That victim frequently faces dismissal and derision.

Let me describe aspects of my situation to give you an idea of what can happen.

Disclosure: Prelude and Aftermath

At the age of 57, I finally committed to telling the truth. I had been sexually abused by my maternal grandfather, Konrad Koosmann, a Bishop in the American Lutheran Church, between the ages of 7 and 9. I went public in a big way. I wrote a book and advertised it beginning in March 2020.

(The book was originally titled: Family Legends, Family Lies. Due to a dispute with the publisher, it has been republished with the current title: The Bishop’s Cross)

The lengthy prelude to this decision included decades of trying to address the abuse with my mother. When I was a teenager, her sister went public with the news about their father being a child molester. Then I watched silently as the entire family, led by my mother and Konrad, cut her out, smeared her as mentally ill, and declared her “dead” to the family.

Every effort I made to broach the topic led my mother to initiate similar smear campaigns against me. When my brother announced his engagement, I watched as my mother told his fiance, “you’re the daughter I’ve always wanted!” Anytime she saw my boyfriend, she warned him to stay away from her “mentally ill daughter.” My parents adopted me, and she told me that the adoption agency had given her defective babies. There’s more, but you get the picture. 

When I published the book, I expected to be treated as my aunt had been: cut out, cut off, smeared, derided, declared “dead” to the family.

That is part of what happened. 

At the same time, many members of my family, especially on my father’s side, remembered my aunt’s accusations against her father, and they publicly supported me.

The Aftermath

My mother passed away in June 2025. She left instructions that I was not to be called or told of her death, and no one was to invite me to her funeral. But, family reached out to me, anyway. I wasn’t the only person blacklisted, either. She had a lengthy list of “enemies.” The old battle lines would not be buried with her.

She was polarizing in life, and polarizing in death. 

Last year, I thought a lot about how she tried to send hatred of me down across generations–specifically, to my son. By banning me from her funeral, she banned my son from the family.  It was guilt by association directed at an innocent child to protect her “legacy” with descendants.

The Escalation 

Then came a stark escalation that illustrated how deeply the old family defenses still operate.

Recently, I found four X posts (Twitter) that my cousin had made in January 2025. This cousin is the son of my mother’s sister, the sister who also accused the patriarch of sexual abuse. The vitriol and violence were stunning. Without disclosing his X handle, this is what he wrote (still up on X as I write this):

The Irony

These words came from the son of the aunt who had once been punished for making the same accusations against Konrad. My cousin is treating me the way my mother treated her sister for telling the truth.

The internet is forever, but tweets can be deleted just the same. I took screenshots of these posts before reposting and responding to each one. Then I posted those screenshots to my Facebook account. He put it on social media. I intended that it remain on social media even if he deletes it, and I intended for all of my family to know what he posted.

Some family members who sided with my mother and cut me out are still connected to my FB account. At the same time, I have many family members who have backed me publicly. Some of them posted messages of support in front of everyone–including the naysayers.

Not one of my detractors had the temerity to criticize me openly on FB.

Still, I’m aware of the continuing controversy going on in conversations, email, texts. And the family at large is beginning to see that my mother left her entire estate to her former daughter-in-law, the “daughter she always wanted,” and to the only other grandchild, her son. This includes all the contents of her home, such as my elementary school photos. I assume those will be tossed into the trash. My mother used money for a couple of reasons: reward loyalty and cut off an entire branch of family–mine.

While that may sound like bitterness over money, it is not. I’ve known for decades that she had done this. If anything, it played a role in my decision to come forward with the truth. I reached a point in life where I took control of my own narrative, despite the blowback.

On my Facebook post about my cousin’s tweets, I said that my only regret was not coming forward with the truth sooner. One cousin said this in response:

“I have always believed you. I, too, wish you would have spoken up earlier so you would not have had to bear so many years of pain with no support. Blessings to you and much love.”

Speaking the truth carries a cost. Some family members will choose the comfort of the old legend over the discomfort of reality. Yet every time a survivor breaks the silence, we weaken the shame that has protected predators for generations. That is why I will never regret coming forward.

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

Photo Credit: Unsplash

In 2 days, I will send my two teen sons off to summer camp for a week. I will have the entire place to myself for 6 nights. I have decided to use the time to revamp my Christmas ornaments, which are an amalgam of inherited color schemes, mismatched design motifs, and competing textile finishes. I have collected an array of spray paints, foliage to preserve for garlands and wreaths, and inexpensive pool noodles to use as topiary bases.

The last 12 months have been heavy. My mother passed away. My dog died. My older son was hit by a car (he’s ok), lawsuits, small claims court, family court, a very ill ex-husband, 2 surgeries for me, and more. This was in addition to dealing with a few family members who continue to attack me for telling the truth about child sexual abuse by my grandfather.

In the midst of this heaviness last year, I decorated the house early for Christmas, a few days before Thanksgiving. As always, I was dismayed by the lack of coordination in ornaments and decor unlike my living area, which is awash in harvest vineyard colors.

Then a week later when I picked my older son up from woodshop, he was hiding something behind his back. I wasn’t allowed to see it. Later that day, a wrapped Christmas present showed up under the tree.

“It’s for you, mom. I made it in woodshop just for you,” my son said.

My excitement was boundless. As a single mom, Christmas had become just for the kids. There was never a present for me under the tree. 

On Christmas morning, the living room became a hurricane of flying wrapping paper ripped from packages as the boys opened their gifts. Finally, It was my turn. 

I opened my one Christmas present. It was a piece of wood 4 inches wide, 16 inches long, and 1 inch deep.

“It’s a piece of wood.”

“No, mom, it’s a cutting board.”

“No cutting board is 4 inches wide.”

“It’s portable. You can take it camping.”

“Oh, great! Then it has a dual purpose right? If a bear comes along, I can hit it over the head with my portable cutting board.”

Despite my disappointment, the silliness of it all became the predominant mood. Suddenly, the heaviness of the year lightened immeasurably. 

And this has led to my upcoming project to redo the Christmas decorations, to bring them in line with the rest of my decor. And this has become a metaphor for redecorating my heart in preparation for the holiday season of 2026.

Christmas trees often become collections of memories:

• the handmade ornament,
• the kindergarten reindeer,
• Grandma’s angel,
• the souvenir from Disneyland,
• the ugly ornament Aunt Martha loved.

Most of those memories are pleasant. But some are painful. Still they are a record of life. And now my kids are teenagers.

Instead of all new ornaments, I will transform them. I will repurpose them, just as I repurpose memories both pleasant and painful. 

When my boys were young, a cohesive color palette was unnecessary. They didn’t care. It was simply an abundant tree. Yet, I saw too much visual noise, too much incoherence.

Recovery isn’t about accumulating more. It’s making decisions about which memories deserve a prominent place in my home, on my tree of abundance. It’s choosing what truly belongs.

Every year we unpack boxes filled with memories.

Some still make us smile.

Some we keep out of obligation.

Some we haven’t looked at in years.

Healing asks a simple question:

Which memories deserve another season?

I have spent the last 12 months editing my life.

Not deleting it.

Editing it.

Keeping:

• relationships that nourish
• traditions that still fit
• colors that bring peace

Releasing:

• visual clutter
• emotional clutter
• obligations
• inherited expectations

My ornaments reflect my identity, and not every ornament belongs on the tree. Some can remain packed away. Not every part of my history deserves equal prominence. Not because I’m in denial. Quite the opposite. I took those memories out, looked at them, analyzed their significance, and put them back in the box. 

The boys will head off to camp in a couple of days, leaving me with six quiet nights and a garage full of spray paint, ribbons, preserved greenery, and bins of Christmas ornaments waiting for their makeover. By the time Thanksgiving arrives, I hope the burgundies, deep plums, sapphire blues, timber greens, and antique brass finishes will finally feel like they belong together.

But I already know the most important part of the project won’t be the colors.

It will be the decisions.

Some ornaments will receive fresh paint. Others will stay exactly as they are because they already tell the story I want them to tell. A few may quietly return to the storage box for another year. None of those decisions erase the past. I choose which ornaments to display.

Recovery has never asked me to forget.

It has asked me to choose.

To choose which relationships nourish me.

Which traditions still fit.

Which expectations no longer belong to me.

Which memories deserve to remain on display, and which can be gently wrapped in tissue paper and placed back in the box—not because they are unimportant, but because they no longer define the room.

When people talk about healing from complex trauma, they often imagine becoming someone entirely new.

That has not been my experience.

Healing has felt much more like decorating a Christmas tree.

The ornaments are still mine.

The memories are still mine.

Even the painful ones helped shape the person I have become.

But today I get to decide where they hang.

And then there is one object that will never need repainting or repurposing.

The little “portable cutting board.”

The piece of wood that made me laugh after one of the heaviest years of my life.

The epic prank of a teen boy on his mother.

I still tell him that one day I’m going to mount it on a walnut plaque with a brass plate underneath.

The engraving will read:

Piece of Wood. Christmas 2025.

He rolls his eyes every time I say it.

I laugh every time.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift of healing.

Not that every ornament finally matches.

Not that every painful memory disappears.

But that after years of surviving, there is once again room for laughter beneath the Christmas tree.

Photo Credit: Unsplash

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

The clock can’t be fixed, but it functions just well enough to insist on remaining in my life.

This year feels different.

Life circumstances have pulled me back toward a period between 2013 and 2016—years marked by chaos, conflict, and past trauma layered atop older wounds. I had long since moved forward, but I am again navigating doctors, therapists, and courts. Systems designed to help now mirror a time I worked hard to survive.

My former husband is reliving his own trauma history, responding to the present as though it were the past. Years ago, his serious mental illness was evaluated by doctors, and while some diagnoses were ruled out, his grasp on reality was not consistently intact. Anyone who has lived with someone in this condition knows this truth: you cannot reason with someone who is time-collapsed into trauma and out of touch with reality. Attempts to explain, correct, or defend only pull you deeper into the spiral.

As a parent, my primary task is containment—protecting my 15-year-old son from being drawn into an emotional reality that is not his responsibility to carry. And yet, even with firm boundaries in place, I find myself spending more time revisiting events I believed were behind me.

Like that clock in storage, the past keeps chiming—insistent, familiar, yet out of tune and slightly inaccurate.

So the question becomes essential rather than philosophical:

How do we keep another person’s unresolved trauma from pulling us out of the present and back into a time we no longer live in?

Trauma Lives Outside of Time

One of the most disorienting aspects of complex trauma is its relationship to time. Trauma does not age chronologically. It does not move forward simply because years pass. When someone has not processed or integrated their experiences, their nervous system can remain anchored to a moment of threat long after the danger has ended.

To the person holding the broken clock, the time it shows still feels very real.

For survivors of CPTSD, this can be especially dangerous. Many of us learned early that safety depended on vigilance—on monitoring emotional shifts, anticipating explosions, and preventing collapse. When someone around us becomes destabilized, our nervous system may respond automatically, pulling us into an old role: mediator, protector, translator, and peacekeeper.

But engaging with someone who is time-collapsed does not bring resolution. It brings reenactment.

You cannot convince a clock to tell the correct time by arguing with it.

When Compassion Turns Into Self-Abandonment

For trauma survivors, boundaries often come tangled with guilt. We confuse compassion with participation. We fear that stepping back makes us cruel, uncaring, or disloyal—especially when the other person is clearly suffering.

But compassion does not require immersion.

We can acknowledge another person’s pain without stepping into their emotional storm. We can recognize that someone is reliving something that feels real to them–without agreeing to live there, too.

CPTSD survivors are particularly vulnerable to emotional contagion. Another person’s dysregulation can feel physically destabilizing, triggering old survival responses: hypervigilance, dissociation, panic, or collapse. What looks like “overthinking” is often the nervous system scanning for danger it has learned to respect.

Boundaries, then, are not a moral stance. They are a physiological necessity.

Boundaries as Timekeepers

Healthy boundaries are not walls meant to punish or exile. They are closer to property lines—clear markers of where one person ends and another begins. They do not erase history. They simply prevent history from overrunning the present.

In trauma recovery, boundaries often function as timekeepers. They help us stay oriented to now.

When someone insists on engaging from an old emotional reality, a boundary says: I recognize that this feels urgent to you, but I am choosing to live in the present.

This may look like limiting conversations, declining emotional engagement, or allowing professionals—not family members—to hold therapeutic responsibility. It may feel cold at first, especially to those of us conditioned to respond in a dysregulated way.

But stability is not cruelty.

Parenting in the Presence of Unresolved Trauma

When children are involved, the stakes are higher. Children should not be asked—explicitly or implicitly—to inherit unfinished emotional business. They should not be pulled into loyalty binds, emotional caretaking, or adult conflicts rooted in the past.

As parents, we may feel torn between empathy for another adult’s suffering and fierce protectiveness toward our children. This tension is real—and exhausting.

Containment becomes an act of love.

Sometimes that means keeping our children anchored in the present, even when another adult is living in the past. It means refusing to let yesterday’s pain dictate today’s relationships. And it means protecting children from being pulled into someone else’s unresolved history.

Letting the Clock Stay in Storage

I still haven’t donated the clock.

That matters.

Letting something remain in storage is not the same as denying its existence. It is a recognition that while the object may hold history, it no longer belongs in my daily life. It does not deserve a place on the wall simply because it once did.

This is what healthy boundaries often look like in practice. Not dramatic cutoffs. Not erasure. But intentional distance.

I don’t have to throw the clock in the dumpster.
I don’t have to hang a clock on my wall that can’t keep time correctly.
I simply decided not to organize my life around it.

Choosing the Present

Healing often involves reclaiming our right to live in the current time—to experience relationships, parenting, and daily life without being pulled backward by someone else’s unresolved pain.

Some people will continue to measure time by moments of loss, betrayal, or fear. That does not obligate us to do the same.

Boundaries are how safety becomes predictable.
They are how compassion stays humane.
They are how the present remains livable.

And sometimes, healing looks like this:

Choosing a clock that keeps time with who you are now—and letting the others keep chiming quietly, somewhere out of view.

Photo by Jon Tyson 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.

Many years ago, while hiking out from Thousand Island Lake, I rounded a sharp bend in the trail and nearly walked straight into a bear sitting in the middle of it. We were no more than four feet apart. For a brief moment, we simply stared at each other.

Then something interesting happened.

Before fear could take over, there was a pause. The bear assessed me. I assessed the bear. Two nervous systems met, gathered information, and decided what level of response was necessary.

My first conscious thought was practical and immediate: ditch the backpack!

If the bear wanted my food, it could have it. And if I needed to run, carrying a fifty-pound pack would make that impossible. In the same moment, the bear stood up, stepped calmly off the trail, turned around, and sat down—watching me.

I adjusted my pack and kept walking. When I looked back, the bear was still there, seated, alert, and unmoving.

Nothing dramatic followed. And yet, that moment stayed with me.

What Nervous-System Literacy Really Means

Years later, I understand why.

Nervous-system literacy isn’t about eliminating fear. Fear is not the enemy. Fear is information. What matters is whether our nervous system has enough capacity to use that information rather than be overwhelmed by it.

For those of us living with PTSD, this distinction is crucial. Trauma conditions the nervous system to react quickly and intensely—often for good reason. Hypervigilance, rapid threat detection, and strong survival responses once kept us safe. But when those responses remain locked on high, even in the absence of present danger, they can pull us into patterns of overengagement, collapse, or reenactment.

Healing doesn’t mean never feeling fear again. It means creating enough internal space to pause.

That pause—sometimes only a second long—is where choice lives.

Regulation Is Often Quiet

In popular culture, recovery is often portrayed as dramatic or visibly triumphant. But real nervous-system regulation is usually subtle. No one watching my encounter with the bear would have known that anything significant had occurred. There was no display of courage or mastery.

I didn’t dominate the moment.

I didn’t flee it.

I stayed present.

That presence wasn’t accidental. It was the result of a nervous system that had lived through trauma and was slowly learning to distinguish between current danger and remembered threat.

This is what lived recovery often looks like. Quiet. Unremarkable. Effective.

Applying Nervous-System Literacy to Human Relationships

The same principles apply far beyond the wilderness.

Many PTSD survivors find themselves repeatedly drawn into intense emotional dynamics with people who are dysregulated, time-collapsed, or reliving unresolved trauma. When another person is operating from a past emotional reality, their urgency can feel contagious. Our nervous system may register it as danger, compelling us to explain, fix, defend, or contain.

But engagement is not always required.

Just as with the bear, not every perceived threat calls for confrontation or escape. Sometimes the most regulated response is continued forward motion—staying grounded in the present and refusing to carry more than is ours.

Nervous-system literacy allows us to ask different questions:

• Is this a present-moment threat, or an echo from the past?
• What response is proportionate to what’s actually happening now?
• Am I being pulled into someone else’s survival state?

These questions don’t arise from intellect alone. They come from embodied awareness.

Carrying Only What Is Yours

In the mountains, you learn quickly that carrying unnecessary weight is dangerous. The same is true emotionally.

For PTSD survivors, there is often a long history of carrying what did not belong to us—other people’s emotions, responsibilities, or crises. Recovery involves relearning where we end, and others begin.

Sometimes that means being willing to drop the pack if necessary.

Not because we don’t care, but because survival requires discernment.

Recovery as Integration

Looking back, the most striking part of that encounter wasn’t the bear. It was the pause. Two nervous systems met, assessed, and adjusted without escalation.

That pause is the fruit of healing.

Recovery from trauma is not about becoming fearless or unreactive. It is about restoring enough internal safety to remain present—to recognize danger accurately, respond proportionately, and move forward without reenacting the past.

Sometimes recovery looks dramatic.

Often, it looks like nothing at all.

And that is how you know it’s working.

Photo by Becca 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.

Lately, there seems to be an increasing trend wherein the term “PTSD” (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) is thrown around in casual conversations, often pertaining to mild inconveniences or day-to-day challenges. I’ve heard statements like, “I have PTSD from that awful exam” or “That movie gave me PTSD!” While these statements are most likely meant in jest, they gloss over the profound impact and weight the condition carries for those truly diagnosed with PTSD or its more intense variant, C-PTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder).

For those unfamiliar with C-PTSD, it’s a condition that stems from prolonged exposure to traumatic events, often during critical developmental periods such as childhood.

The effects are deep-seated and pervasive, impacting nearly every facet of our lives, from our relationships to our self-worth. It isn’t just about “having a bad day.” It’s about reliving traumatic moments day in and day out, experiencing emotional flashbacks, and constantly grappling with a heightened state of alertness, expecting danger even in the safest environments.

When PTSD is made light of, the message is that our experiences are just simple overreactions or that we’re being histrionic. Such a limited understanding equates trauma with common daily stresses or short-lived negative experiences. But let’s be clear: PTSD and C-PTSD aren’t about a generally bad day or experience. These disorders involve traumatic events that have left a lasting mark on our psyche.

Using PTSD as a catch-all phrase for distress also overlooks the real stigma that survivors face. There’s a pervasive myth that those with PTSD are unstable and dangerous. Many of us are hesitant to disclose our diagnoses for fear of being perceived as “damaged” or “broken.” We struggle in silence, hiding our pain, and overcompensating so as not to appear weak. The casual misrepresentation of PTSD only serves to further isolate us.

The widespread misuse of the term PTSD can also create more challenges for those who genuinely suffer from PTSD or C-PTSD, particularly when they seek help or wish to be taken seriously. By making it “fashionable” or trendy, we run the risk of watering down the severity and the recognition of real symptoms.

I hope for a world where mental health issues, including PTSD and C-PTSD, are understood and respected. While it’s essential to create an open dialogue about mental health and break the silence surrounding trauma, it’s equally crucial to ensure that the conversation is informed and compassionate. Those who live with these conditions daily should not be belittled or trivialized.

If you are someone who has used PTSD colloquially, I urge you to reflect on your language.

Consider the weight of your words and the impact they might have on those around you.

And for those reading this post who truly understand the depth of trauma, know that your experiences are valid. You are not alone, and your strength is immeasurable.

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.

What happens when your therapist lobs an unforced error across the net at you?

This happened to me recently. I was angry and afraid because of what transpired. Ultimately, I decided he made the error inadvertently. Still, I paid a price. He paid a price as well because I chose to sever our appointments completely.

What happened?

On the initial intake form, I stated that my goal in therapy was to deal with residual anger at my mother. I had been diagnosed with PTSD 20 years ago due to childhood sexual abuse, and I wanted to prevent a relapse. The appointments were conducted virtually over Google Meet, and I wasn’t expecting long-term therapy. I just sought a safe place to rant and rave about my mother for a bit.

During our first appointment, I informed him that several years ago I broke my silence and revealed to everyone that my maternal grandfather had been a pedophile who preyed on little girls in our family. In fact, I wrote a book about it that was published in 2020.

In a later appointment, perhaps the third or fourth, he asked if he could read my book. I didn’t mind if he did so. The book is in the public realm, so I couldn’t stop him. I wrote the book very carefully. I stand by everything in it, and I’m not embarrassed by it. I’m very happy that I finally told the truth about being sexually abused when I was nine.

However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already purchased the book, read it, and now wanted to “use” certain information and needed my “permission” to read the book.

During the next appointment, he guided the conversation a bit and asked me to imagine myself as a little girl. He used a lot of imagery from WWII, such as Anne Frank and soldiers. My book has many references to WWII. Moreover, he asked me to “tell us who anger is protecting?” The use of the third person surprised me. In retrospect, I believe it was another reference to my book, which details a murder trial from 2002, where a San Diego man, David Westerfield, was convicted of murdering a seven-year-old girl, Danielle Van Dam.

Perhaps he was expecting a verbal response from me. However, that’s not what transpired. I remember when he asked me to “tell us who anger is protecting?” Then he said that he had just given me a lot of information and asked me to summarize it back to him. He wanted to ensure that I understood.

Suddenly, I became aware of a “black hole” in my brain. I couldn’t recall anything between “Who is anger protecting?” and “summarize back.” I had slipped into a dissociative episode, and it shocked me. I had been stable for over 20 years, and I didn’t believe this was possible again. I quickly ended the appointment and closed the laptop.

An alarm bell rang in my head

However, before I closed the laptop, he mentioned that I had given him a lot to work with and thanked me for being so vulnerable. An alarm bell rang in my head.

I called a friend who is a counselor to talk through what happened. Her comments were, “Sometimes, the therapist is sicker than the client,” and “You’ve only seen him a few times. You don’t have much invested in him, and you can always find someone else.” But then she started talking about her sciatica and how much pain she was in. I concluded that she didn’t really hear me and offered me a platitude.

It took me a couple more appointments to tell my therapist what she had said and to explain how the episode had frightened me. I was now spending a considerable amount of time during the day, wary that I would encounter evidence that I had done something that I didn’t remember doing. I did not use the word “dissociation” or any variation of it.

He attempted to reassure me and mentioned that he had personal experience with what had happened. That set off more alarm bells in my mind, whether rightly or not.

I met with him a few more times, even though I had already decided to move on. We only had seven or eight appointments total, and I wanted to get a better sense of him, which can be difficult in virtual meetings. He seemed very caring, compassionate, and empathetic, not as a façade for therapy, but genuinely so. He appeared to be in his early to mid-50s, yet his license was issued only a few years ago. Perhaps this was a career change, which is admirable. He seemed to have a good sense of humor. I had found him through a service for Christian counselors, and we shared our faith in God. And he seemed genuinely surprised when I mentioned “wrapping things up.”

So, what was the true unforced error here? Was he overly eager? Did he fail to truly understand my history with PTSD? Should he have been more transparent about his “personal experience?” Should he have initiated a frank conversation about the episode? Was it a mistake to wait for me to talk about it? One thing is certain, he avoided any more imagery about WWII and didn’t speak using the third person again.

Did I err? I said nothing about dissociative amnesia on the intake form, and even after the episode, I avoided the words completely. Should I have insisted on more transparency about his “personal experience?”

One thing I learned is this: Therapists often talk about the power differential in the therapeutic relationship. They assert that the balance of power is tilted toward the therapist. That’s an illusion, in my opinion. Ultimately, I held the power and the choice to no longer continue paying for appointments.

In tennis, when one player makes an unforced error, the other player wins the point. In this case, the unforced error was a lose-lose situation.

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.

2022 was chock-full of 20-year anniversaries for me. I was diagnosed with PTSD 20 years ago. Several terrifying events happened 20 years ago. And I began experiencing dissociative amnesia 20 years ago. Thankfully, all that dissipated within about 2 years. The PTSD was the result of child sexual abuse.

I was on a bit of edge last year, expecting the anniversary effect to trigger my brain into becoming a broken record again. It didn’t happen, perhaps because my awareness of the effect helped keep a relapse at bay.

The length of time that has elapsed has made me more confident to put pen to paper and write about the experiences without worrying about a relapse. In particular, I’ve been trying to describe what dissociation or dissociative amnesia feels like. I dipped my big toe into that water in this article here on the CPTSD blog.

What does dissociation feel like? Can it have a feeling? Perhaps I had feelings during the episode, but once out of the episode, how do I know what I don’t remember?

In my experience, dissociative amnesia is a complete blackout of events. It has a start and a stop. It is different from forgetting where you put your car keys. In that situation, you typically can backtrack your steps: I was in the kitchen, but before that, I was in my bedroom. Before that, I was driving the car into the garage…and so on.

Instead, I have a black hole in my memory.

A black hole is a region in space where the gravitational pull is so strong that nothing, not even light, can escape from it. It is created when a massive star dies, and its core collapses in on itself under the force of its gravity. This results in a point of infinite density called a singularity, surrounded by an event horizon beyond which nothing can escape.

This is such a perfect metaphor for me. When I was sexually abused at 9 years of age, my inner star died, and the core collapsed in on itself under its own force. Now that point of infinite density in my memory is surrounded by the event horizon, and no memory within the black hole can escape.

What’s worse is that anything that may significantly remind me of the sexual abuse can get sucked into the black hole never to escape.

However, I have experienced the escape of some memories from that black hole

However, I have experienced the escape of some memories from that black hole. They come trailing clouds of terror from a prison house that has closed upon me. (Sorry, Wordsworth!)

That terror, that speechless dread, that fearsome horror is exactly why my brain tries to protect me from those memories. I suppose a therapist would say, “Good, now you can integrate those memories into your daily consciousness and live a better life.” But let’s be real. That’s not what happens. I can live with the conscious memories, but I can never go back to how I would have been if the child sexual abuse had not occurred.

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.

Occasionally, I write for myself. I do this with increasing frequency as I get older. The urge to tell my story as a victim of child sexual abuse and describe my experiences grows as I become more comfortable with speaking the truth.

But, can AI produce a personal story that rings true?

What about other uses? Will AI replace therapists and doctors? Proponents espouse its potentially miraculous uses. I have one friend, a professor of mathematics at a top university, who believes ChatGPT is already a sentient being.

Let’s have a little fun with this latest development in technology. (Full disclosure: any AI-produced content here will be in italics. Everything else is my own.)

Let’s take my story and apply AI.

I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse. However, I dislike the word “survivor,” to describe myself. I also dislike the word “victim,” although I think that is the most accurate.

So I asked ChatGPT to list 10 synonyms for “survivor.” Its response:

Resilient
Fighter
Overcomer
Thriver
Endurer
Conqueror
Champion
Escaper
Sustainer
Surmounter

First of all, resilience is an adjective, not a noun. Still, there isn’t a single synonym on the list that adequately describes me. Actually, my preferred synonym to “survivor” is “mountain climber.” I’m a mountain climber, literally and figuratively.

I asked ChatGPT for 10 synonyms for “victim.” Its response:

Sufferer
Target
Prey
Casualty
Martyr
Subject
Recipient
Quarry
Fall guy
Mark

Well, I’m hardly a martyr. I was a target of the sexual predator. I was his prey. Still, I don’t like any of these synonyms either. I like the phrase “innocent child” best.

I asked ChatGPT: “How does silence by child sexual abuse survivors manifest itself in physical symptoms?” It wrote an introduction, 5 supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion in about 60 seconds. The bullet point symptoms listed were:

Chronic pain
Sleep disturbances
Sexual dysfunction
Substance abuse
Eating disorders

That’s pretty accurate, but not comprehensive.

20 years ago, I experienced dissociative episodes for about 1 ½ years as the “matter-of-fact” memories of the sexual abuse flooded into my mind and reconnected with the physical pain caused by the abuse. It was a frightening experience. Recently, I have decided to try to describe what it was like because I have found only inadequate descriptions that sound like they were written by someone who never experienced a dissociative state.

The description that irritates me the most is that it is like “highway hypnosis.” No, in my experience, it is not like “highway hypnosis.”

In highway hypnosis, you still have a general sense of being in your car, seeing the landscape go by, and hearing the music on the car radio. You might have a slightly altered sense of time passing. You still know who you are.

I asked ChatGPT to describe how a dissociative episode feels. It gave me 7 paragraphs with the specific points being:

Feeling disconnected from reality
Loss of time
Emotional numbness
Memory loss
Feeling like an observer
Feelings like floating or drifting

OK, I had memory loss and loss of time. But, the AI-produced essay sounded like a clinician trying to sound clinical.

In my experience, dissociative amnesia doesn’t have a feeling. It can’t because the person experiencing the episode doesn’t remember what happened during that episode. How do you know what you don’t remember? How do you feel when you don’t remember?

Let me be more precise. The person experiencing a dissociative episode knows how he or she feels at the time, but those feelings are contained within the episode. Once the episode ends, it becomes impossible to retrieve those feelings and memories.

If I have difficulty putting words to the experience, then AI cannot learn. Even so, AI cannot be compassionate or sympathetic as a human therapist would be. It may put on a good pretense. It may say standard “therapist” type phrases. But, it will not ever be a substitute or be able to establish an emotional connection.

I’m still working on an accurate description of the dissociative experience. Right now, the best I can describe is the deep fear I felt when I realized I had lost a significant amount of time. But, all the AI in the world can’t help me with that self-assigned task. It can’t feel what I felt. It can’t hear what I heard. It can’t taste what I tasted. It can’t smell what I smelled.

In other words, it can’t be human. It can’t understand the human condition with its infinite nuances. It may come close. But, I’ll go to a competent, compassionate human therapist if I need help.

I’ll keep working on writing down what a dissociative episode feels like.

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 and Terms of Service.

Wrong. Children are fragile. They break easily.

My maternal grandfather broke me. I was 7 or 8 when the sexual abuse began. The psychic damage was extensive. I am now 58, and I am proof that having competent doctors and doing the hard work helps over time. Still, I have struggled with CPTSD most of my life.

My mother’s sister, my aunt, came forward with accusations against her father when I was still young. She was mocked, derided, and dismissed. The family labeled her mentally ill. No one believed her. She was cast out and cut out of the family. Her most vociferous – and vicious – critic was her older sister, my mother.

My grandfather was a  bishop in the American Lutheran Church, and he was a powerful man. He had position, reputation, and friends in high places. He was a man of God. No one believed that he could be a pedophile who preyed on little girls in his own family.

My parents were solid middle-class members of society, devout, and principled. They believed in Jesus Christ and went to church each Sunday. In fact, we attended my grandfather’s church. He was the family’s pastor as well. Ironic.

My mother has staunchly defended her father for decades. Anything but the highest praise for his (supposed) righteousness and upstanding character will draw punishment from my mother. Her reaction when I came forth with the truth was not the reaction of a mother. She attacked and launched a pervasive smear campaign against me. Ultimately, I wrote a book, Family Legends, Family Lies, that delves into these family dynamics, but her behavior confounds me to this day. It’s bizarre.

I had serious issues with depression as a teenager. Unfortunately, my older brother had even deeper, more severe problems. By his preteen years, he was in and out of psychiatric hospitals, in trouble with the law, into drugs, expelled from every school, and eventually sent to juvenile hall. Our parents faced a court order to attend joint counseling with him. My brother spilled every detail about corporal punishment, and the psychologists pointed their collective fingers at my parents as causing my brother’s problems.

As a result, they ignored my pain and avoided any more contact with mental health professionals. I was a straight-A student, so that’s all that mattered to them.

As an adult, I experienced great distress. I couldn’t maintain any kind of relationship. I job hopped, although I wasn’t fired. I simply moved on. And I moved residences frequently. I was always on the go. But in reality, I was always running away. I didn’t feel anything but anxiety or numbness.

The anxiety increased exponentially in my mid-30s when I had to deal with sexual harassment at my job. However, I didn’t really crack until I was 39. 2002 was a pivotal year for me. In one split second, the sound of a fist pounding on wood split my psyche apart and connected my memories to the actual physical pain of the childhood sexual abuse. For several years, I experienced dissociative episodes and all the classic symptoms of PTSD: hypervigilance, exaggerated startle response, intrusive and repetitive memories, nightmares, depression, and flashbacks. I called my brain a broken record. My memory of those years can be spotty, although I kept notes and began blogging in 2006. So, I can piece together what happened.

Yet as I look back and ponder certain events, I ask many questions. How could my parents be so blinded to what was happening even when my aunt raised a red flag?

Denial is powerful, addictive, persuasive, and eerily reassuring to the denier. But there is something much more powerful than denial.

Shame.

Shame fuels denial. Shame brings disgrace and ignominy. Shame causes you to become a social pariah, isolated, untouchable, and outcast. This is what pedophiles rely upon. They are master manipulators who control the narrative. And, they succeed in placing the shame onto the victim in large part because society enables the misdirection.

Another question I ask is this: why didn’t my mother protect me? Even if she didn’t believe her sister, why didn’t she find ways never to leave me alone with my grandfather? The opposite happened. She served me up on a silver platter to her father.

Where were her maternal instincts to protect her child?

Nature gives us very few examples of animals who fail to protect their young. However, infanticide does happen in some species. Typically, a male competitor may kill the offspring of another male. Scientists have recorded a monkey known as the mustached tamarin killing her own young. But, for a mother in nature to fail to protect her own offspring is exceedingly rare. Most will go head-to-head against anything that threatens her offspring. A mother bear wouldn’t hesitate to shred a predator going after her cub.

So why do so many human mothers shrink from the innate duty to protect their children, especially when the evidence of misconduct is clear? Is it to avoid conflict? To keep up appearances? To protect the family over protecting an innocent child?

In my mother’s case, the latter is true. News that her father the bishop was a child molester would bring shame on the family in her eyes. I know this for a fact because she said it. Protecting the family from shame was huge. But, protecting herself from shame was greater. Although my mother will deny her father was a pedophile until she dies, there’s no doubt in my mind that she was also a victim.

So, my mother has two problems: shame and guilt. She has overwhelming guilt because despite knowing what her father was, she didn’t protect her daughter. Thus, the denial continues, and the smear campaigns continue.

I don’t have answers to all my questions. However, I have come to one significant conclusion.

Society needs an #metoo revolution within the core family unit. On occasion, I see #familytoo used as a hashtag on Twitter. However, I’ve never seen it trending. #familytoo needs to trend.

We need to put the shame onto the perpetrators, not the child victims or the rest of the family. And mothers must be prepared to protect their children even if the entire rest of the family sides with the child molester. Society must be prepared to support that mother. Yes, perps are innocent until proven guilty according to the law. However, if the accusation has been made, a parent should never, ever allow that child to be alone with the alleged perp again.

Children are fragile. The damage that sexual abuse causes a young child is profound. We must work together to stop pedophiles.

The author, age 5, and her maternal grandfather, a pedophile.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.