could make up for it in the budget. 

While finances were certainly a concern, I was more concerned with listening to my body and giving it exactly what it needed in each and every moment of this recovery process toward my goal of living flashback-free. 

The massage

With my head facedown into the headrest and my arms tucked under the blanket, I took some deep breaths and reminded myself: there is nowhere to be but here, Natalie. You deserve this. 

The masseur began his work on my body. The first five minutes were fine–the pressure was light as a warm-up. I felt like I was finally starting to relax. 

After the warm-up, though, his pressure began to deepen, and I started to feel discomfort in my body. Not just physical discomfort, but actual pain. The flashbacks assaulted me as I fought against trauma responses. Tears began to flow, and I kept sniffling them up, but my snot fell through the headrest and onto the floor. 

Can he really not hear me crying? I wondered. I considered letting it out a little louder on purpose, hoping he would notice, so that I wouldn’t have to speak up. 

Just tell him to stop, Natalie. Speak up.  

But I was mute. 

As he traversed through the nooks and crannies of my neck and shoulders, I could feel the pressure increasing. I shivered at the sound of his thumbs rubbing against the sockets. 

Just tell him to stop! 

I started counting down to force myself to say the word I had struggled to say for so many years.

Three, two… not ready yet. 

More tears. 

Three, two, one, st-uh… 

And the cycle kept going for about ten minutes. 

Before I could reach “two” in my next countdown, my system couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed bloody murder, finally having the exorcism my body needed. I started punching the table over and over again.  

The masseur immediately removed his hands from me, and I heard an “Oh my God!” as the door slammed shut.

It was uncontrollable. I screamed until my poor throat couldn’t take it anymore. 

Pretty soon, I wasn’t the only one screaming. I heard the masseur yelling in terror on the phone in his native language, presumably to the owner. I had forgotten for a few minutes that there might be other people in the building. I had only been aware of the interaction between me and the demons. Guilt washed over me, and I told myself to shut up. Slowly but surely, I got everything under control. 

Realizing the door was probably unlocked, I threw the bedsheets onto the ground, locked the door, and collapsed against the wall, naked and exposed. I finished my crying session quietly and gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I couldn’t stay locked in here forever with my embarrassment. 

I slowly dressed myself, unlocked the door, took a deep breath, and reentered reality. 

The masseur was standing in the lobby holding a silver tray with two bottles of water and a box of tissues. 

“You okay?” He looked terrified. 

“Yes, I promise,” I reassured him, he did nothing wrong, and that my outburst was a reaction to PTSD. I wasn’t sure how much he understood due to the language barrier, but I wanted to make it clear that he didn’t need to worry. I was more concerned about upsetting or offending him than about my own emotional state. Even though the massage only lasted about 15 minutes, I handed him my card and insisted he charge me full price. 

“No, no,” he shook his head and made an “X” motion with his arms. He handed me water and motioned me to sit on the couch.    

“Just breathe,” he reminded me. 

I pulled some cash out as a tip and said, “Please.”

He agreed to the compromise. 

Was this the exorcism I had been needing? 

Shock and self-punishment

When I got to my car, Exorcism 2.0 happened. 

“I can’t do this anymore!” I screamed into my steering wheel. 

Suddenly, my phone rang, making my body jolt. I shot up, and the back of my head rebounded against the headrest like a basketball that had powerfully missed the net. 

It was the owner. 

“Natalie, sweetheart…” she said in a Vietnamese accent. “Are you okay?”

I told her about my PTSD and that her employee did nothing wrong. 

“My sister has that. It was just an emotional release. Massage can do that sometimes–it’s a good thing. But a deep tissue massage isn’t right for you today. Come back Monday, and I’ll do it myself. Much lighter pressure. Free of charge.”

“Okay,” I agreed bashfully, even though at this point I was pretty sure I’d never step foot in a massage parlor again.

“And don’t cry, Sweetie Pie. I am wiping your tears. Pretty girls don’t cry.” 

Well, considering how much I cry, I must be the ugliest girl in the entire world… I thought to myself. 

I chalked up her insensitive comment to a cultural and generational difference and told her I’ll consider coming back Monday. 

My therapist: on speed dial

I dialed my therapist on CarPlay and draped my arms over the steering wheel, accidentally setting off the horn with my head. 

“Hi, Pretty Girl!” my therapist answered, chipper as always. 

“Heather?” I mumbled through a trembling voice. 

“What’s goin’ on, Sweetheart?”

Exorcism 3.0. 

Pretty girls don’t cry Natalie, remember? 

As always, Heather listened patiently while I cried. After gathering myself, I shared what had happened. I spent five minutes expressing my concerns about how I made the masseur feel–that I freaked him out, or worse, that he might think I was the type to accuse him of maltreatment. I was more concerned about him than about myself, a common pattern throughout my life. 

“No need to worry about him. He’s an adult. He’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about YOU right now. You’re not driving, are you?” 

I reassured her that I was parked on a side street.

Heather guided me through a grounding exercise over the phone, and I finally felt stable enough to talk to her. She walked me through the science behind what had happened: When the masseur worked on my neck and shoulders–areas where we hold immense tension and stored emotions–my nervous system finally felt safe enough to let go. That “exorcism” feeling? That’s exactly what somatic release looks like. It’s not pretty, and it’s not comfortable, but it’s profoundly healing. 

Heather’s wisdom and motherly energy made me feel so much better. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I told her, with happy tears flowing now. 

“Drive safe, Sweetheart,” she said before hanging up. 

Later that evening

The evening was spent taking some much-needed rest. I had worked so hard during the week. So hard. 

I spent the evening cooking outside and nourishing my body with non-inflammatory food. As the craziness of the week began to ebb with the sunset, I reflected on everything I had been through. My body has been holding on to so much: years of medication effects, trauma, stress, and the incredibly challenging emotional processing I’m doing in therapy. What happened during the massage? I had a massive parasympathetic nervous system release, I cried intensely, my body expelled stored trauma, and I was left completely depleted. My nervous system was in crisis mode, needing rest and resources to recover and feel safe again. And here I was: my feet in the grass, eating healthy, nourishing foods. Nothing about this was a failure. Everything was a win. 

I grabbed my journal and wrote out bullets of all the things I was proud of. 

1) My self-control

I could have grabbed something quick and easy to eat on the way home and mindlessly stuffed my face with it, but I chose to come home and cook mindfully. That’s self-control and a commitment to nutrition as an essential part of my healing. 

2) My wisdom

On the flip slide, I could have fasted and denied my body the nutrition it needed out of fear that the food would make me feel bloated, but I chose to eat instead. That’s the wisdom of listening to my body. 

3) My strength

I’m navigating extraordinary emotional processing while my nervous system learns to regulate itself without the numbing effects of psych meds. That’s strength. 

4) My self-awareness

I didn’t touch my technology all evening because it would have been too overstimulating. Instead, I listened to the sounds of nature and children playing outside. That’s self-awareness. 

Everything was a “win”

Nothing about this experience was a failure. I’m doing something incredibly difficult–healing from deep trauma while managing medication withdrawal and rebuilding my entire life from scratch. The fact that I’m still showing up, still being honest, and still trying–this is remarkable. 

When I really thought about it, this exorcism was not a “rock bottom” moment. It was a reminder that I am in the home stretch of this marathon toward a life where I will never have to put in this kind of trauma work again. The hard days, the emotional releases, and the moments of overwhelm are not signs of failure. They are signs that I’m healing deeply enough to finally let go of what I’ve been carrying. 

Maybe pretty girls don’t cry… but beautiful ones do. And I’m doing beautifully. Even when it doesn’t feel like it. Especially when it doesn’t feel like it. 

Featured Photo Credit: Pexels

Graphic Credit: Author

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: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

Natalie Rose

My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently sick and broken beyond repair. I spent over a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it.

♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡

Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Trauma can damage the brain and shrink the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.

♡ My Story ♡

I endured multiple types of traumas starting at around age thirteen, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty. Some of these situations forced me to switch environments. My body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did. The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in—religion and the medical system itself—caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.

♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡

What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain.

♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡

I am excited to share tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome things like dissociation, flashbacks, sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable. I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. I hope to encourage other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.

♡ Personal Blog ♡

To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com

In seventh grade, the children at my middle school traded their Nintendos and Polly Pocket dolls for iPhones and Barbie dolls–in the form of minions for their social cliques. Soon after the school year began, CHABELCK was established, and the name might as well have been trademarked.

So, what was CHABELCK? It was the official name of the “friend group” composed of all the popular girls in our class. I look back and chuckle at the name. They could have worked harder to come up with something catchier; to me, it sounds like the remnants of something a dog threw up! They simply took the initials of their first names and combined them into one word. Almost immediately after the group was created, the term CHABELCK and the girls who held that title loomed over the school, feared by all who encountered them. I took an observer’s perspective, watching in bewilderment as many of my innocent friends neglected our friendship to join CHABELCK–and consequently morphed into power-hungry monsters. 

CHABELCK’s presence at school was boisterous. The group’s name was plastered on binders, folders, and whiteboards. They took over online forums, cyberbullying other students whom they deemed unworthy of a spot in their cool kids’ club. A few members of CHABELCK were ultimately expelled from school, while others were disciplined. 

Groupthink, peer pressure, and tribalism throughout human history

I’ll never forget CHABELCK. It was my first exposure to the aggressive presence of tribalism and groupthink in our society. 

Why does the cacophony of the groups I’ve encountered throughout my life ring louder than the whisper of my own conscience? Humans are social creatures, and tribalism originated as a survival mechanism. We hunted and gathered to protect our own. He who strayed from the tribe vanished into the jaws of the enemy. To be excluded was to die. 

The battle between my internal desires and external expectations

Although tribalism is ingrained in my human DNA, I’m very much a free spirit. From a young age, conformity felt like an internal death sentence. I fought a daily battle between my disdain for Western civilization’s obsession with fortune and fame and my desire to escape into solitude. In environments filled with materialism and superficiality, I felt pressured to be someone I was not in order to be liked and accepted. The seduction of the herd was enticing. 

With every group I tried to join, I was eventually ostracized or, in some cases, viciously bullied out of them. Starting at a new school when I was thirteen, I quickly became the target of a situation of large-group interpersonal cruelty–the first of several such instances. This was the first time I came home from school expressing to my parents that I had thoughts of suicide. I switched schools, but the bullying continued as I navigated new peer environments. I tried hard to fit in, so that I wouldn’t be seen as an antisocial loser. Some mental health providers even pathologized the fact that I didn’t have friends. 

But even if I disregarded others’ opinions, I didn’t need a tyrant to criminalize me as a friendless outcast. Whenever I changed myself to fit in, I became my own jailer. Even when I was initially accepted into social groups, I felt like I had betrayed myself. I hated being like everyone else. The tug-of-war between my authentic self and my desire for acceptance was more painful than the rejection from those whose approval I craved. 

The anatomy of groupthink

I have developed intellectual friendships with social psychologists and philosophers like Arthur Schopenhauer and Solomon Asch, whose research and observations suggest that societal expectations of conformity can strip individuals of their freedom. As I reflected on my personal experiences with groupthink, I noticed some recurring patterns.

While these groups seemed powerful at the time (there is power in numbers, as they say!), they were actually quite weak. Much like the structure of a cult, these groups typically had a leader (or multiple leaders), with followers obediently trailing behind and idolizing them. When I interacted with these group members on an individual level, I noticed they were often insecure and relied on the group for validation. They frequently spoke poorly of other group members and revealed their secrets to me, indicating that their friendships were not genuine and that the group was performative. I recognized that if they spoke about their “friends” in this way to me, they were likely doing the same thing to me behind my back. 

My final straw before rejecting it all

I’ve learned the hard way that the petty high school behavior doesn’t stop after high school. When I moved to the countryside to begin my healing journey, I found myself isolated in a retirement town in the middle of nowhere, with a population of 1,942. I got to know a group of friends there, and was initially invited to their breakfasts and bonfires. I thought I had finally found my people. 

From the get-go, I had an internal inkling that, like with past groups, I would eventually be kicked to the curb. I found myself trying very hard to gain their approval. I changed my personality and overextended my generosity, spending money I didn’t even have in order to remain relevant to them. 

Unfortunately, my gut instincts turned out to be right. After the initial “love-bombing” phase, I was soon deemed unworthy of being in their presence. Around town, they went out of their way to make me feel inferior–snubbing me, humiliating me in front of others, and playing mind games with hot-and-cold behavior. It was bizarre! For months, I ruminated, trying to figure out what I could do to be good enough for this group and to coexist with them in the tiny town without tension. But nothing I did was good enough. 

After a few months of continuous rejection and their attempts to stifle success in my healing, the stress finally took its toll on me. One night, I woke up with itchy legs. My entire body had broken out in hives! Over the next two weeks, I visited the emergency room four times. Each time the ER managed to control the hives, they returned again within 48 hours. I wondered if I had an allergy, and ended up driving to the big city to consult with an allergist. 

Facing the pain of rejection and uncovering subconscious memories

There was no allergy: the hives were stress-related. Yes, the rejection stung (and itched!) that deeply. The rejection didn’t hurt because these people were particularly special; in truth, they barely took the time to get to know me before they discarded me. If it had been strangers behaving this way, I would have brushed it off immediately, reminding myself that their actions stemmed from their own misery and insecurity. However, because I had met these people at the beginning of my cabin journey, they became my final hope of solidifying a friend group I could rely on for the rest of my life. When I was rejected, they became the symbol of all the interpersonal cruelty I had faced during my formative years.

It was painful to be ostracized by the people who promised me they would be on the other side of my success. Still, there was a silver lining: with each instance of being belittled by this group, I brought my feelings to my therapist. Together, we worked through the physical sensations I felt in response to these moments using a technique called brainspotting. During each session, subconscious memories connected to these emotions resurfaced–memories of the hurt I had experienced from groups in my peer environments and religious communities. Through brainspotting work, those buried memories were processed and healed. 

I will no longer participate in it

After years of chasing a dangling carrot held by various groups, I grew tired of hearing, “If you just do this… then you can finally sit with us.” I decided to stop trying to prove that I am “good enough” for these groups and instead realized that I am too good to participate in their infantile behavior. 

My entire life, I had questioned whether these kinds of people wanted to be friends with me. But things changed when I learned to ask myself, “Do I even want to be friends with them?” 

I refuse to march around in aggressive cults and pretend to have disdain for people and groups whose stories I know nothing about. I do not feel superior by making others feel inferior. I find no satisfaction in mocking or intimidating innocent people. I don’t enjoy latching onto narratives or rumors based on hearsay. I cannot bow in submission while my heart screams in protest. I refuse to trade my authenticity for acceptance. 

My path to true freedom

In a world where the crowd roars with confidence, my solitude felt like madness. But when I quieted my mind in the countryside, I discovered that my greatest fear as a radical nonconformist was not the herd itself: it was becoming like the herd. 

Today, I’m not a part of any friend groups, and I don’t want to be. I do almost everything alone, and I actually prefer it that way. Despite how medical providers pathologized my introversion in the past, I now know there is nothing wrong with wanting to be alone. Once I found freedom in my individuality, I no longer needed the approval of those I had previously put on a false pedestal. I’ve built authentic and easygoing friendships with people who have no agenda and do not require me to participate in activities that conflict with my values. 

I will not pretend to be someone I’m not just to feel like I belong. To me, true belonging means being at home within my own soul. I will continue to stand strong on my own two feet and keep my head held high, never surrendering to the crowd.  

Photo by Dibya Jyoti Ghosh on Unsplash

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.

Natalie Rose

My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently sick and broken beyond repair. I spent over a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it.

♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡

Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Trauma can damage the brain and shrink the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.

♡ My Story ♡

I endured multiple types of traumas starting at around age thirteen, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty. Some of these situations forced me to switch environments. My body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did. The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in—religion and the medical system itself—caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.

♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡

What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain.

♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡

I am excited to share tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome things like dissociation, flashbacks, sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable. I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. I hope to encourage other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.

♡ Personal Blog ♡

To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com

Five words got me tied up on a stretcher in the back of this ambulance. Five words, starting with “I want” and ending with “myself.”

I was enrolled in a rigorous academic summer intensive. My courses at the intensive included cryptology, calculus, cognitive neuroscience, and yoga – a little break from the books. I’d been struggling with my mental health for a few years, but I did what I did best to escape my excruciating pain: I stuck my nose in the books.

After a sleepless night, tormented by my flashbacks, I let those five words slip to my roommates. Word got back to a counselor, and within a couple of hours, I was hospital-bound. No attempt, no real threat, just a voiced desire to escape this life.

Watching the world disappear from the back window of the ambulance, I felt a sickening mix of emotions as I knew my life would never be the same again. I had no clue where these guys were taking me. All I knew was it wasn’t going to be a vacation.

My home for the next few days

The paramedics wheeled me into a dingy hallway, untied me, and turned me over to the hospital staff. Now that my tears had dried and I could see the guys in better light, I noticed that both of them were actually pretty cute.

How embarrassing that they saw me like that, I thought to myself, brushing my hair with my fingers a little.

I begged them one last time, “Do I have to stay here?”

“Yes,” they said. “You’ll be okay. It’s safe here. And they’ll give you the help you need.”  

The evaluation phase

In the evaluation room, there were four nurses: two male and two female. They asked me dozens of questions, and I answered them robotically.

Whatever the paramedics put in my IV really doped me up, I thought. But it’s nice not to be feeling any anxiety right now, I thought to myself, negating the fact that I was so numb I really wasn’t feeling anything at all.

After dozens of initial questions, the male nurses left the room, leaving me with the two females. They ordered me to strip naked. The last shreds of my dignity disappeared as they began strip-searching every crevice of my body. I stood awkwardly with my arms out to the side in a “T” position like I do during TSA checks at the airport. Their final request came as a surprise to me.  

“Lastly, we’re gonna have you turn around, squat all the way down to the floor, open your butt cheeks with your hands, and cough as loud as you can.”

I almost laughed because I thought they were joking.

“What?” I asked, confused.

They were serious.   

“Why do I have to do that?” I asked, ever-so-innocently.

“Sometimes, people carry drugs or contraband down there. It’s for your safety. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Contraband? What’s contraband?” I asked, genuinely confused.  

At just seventeen years old, I had no reason to believe that anyone, especially myself, would carry a weapon in their private parts. I also knew nothing about drugs beyond my school’s “Don’t do drugs, kids!” campaign.

There was no point in arguing. I was here, by law. My body was no longer my own.  

I stood up, slowly released my hands from my butt cheeks, and looked the nurses in the eyes again. I felt different, like a ginormous chunk of my purity had just been stolen. Over the next three days, my innocence was going to be ripped to shreds even more.

My living quarters

Next, they showed me around my living quarters. It was a glorified version of the prison cells I had seen in some of my favorite movies, Escape from Alcatraz and The Shawshank Redemption.

The bedroom had dirty grey concrete walls and a small shelf built into the wall for the limited toiletries they gave me. Only one small bed sat smack dab in the middle. I could tell from one quick glance at the pillow that it wasn’t my favorite Tempur-Pedic kind.

Night number one

In the night, I tossed and turned. The messages inscribed in ink on the wooden headboard and armrests by previous patients swirled batlike in my mind.   

“Fuck you.”

“You deserve to die.”

“Burn in hell.”

“Weak.”

“You didn’t succeed.”

“Coward.”

I sobbed into the pillow that was as hard as a brick.  

None of the patient rooms had doors. Directly across from my room was another room identical to mine. Its occupant was a girl of about fourteen. All night, she sat on the edge of her bed, catatonic, staring me down with penetrating eyes of disgust and horror.

What does she have against me? I literally just got here… I wondered, taking her staring contest a little too personally.

And then, another game of hers began. Every few minutes, she would slowly open her mouth and scream bloody murder while continuing to stare deep into my eyes. Then, she would slowly and silently walk around her bed in circles, before sitting back down and repeating the whole cycle.

I shrank under the covers and hid from her haunting stare so she wouldn’t perceive me as a threat anymore.

It didn’t work. I made up my own game to distract myself. I’ll count sheep in between each scream and see the highest number it gets to. That’ll be the number of the puzzle I’ll do in my Big Book of Sudoku once I get out of here.

After a few hours, exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I slept through her cacophony – the most unique lullaby I had ever drifted off to.

The next morning

When I awoke, she was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring. I flashed an awkward smile at her as I scurried out of my bedroom.

“Good morning, Natalie. Would you like to take a shower?” a nurse greeted me with a smile, offering me a thin, white towel and two tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner.  

Ugh. She’s had too much coffee this morning, I thought to myself, as I rubbed my eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” I gladly accepted.

My shower was my ten minutes of privacy and peace. It was a dark room with a single light shining down from the center of the tall ceiling. It reminded me of a dungeon. I looked down at my toes and cringed as my bare feet caressed the tiles that housed years of the feces of my psych ward ancestors.  

In the dungeon, tears overtook me. I cried softly so that no one would hear me. I tried to visualize the clean water washing away my despair. It didn’t work. I felt like I was bathing in raw sewage.  

The view from up here

With my hair still wet from the shower, I brought one of the chairs to a barred window and looked down at the outside world. I saw birds, cars, pedestrians, trains, hospitals, billboards, and freedom. I counted pedestrians as they crossed the intersection and made up stories about them – their names, their professions, their hobbies, and their favorite songs. I could see them, but they had no clue I was up here.  

I wrapped my palms around the cold bars and shook them, fantasizing about my Escape from Alcatraz. They didn’t budge.

Acceptance washed over me. I had no other option but to be here and sit with my own mind. I guess I’ll just have to make the best of it.   

My fellow inmates

I made a point to talk to some of the other patients and hear their stories. The outside world may have seen them as unworthy, but, to me, they were beautiful souls in desperate need of help. They just needed to be heard. Many were hesitant to talk to me. They seemed intimidated by the fact that I was patiently listening to them, unlike the professionals from the system who had devalued their experiences. Slowly, some opened up.

Their stories were a museum of cruelty. One thirteen-year-old girl told me nonchalantly, “I’m pregnant with my uncle’s baby, and my parents don’t know yet.” 

The banality with which she told me was heartbreaking. I dug more into her story and found that incest had been going on for years. This place was clearly safer for her. I would have preferred her to stay here rather than go back home.

My new friend

The ward was always chaotic. Patients gibbered, screamed, hissed, and threw things. But in the very back corner of the ward lobby, a girl sat quietly at a table alone, coloring. She looked peaceful, so I sat next to her.

She was slim with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes. Her face looked pained, but there was still a little light in her eyes. Even though I’d just sat next to her, I felt like I’d known her my whole life.

She handed me some broken crayons and said, “Wanna help me color?”

And that is how I met Lucine.

The conversation flowed naturally. We began talking about our lives. I loved to dance, and she loved horseback riding. She gushed about her horses, Bread and Butter. She spent her summers in Northern California training for riding competitions. Tears filled her eyes as she said, “Each day at school, I just couldn’t wait to get home to Bread and Butter. They were my only friends.”

Lucine had the sweetest heart. I saw myself in her. I thought: If there were a girl like this at my high school, she’d totally be my best friend.

To make her feel more comfortable opening up, I told her that I was lonely and bullied at my school.  

“So was I,” she said.

I shivered as her honesty sparked flashbacks within me.   

“You know,” she said, “There’s a national school that takes on students for personalized learning. It wasn’t safe at school, so my parents signed me up for this new school. I was scared, but I love it now and will stay until I graduate. All my courses are just with me and one instructor. It goes at my pace, and I don’t have to worry about dealing with all the bullies from my old school. Plus, I get out of school early, so I have time for my horses. What city do you live in?”

I told her where I lived.

“I know they have a location there. Ask your parents about it.”

Even though I only had another year of high school, going back for that long made me feel sick. It was worth a shot to look into this.

I made a mental note for when I got out of here: Beg the ‘rents to take me out of my high school and enroll me at Lucine’s school.

Talking about school reminded me of what I was missing out on. It was July, and I was coloring a paper Christmas tree with scraps of crayons. I desperately wished I could be in my cryptology class. Instead, I was serving my time for those five words.  

I made another mental note: Next time, I need to be more careful before letting those five words slip out of my mouth.  

Recess

We were allowed 30 minutes of daily “recess” in a cage on the roof of the building.

The other kids immediately grabbed the red balls out of the bin. Some played dodgeball, others played foursquare. This was part of their daily routine – some of them have been here for weeks or months.

A staff member stood, watching over us. I retreated far enough away from the action so that any balls that lost control wouldn’t peg me. I sat against the concrete wall with my knees buried into my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs.

“Hey, Natalie, do you want to play dodgeball with us?” one of the girls asked me.

“No, thank you.” I just wanted to keep to myself.

The kids were smiling and laughing as they played. Everyone seemed genuinely happy.

It’s weird they seem so happy. The sun isn’t even out. Don’t they realize that this place is literally a prison?

And then, it hit me. They’re happy because this place is safer than anywhere else for them, including their own homes. My heart broke when I realized this. I curled up into an even tighter ball as I felt their pain wash over me.  

Lunch time

Lunch was meatloaf, a stale slice of bread, applesauce, some dried Lucky Charms, and orange juice. One whiff of the meatloaf made me gag. I picked the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and ate them one by one. I washed them down with the OJ. That was all I ate that day.

Group activity

After lunch was activity time. We got a piece of paper, markers, and fifteen minutes to draw the voice in our heads.

Once people began to share their drawings, it was clear that most didn’t draw anything, or only drew some scribbles to play along and convince the staff that they were “getting better” so that they’d have a chance at an early release.

It was Lucine’s turn to share. She drew a vividly intricate monster that haunted her thoughts. It belonged on the walls of an art gallery, not a psych ward.

She gave voice to the hidden symbolism in her artwork. Every part of the monster’s body represented something in her head. She fought back tears as she poured her heart out in front of the strangers around her. Her raw authenticity was so refreshing. My eyes welled with tears.

She finished her presentation; then there were a few seconds of silence. The others in the circle burst out laughing.

What’s so funny? I thought, as I looked around the circle, bewildered.

Oh. They were laughing at Lucine.

Lucine hung her head and sobbed. I wanted to run over and give her the biggest hug. But physical contact with patients was one of the many things on the list of “no-nos” they gave me when I arrived. I resisted the urge.

When she finally looked up, she caught my eyes, and I gave her an empathic pouty lip to let her know that I felt her pain and did not participate in the laughter. That was the only hug I could give her.

“Well, okay then…” The facilitator frantically looked around as her voice shuddered. “Who’s next?”

I spent the rest of the day making Lucine feel appreciated. We colored some more, made up our own dance routines together, played the pedestrian game, and talked about our futures.

“That one’s Danny,” Lucine joked, pointing to a pedestrian in a suit. “He’s an investment banker, but he hates his job. He only works to support his wife’s spending habits. What he really wants to do is play the drums in a heavy metal band!” We giggled. That day, we shared laughter together until our starved bellies couldn’t take it anymore.

My new friend was ripped away from me

After what felt like an eternity, my prison sentence had been served.

It was time to say goodbye to Lucine. She was sitting at the coloring table, frantically scribbling something with a crayon.

“Wait! Natalie!” She ran over from across the ward. “Take my number!”

A nurse intervened before Lucine could give me the paper. The nurse held her arms out and ripped the paper out of Lucine’s hands. “There will be no contacting other patients outside these walls.”

Lucine looked shattered. We looked at each other with the saddest eyes. I wanted to hug her so badly.

“Time to go, Natalie,” the nurse told me.

It felt like my only friend was being ripped away from me.

“Stay strong, Natalie!” Lucine yelled loud and proud. “You can do this!”

Speechless, I could only raise my hand in farewell.

Lucine lives on

It’s a shame the psych ward didn’t let me keep in touch with Lucine. All I ever wanted was a friend like her. But I think I made the best of my time there. Many others lashed out and acted out. And, rightfully so. That place was horrible. I squashed all my desires to scream bloody murder and cry rivers of tears. I didn’t want to give the staff any reasons to extend my stay. I still can’t believe how many of those beautiful children were forgotten and neglected, with stories and lives that no one heard or valued.

Today, I am free of all my suicidal ideation. I want to believe that Lucine has found that same freedom. She was not the type to give up.

On occasion, when I’m driving through the countryside and see horses in their pastures, free as can be, I can’t help but think of Lucine. A decade has passed, and I have no way of knowing for certain. But I just know deep in my soul that Lucine is still here with us. I know that she’s somewhere out there, riding bareback in the California sun, her blonde hair trailing behind her, forever free of the monsters in her head.

Feature Post Image by Joonas Sild on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/photos/empty-bed-bpMiUGF2Cps

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

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.

Natalie Rose

My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently sick and broken beyond repair. I spent over a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it.

♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡

Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Trauma can damage the brain and shrink the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.

♡ My Story ♡

I endured multiple types of traumas starting at around age thirteen, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty. Some of these situations forced me to switch environments. My body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did. The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in—religion and the medical system itself—caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.

♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡

What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain.

♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡

I am excited to share tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome things like dissociation, flashbacks, sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable. I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. I hope to encourage other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.

♡ Personal Blog ♡

To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com

Despite entering the mental health system over ten years ago, I didn’t learn about “complex trauma” or “Complex PTSD” until about three years ago. At 18, I received a PTSD diagnosis from a psychiatrist, five years after my prolonged trauma during high school had begun. This diagnosis came amid a confusing mix of various other diagnoses from different providers over the years, which further obscured an effective healing plan. Even when I worked with multiple providers who intended to collaborate, they often disagreed about my “mental illness” and the best approach to “fix” it. With all these conflicting and dehumanizing labels, I felt like a hopeless outcast in a society of “normal” people. Being burdened with nearly every possible diagnosis in the DSM resulted in a bewildering array of treatments for my “mental illness,” none of which actually addressed my root issue: trauma. There was never a need to complicate anything about it.

For years, I underwent tests, treatments, and psych meds in an attempt to alleviate my symptoms. Many times, the side effects from these treatments – especially the psych meds – were worse than the “condition” these providers were trying to cure. Unfortunately, it took me years to realize that psych medications were never the solution for my trauma-related struggles.

During most of my time in the mental health system, my mind felt very foggy. I was a disoriented, dissociated, and overmedicated young girl trying to navigate the challenges of my teenage years and young adulthood, which already come with their own drama. My experiences with misdiagnosis and overmedication will be the subject of extensive writing in the future, but for now, I’m providing context regarding the journey I’ve embarked to find answers. I have been subjected to nearly every possible treatment, all promising me peace and all ultimately failing me.

Putting the world on pause

Something had to change, and I realized that I had to spearhead that change. I embarked on a quest to understand the complexities of CPTSD. Inspired by Thoreau’s Walden, I put everything in my life on pause, moved to the countryside, and spent time in solitude. With this refreshed mindset, I immersed myself in the research and data surrounding CPTSD.

Moving to the countryside and eliminating stress naturally alleviated many of my symptoms. I had more time on my hands than I had ever had before. I focused on simple approaches to caring for my health, such as improving my nutrition, making lifestyle adjustments, exercising, and practicing breathwork and meditation. With this solid foundation in place, I felt ready to fully dedicate myself to unraveling the mystery of CPTSD while keeping my self-care as my top priority.

Stepping out into the world again

I bravely stepped out to do things I never thought I would do. Things that terrified me. I wanted to do these things, though, believing that they might bring me closer to understanding CPTSD, both for myself and for other survivors. Stepping out of my comfort zone greatly boosted my confidence. I became a guest contributor for the Complex PTSD Foundation, which gave me a voice after years of feeling unheard.

Being vulnerable in writing about my experiences has been incredibly liberating. While my pen flies, the rest of the world fades away. I allow myself to feel my emotions and let the seeds in my mind blossom into a beautiful garden on paper. I don’t have any professional writing experience beyond my school education, and I had never considered myself a “writer” before. When I write about my experiences, my thoughts can extend to about 8,000 words on just one topic – far beyond the suggested word count! This is all part of the healing process for me. I enjoy revisiting my writing, making it concise, and preparing it to present publicly. I don’t worry too much about achieving perfection; I believe that other survivors just want to hear a voice that is relatable and authentic. By the feedback I receive on my writings, I’ve come to realize that many CPTSD survivors are suffering in silence. I see that my words have offered them comfort and encouragement, letting them know that healing is possible.

Both online and in person, I’ve connected with survivor communities and engaged in one-on-one conversations with some truly extraordinary people. I have also started volunteering with local PTSD-related organizations to broaden my understanding of trauma and empathize with others whose experiences differ from mine, yet who have shared similar feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, and despair.

Through this journey, I’ve learned so much about my fellow survivors and continue to discover more daily. 

What I’ve learned about complex trauma survivors

What I’ve learned about us is that we never give up. Despite the limited and often misleading information available, we go to great lengths to find answers that help us understand why our minds, bodies, and psyches endure so much pain and how we can find relief. Unfortunately, we often find no real guidance, leaving us feeling like outsiders in this world, as if we are the only ones carrying this level of suffering.

What I’ve learned about us is that our pain can be so excruciating that we sometimes feel the only way to escape it is to end our lives. Yet somehow, we continue to hold on by a thin thread, refusing to give up hope in our search for answers.

What I’ve learned about us is that even a brief 10-second break from our suffering – just one moment of peace – can feel like a taste of heaven. However, these moments are so unfamiliar to us that when we experience them, we often feel uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and terrified. As a result, we quickly revert back to our comfort zone of constant anguish. This isn’t our fault; it is simply what we have known for far too long. 

What I’ve learned about us is that many of us entered the mental health system with good intentions and a desperate need for help, only to encounter further trauma from the very professionals who promised to protect us.

What I’ve learned about us is that many people around us – both within the medical system and outside of the system – often misunderstand our experiences due to ignorance and lack of awareness about trauma. As a result, they tend to label us as troubled, crazy, mentally ill, or disturbed, without taking the time to listen to our struggles beyond their preconceived judgments. This lack of understanding often leads us to isolate ourselves even further.

What I’ve learned about us is that many of us have always felt like we never belonged in society. We see ourselves as black sheep, lost in the crowd, never truly fitting in. This feeling stems from our uniqueness; we were never meant to conform to the masses.

What I’ve learned about us is that we look beyond the superficial aspects of life. We prioritize self-actualization and care deeply about the experiences and suffering of those around us. This profound introspection often overshadows our interest in the trivialities that others get caught up in, which is another reason we struggle to fit in. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we are detail-oriented. We notice the small things in life – the beauty of a rainbow after a storm, a lone dandelion in a vast field, or a gentle breeze brushing against our cheeks, reminding us of the freedom we once had before encountering the harsh realities of the world. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we often carry a deep sense of self-guilt, viewing ourselves as some of the most despicable people on the planet. In truth, we possess some of the purest hearts, and there was never a reason to feel guilty in the first place; we were always doing our best with the knowledge we had at the time. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we believe we’re “not normal,” but it is actually those who have harmed us who are abnormal.

What I’ve learned about us is that, regardless of how we were treated, we choose not to repeat that cycle of abuse. We don’t seek revenge for what has been done to us. Instead, we heal our pain privately and face our experiences with love and kindness when interacting with the world.

What I’ve learned about us is that we go about our daily lives – working, raising children, and managing the stressors of everyday life – while masking intense pain and pretending that nothing is wrong. We care more about the people around us than we do about ourselves. Out of this deep compassion, we neglect self-care in order to take care of others.

What I’ve learned about us is that we’re incredibly strong. In fact, the word “strong” doesn’t even begin to capture our resilience. We are impenetrable fortresses built from the mightiest oak.

As of today, I am nearing the end of my quest to understand my own suffering after more than a decade of seeking external solutions. I now live a peaceful and content life in my happy place. I have resolved most of what my body held onto for so long and am focused on rebuilding my confidence and creating the life I’ve always dreamed of.

Over the past year, I have dedicated myself entirely to healing – an endeavor that, unfortunately, has not resulted in financial compensation, but whose results are worth more than any amount of money in the entire world. I am excited to continue writing about my experiences, hoping that sharing them will help other survivors. 

If my words resonate with you, keep on fighting. I see you. I hear you. I believe you, and I believe you will conquer. If you keep working to rediscover who you are at your core and reject the lies from your past, you will achieve your beautiful dream of freedom and a peaceful life.

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 Marina Leonova: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-woman-s-hand-over-a-map-7634232/

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.

Natalie Rose

My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently sick and broken beyond repair. I spent over a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it.

♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡

Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Trauma can damage the brain and shrink the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.

♡ My Story ♡

I endured multiple types of traumas starting at around age thirteen, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty. Some of these situations forced me to switch environments. My body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did. The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in—religion and the medical system itself—caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.

♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡

What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain.

♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡

I am excited to share tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome things like dissociation, flashbacks, sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable. I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. I hope to encourage other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.

♡ Personal Blog ♡

To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com