The Black Sheep Hath Landed

When we were kids, I would climb trees or run wild with the boys, and Melanie would sit in a corner playing with dollhouses or reading a book. To get her to participate in any game was a herculean task. She disliked playing outdoors, didn’t like to socialize or attend birthday bashes, and kept to herself… The consequence of being kids from a dysfunctional family created two extreme personalities. I guess that’s how psychology works: in the absence of love and attention, you either withdraw into a shell or go out and seek it with a vengeance.

Poor Mel bore the brunt of my unpredictable personality. I drove her crazy by demanding attention, fighting, and bickering to get what I wanted ad hominem.

Full-Blown ADHD: Summer Days Drifting Away

One summer, I found myself bored and without company. All the neighbors were off for the holidays. But my 8-year-old mind wanted excitement, so I decided I wanted Mel to play with me. She refused even as she sat reading a book beneath the shade of a gooseberry tree, too busy to comply. I strode over, irate that she thwarted my plans. Above her head, nestled in the branches of the tree, hung a beehive, buzzing with activity; an evil, impish grin took over my face. I picked up a stone, threw it at the conclave of humming insects, and ran for my life. A clueless Melanie remained seated when, all of a sudden, piercing stings rained on her body from every direction. She ran, yelling and screaming, while I stood there, hands on hips, wondering if she would be ready to play now. Needless to say, Granny thrashed me, and that got me sobered up really fast.

My ADHD was definitely in full swing. Being precocious and hyperactive, I devised every possible prank and scheme to get my way. I was spirited and stubborn, a combination that was exhilarating for me but challenging for the adults trying to supervise me. My mother was busy dating and paid little attention to us, which allowed me to run wild and create chaos. I would kick, scream, and plot to get what I wanted. My grandmother would sit me down and warn me, but a brat wants what a brat wants. Mel endured my endless tantrums and fights without complaint. Eventually, when I turned 11, I had to grow up, as that was when my mother left us to get married, and her priorities changed.

Grandma: My Parent, Teacher, and Best Friend

After a year at boarding school, my mom, who often delayed fee payments, moved us to Uncle Lionel’s house. Grandma lived with us, too. After Grandpa passed away, she primarily stayed with Melanie and me because she wanted to look after us. She was the only one who genuinely cared about our well-being and taught me important values that I cherish. But we had our share of fights. I was a tough kid to raise—mischievous and pigheaded. Grandma would raise the cane, and I’d challenge her to “thrash me.” A few minutes later, we’d either be laughing or I’d be sulking, and she’d come to comfort me. Sometimes, I regret making her cry with all my antics, but beyond that, we were blood… Though she was my grandmother, she was the only real mother figure I ever knew. Our bond was incredibly precious.

Today, she is no longer with us, and I feel her absence deeply. I cherish the memories of walking to college with my sister; that journey took us an hour and was filled with laughter and dreams. Our grandmother, with her caring nature, always made sure we had a hearty breakfast before sending us off. Mostly, we would scrounge for pocket change to buy shampoo sachets, a small treat that felt like a luxury. On festive occasions, Grandma would lovingly stitch dresses for us. The fact is, she was one of the few people who understood that trauma lay beneath my hyperactive ADHD traits.

Phobias and Mischief

I vividly recall my tomboy phase, a time filled with adventure and mischief. I would climb trees, play with boys, and raise hell. My greatest joy came from racing across the fields with my neighbors and playing games like hide-and-seek and seven stones. I was also friends with Melanie’s classmates, who were the older boys.

A drawback of my childhood was my intense dislike of lizards. I have carried this phobia with me ever since. Being Indian means living with the many varieties we see here. My friend Donna aptly calls them “flycatchers.” I remember being afraid of the lizards darting around in Grandma’s garden. The chameleons especially revolted me, and boys, as usual, zeroed in on my phobia. Whenever they had a chance, I was chased with plastic lizards, live ones, and every color of lizard in between. Being the hellraiser I was, I always got my revenge one way or the other. “Don’t mess with me” was my motto.

 Also, these reptiles remind me of other dark moments, like being locked out of my home in the dark of night as a form of punishment for my hare-brained schemes. It was traumatizing for me, like many other such incidents, but I took it, and I suppose it toughened me. You might say chameleons are symbolic of how one can also adapt to a situation and protect oneself.

Quirky and Quirkier Friends

Since I was a social oddity, my friends tended to be like me. Damien was one such friend and Melanie’s classmate. He had an impish smile and a bag full of tricks. He was forever into tomfoolery and loved making wagers. During my teen years, I dared him to shave off his mustache. Sure enough, the next day, he showed up bright and early, completely clean-shaven. Everyone thought it was funny, but not Damien.

Over the years, I noticed that my choice of friends was different. I preferred buddies based on their character and kindness, not their popularity. They were unique, both male and female, and I usually had nicknames for them. I had this friend Sandra, whom I named Jack, and she called me Mike because I liked Michael Jackson.

 I still don’t mind being an oddball; I’ve always said normal is boring.

Summing up: What Children Believe, They Become

Yes, childhood trauma can increase the risk of ADHD symptoms.  Kids with ADHD especially need special care, including cognitive behavioral therapy and a strong support system both at home and in school. More importantly, engaging in activities that keep their curious minds busy can significantly help with impulse control. Don’t blame a child with ADHD; they are still learning how to regulate their emotions. Recovery from ADHD is a journey that takes time and patience. The CPTSD Foundation offers Daily Recovery Support and a Trauma-informed weekly newsletter for individuals healing from complex trauma.

In the end, remember this: family, friends, and love are all that truly matter. Let go of all hatred and set yourself free. If someone has hurt you, forgive them and embrace love, because love conquers all.

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Names of people have been changed to protect their identities. 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.

Jenney Clark

Jenney Clark is an Indian author and poet, best known for her book “Don’t Be Afraid to Love.” She has published eight books, including “Magic of the Ancients,” and hosts a podcast titled “Awakened Souls.” After leaving a successful job in the service industry, she pursued her passion for writing and became a life coach. Raised in a small town in India she discovered her psychic abilities at a young age and developed a strong interest in Tarot, astrology and numerology. She enjoys connecting with a diverse range of friends, including artists and writers and lives in a cozy “cubby hole” in Hyderabad with her dog, along with her beloved books and music

jenneyclark.com/

I have faced many traumas in my life and experienced repeated betrayal, often from those we are told we can trust—family.

An Existential Identity Crisis

I consider myself a quirk of fate; by some macabre twist, I was launched into a profoundly dysfunctional family. I grew up fatherless in a middle-class Roman Catholic household in a small South Indian town. My older sister Melanie and I were raised by our young, widowed mother in our maternal grandparents’ home, where we lived with an extended joint family.

I discovered that my father passed away from a heart attack just months after my mother conceived me, so I never knew him. Growing up without a father left me feeling empty, which may have influenced my tendency to form fleeting connections with abusive relationships and toxic friendships. The absence of pictures of my dad was heartbreaking, as it felt like all memories of him had been erased. I understand my mother likely acted out of her own grief, but it was painful that she didn’t encourage us to talk about him, leaving many questions unanswered.

Becoming a Social Outcast

At first, my mother worked hard as a teacher at our school until my soon-to-be stepfather, a medical student seven years younger, came into the picture. In the conservative town we lived in, rumors about the teacher and the young man quickly spread, and all hell broke loose at my grandparents’ home. The entire family was upset with her new relationship, but my mother was so in love that she didn’t care.

The school was even worse; we became social outcasts overnight, facing snide comments from classmates and family friends who labeled us as “the daughters” of the “flighty widow.” The reputation stuck.

As a grown woman, I understand that my widowed mother had the right to move on and lead her life. However, at age five, I only felt the loss of friends. Back then, single mothers dating wasn’t common in rural India, and my mother was blissfully unaware, caught up in her new romance as she traipsed around town in love-infested bliss.

The Birth of the Fear of Abandonment

When I was in third grade, she finally married and a few years later moved to the Middle East with her new doctor husband, leaving behind two lonely kids and a controversial reputation.

At every family event, we were seen as the “orphan Annies” and “oddballs,” garnering pity or scorn from others. In that conservative town, we stood out, burdened by a reputation we longed to escape. This likely fueled my craving for love and contributed to  ADHD and borderline personality disorder, which I discovered many years later.

Meanwhile, my childhood became a series of moves between relatives, amplifying feelings of abandonment. We were treated as unnecessary baggage, and the meager food we received was often rationed. Name-calling and forced chores made us feel like maidservants, whether cleaning the house, doing laundry, cooking, or babysitting. I was not yet 13, and I often went to bed hungry.

With each move, my sister and I faced a new set of accusations. In hindsight, I believe this wasn’t because we lacked virtue, but rather because our relatives were tired of bearing the burden of my mother. This was their way of “passing the buck” to someone else. Meanwhile, our mother hardly contributed to our expenses or sent money to those who took care of us.

Though Mom would visit us occasionally, her relationship with us, her daughters, changed dramatically. She refused to believe what we had endured and the ongoing criticism from our “overburdened” relatives. Instead, she relied only on hearsay, choosing to accept the narrative that portrayed us as the problem.

Walking Away From Abuse

At a relative’s home, life became so chaotic that we went from being poor, abandoned orphans to harassed teens overnight. The saddest part was that no one, especially our mother, wanted to believe us. They preferred to sweep everything under the rug rather than face the discomfort of the truth. I realized they chose not to support us because it allowed them to avoid their responsibilities.

As a result, in an effort to protect ourselves, two vulnerable girls walked away from a highly volatile situation and sought help from strangers. We felt unsafe among our own family.

Believe it or not, since then, we have mostly been estranged from our mother and socially isolated from our relatives. Aside from the odd occasion, I haven’t spent time with my relatives or mom in decades. Mom systematically and deliberately cut us off from any contact with the family.

 There is bullying, and then there is bullying of the worst kind; it’s called “social isolation,” the kind that was perpetuated by my dysfunctional family and also by friends at school.

This is the kind of bullying where “the strong” band together and trample “the defenseless” because there is strength in numbers—often aided by money, peer pressure, or the seniority that comes with age.

Rising from the Ashes

As a teenager, I found myself alone and began working hard to support myself. Life took a difficult turn; I met many people from whom I learned valuable lessons. I made numerous mistakes due to poor judgment and misplaced trust, but I’ve always managed to rise from them. While I regret those lapses, I would live my life the same way again because my past has shaped who I am today.

My career choice allowed me to meet many people. Early on, I took various odd jobs, each helping me develop new skills and fueling my ambition for success. I was open to any challenge, adapting and learning as I went. Eventually, I spent several years in the hospitality industry.

Final Thoughts: Know Thyself and Thou Shall Know Thy God

Along the way, I made friends and learned that everyone is unique; no one is perfect; certainly not people with the “pointy fingers.” Nevertheless, I noticed that most people focus on four basic needs: food, money, power, and sex—but not necessarily in that order. Whereas for me it has always been like Freddy Mercury sang that “crazy little thing called LOVE.“ But when we go through abuse, neglect, and trauma and don’t find love, we settle for mediocrity or less. Trauma comes in many forms, but it’s our choice whether to continue the cycle of family karma or to break it. The buck stops with you.

Whichever way it goes, childhood trauma makes you do the thing you’ve been “conditioned” to do all your life. I understand how challenging it can be to navigate through trauma, and I want to share what has helped me along the way: love, friendships, books, music, and spirituality. Healing is not a straight path, and I certainly don’t consider myself an expert. I’ve experienced the many faces of depression, including a recent episode of panic and anxiety, which I know can feel overwhelming. If you’re struggling, please remember that you don’t have to go through it alone. Reach out to your loved ones and consider seeking therapy. It’s so important to take that step and not delay getting the support you need. If you are like me, you deserve to find peace and healing.

Photo by Annie Spratt 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.

Jenney Clark

Jenney Clark is an Indian author and poet, best known for her book “Don’t Be Afraid to Love.” She has published eight books, including “Magic of the Ancients,” and hosts a podcast titled “Awakened Souls.” After leaving a successful job in the service industry, she pursued her passion for writing and became a life coach. Raised in a small town in India she discovered her psychic abilities at a young age and developed a strong interest in Tarot, astrology and numerology. She enjoys connecting with a diverse range of friends, including artists and writers and lives in a cozy “cubby hole” in Hyderabad with her dog, along with her beloved books and music

jenneyclark.com/

What people don’t understand is how exhausting healing actually is. We have to face many demons. Often revisiting painful memories and emotions. Tapping into things we have done and are ashamed of. It requires immense courage to confront these aspects of ourselves, and a lot of self-reflection.

It can often be difficult to do because when we have moments of dissociation, it’s as if our brains go offline. For me, I didn’t want to be in my own body. Looking at myself reminded me of the abuse. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, all I saw was a stranger looking back. Someone I couldn’t connect with or understand. Someone I didn’t want to even exist.

There is so much work that goes into the concept of finding it acceptable to exist exactly how we are. To take up space and to make noise. It takes active practice and it is a lot of work.

I wish for so much change

I strive to be a lighthouse and shine my own light. To be the change I wish I saw in the world I grew up in. I try to show as much kindness as possible because growing up I wasn’t shown it by my abuser. I have learned that compassion can heal wounds that seemed impossible to mend. By extending empathy to others, but it’s hard when we aren’t given it in return. It takes a lot to understand that people can only meet you where they are capable of doing so.

It took me a while to realize that focusing on things I can’t control saps my energy to focus on things I can. But I still have moments where I forget and go into full-blown control mode. It’s a survival instinct where being in control prepares me for anything that may harm me. But it’s not sustainable. I have carried the weight of the world on my shoulders due to my trauma for decades, and I am tired of feeling so heavy.

I’ve been learning to let go, to release the burden, and to find peace within myself. But I know it doesn’t go away overnight. I often wish I wasn’t abused. That I had a normal childhood. But I was, and I didn’t. These were the cards that life dealt me, and all I can do is make amends for the things I have done in my past, learn to forgive myself, and continue working on my self-acceptance.

Making peace with ourselves takes time.

Our minds are programmed to pay attention to the problem, and anxiety and trauma make that even more pronounced. I have had a lot of difficulty reconciling that I cannot fix everything, and that’s okay.

On my healing journey, I have learned just how sensitive I am to the world and the people around me. The actions and the words said by others. Removing the barrier I had to protect myself has opened me up to a lot of emotional turmoil. I went through a long period of not feeling anything in particular about my trauma, and now that I have been unpacking and dealing with strong, unresolved issues that have been stuffed very deep down, it often makes me question everything I knew.

While healing, we deal with a form of intense grief, and what helps is strong emotional bonds. But sometimes those bonds are broken, and it makes things more difficult because, in a way, more grief sets in. It’s like being on a merry-go-round, and round and round we go. In some instances, it can even feel like chronic emotional pain.

Having cPTSD means calm environments equal inner chaos and chaotic environments equal inner calmness, or it helps drown out the turmoil we have inside our heads. When we feel calm and safe, it can often feel too much. We have a habit of gravitating towards chaos and stress because it feels like home. It’s unlearning that pattern that requires a lot of patience and understanding.

It’s all a process, and I am learning to make peace with myself. To endure all the darkness so I can find the light and be my own lighthouse. I am deep in healing, and I was never prepared for just how hard it actually is.

Photo by Annie Spratt 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.

Jack Brody

Born and raised in Boston, Jack Brody has called New York City home for over 30 years. He’s a proud father to a teenage daughter, a survivor of childhood abuse, and someone who knows firsthand what it means to live with Complex PTSD.

Diagnosed six years ago, Jack has been on a deep healing journey, one marked by therapy, growth, hard truths, and unexpected resilience. As a men’s mental health advocate, he shares his story to remind others that they’re not broken, not alone, and never beyond hope.

Whether through his writing, podcast, or quiet conversations with fellow survivors, Jack’s mission is simple: to speak honestly about the hard stuff, and to show that healing out loud is not only possible, it’s powerful.

aboutthatjack.com/

For a really long time, my thinking was on a black-and-white level. You either liked/loved me, or you didn’t. Yes or no. All in or not at all. I looked at life that way because the person I was supposed to trust and who was meant to protect me was my biggest abuser as a child.

I learned that I needed validation to be able to open up and trust someone, and the only way I could was to have guarantees that if I let you into my life, then I would get 100% in return. My trauma logic would dictate that if you don’t like me, whether you were good or bad, or couldn’t give me an all-or-nothing approach, then you are capable of worse, and I wasn’t prepared to be harmed anymore.

A basic way to look at trauma is that it is the result of experiencing danger. So, of course, your instincts would kick in, and you would seek out safety because so much of your learning experience as a child was teaching you that people are dangerous. To seek out guaranteed safety, however, is unrealistic, as nothing ever is. Life is all about taking risks and hoping that things will work out how you wish them to.

It’s not what we feel but how we feel

With black-and-white thinking, we tend to use the concept that it doesn’t matter how we feel but that it matters what we feel. We think reaching our potential or happiness means reaching a goal we set in our own minds. Forever analyzing, breaking things up, never being able to go with the flow, and being in the moment. We end up having a false sense of control and security. When we believe something to be either true or false, it stops us from being let down because we were so prepared for the worst outcome anyway.

Being so set in the extreme conditioning of black and white thinking only leads us down a path of insecurity, as we need constant reassurance from others, and if we don’t or can’t get the reassurance we want, then it only reaffirms our negative thought patterns.

It becomes a vicious cycle.

Changing how I view the world

With the help of therapy and working on my healing these last few years, I have been incorporating gray areas into how I perceive things because I now see through my thought process and actions that black-and-white thinking is a great way to miss out on opportunities, avoid risk, and shut out intimacy. Yes, it may make you feel safer because it makes the world seem a little more predictable, that you can identify problems before they come and prepare for them, and you can identify people who want to hurt you and avoid them, but it comes with a heavy price.

People will disappoint you, and life will challenge you. This is just a given. A well-thought-out decision can lead to something terrible you didn’t even expect, and a poor decision can be a blessing in disguise. Allowing black-and-white thinking to control how you view the world gives more power to cognitive distortion. It’s a filter on our thoughts that distorts our interpretation of reality.

But what do you get when you mix black and white? Gray.

All life is various shades of gray

Life is full of conflicts, but those conflicts we encounter provide opportunities to repair, heal, and bring us together—far more than conflict avoidance ever could. Alienating ourselves through black-and-white thinking only reaffirms the negative beliefs we have. We can’t decide outcomes or how people view us. Life isn’t all-or-nothing. It’s maybe’s and possibilities. To be in the constant black-and-white thinking trap, we only end up denying ourselves the best parts of life. Joy and happiness.  When what we really want and need is self-acceptance, love, and community.

Photo by Hoach Le Dinh 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.

Jack Brody

Born and raised in Boston, Jack Brody has called New York City home for over 30 years. He’s a proud father to a teenage daughter, a survivor of childhood abuse, and someone who knows firsthand what it means to live with Complex PTSD.

Diagnosed six years ago, Jack has been on a deep healing journey, one marked by therapy, growth, hard truths, and unexpected resilience. As a men’s mental health advocate, he shares his story to remind others that they’re not broken, not alone, and never beyond hope.

Whether through his writing, podcast, or quiet conversations with fellow survivors, Jack’s mission is simple: to speak honestly about the hard stuff, and to show that healing out loud is not only possible, it’s powerful.

aboutthatjack.com/

Meaning—What does the loss & its impact say about me?

I sat on the back porch of our custom-built little house in the backwoods of Virginia. I had everything I’d ever dreamed of except for one thing. A life. I thought I’d be free. Instead, I was drowning in Complex trauma symptoms. Anxiety had turned into constant terror. Depression as black as a starless night hovered over me all the time. Chronic pain and debilitating illness had pushed me into almost total isolation. I had plenty of time to mull over the past and torment myself.

We had moved back to the scene of the crime so to speak. My husband had taken a job in the same tiny Southside Virginia town I grew up in. But moving “back home,” did not help. I thought it would be good to live in a familiar place. I would know how to fit in and perhaps I could recreate the fantasy that had been taken from me when my family blew up. But living in a fantasy is never a good idea. Old friends had moved away or gone on with their own lives. No one knew my story or understood the trauma of my past. They didn’t want to hear about it, either. 

Sitting at home going over the events of my childhood was turning into nothing more than churning. I was trying to skip the second task of healing—meaning and continue on as I always had. To assign meaning to the loss is to understand both the impact and what that impact says about me. Not just know about it but understand it.

By the time we moved to this little town, I had done a lot of healing work. I knew that my family of origin was hopelessly broken and had even gone no contact with my mother, but there was one thing I had not done. I didn’t understand the meaning of the loss or its impact on me. I kept living the role assigned to me by my abusers. I was in default mode. So thorough was the conditioning of early childhood, I automatically lived in the place I had been put. I was stupid and incompetent. Driven to people please, I had no thoughts of my own, not any I shared anyway. Trying to control everything around me in order to feel safe, even for a few seconds, broke me. I was simply existing. I had no idea how to live.

What is the Meaning of Trauma?

What was the point of it all? What did it all mean? The losses I faced from childhood trauma were most profound. I lost my parents, my childhood, career choices, relationships, joy, peace, and happiness. I lost myself. And most importantly, I lost my place in the world. I lost any sense of confidence and personhood.

The first task of healing from childhood trauma is to accept the loss.

The second task, which is the topic of this blog, is to understand the meaning of the loss. The family system you grew up in and the relationships you experienced were destructive. How do we assign meaning to that? How do we assign meaning to suffering? And how has this trauma affected and impacted my life? It is an enormous task.

I once stood on the north shore of the island of Oahu in Hawaii and watched the waves roll in from the Pacific Ocean. A constant stiff breeze permanently bent the palm trees at odd angles. Looking out over the vast ocean, I felt as though I was standing on the edge of the world. completely isolated. Storms beginning in the Pacific Northwest flow south driving the tremendous waves Oahu is famous for.

Childhood trauma is isolating—bending us in permanently damaged ways. Abuse lays down neuropathways in the brain. Betrayal causes distrust in relationships. Waves of confusion, fear, regret, and despair seem impossible to stop. We live at the edge of life. Others do not understand. We are undermined and attacked by our families for speaking the truth. Even extended relatives do not offer support. Religious communities offer platitudes and often make recovery more difficult. Gaslighting, manipulation, and blame are laid at the feet of the victim.

We question our sanity. We question the meaning of life. We question our spiritual beliefs. We question the very foundation of what it means to be human. The betrayal of our own parents means that nothing in life, and most especially any relationship, is trustworthy. These are just a few of the ways childhood trauma has impacted my life. 

How to Make Sense Out of Trauma

I now live as far away from that little house in the backwoods of Virginia as I can get. But moving to the west coast didn’t cancel out the damage. In what ways have I dealt with the second task of healing-the meaning of the loss? I decided to call my brother. My one and only sibling, separated by a mere eighteen months, was my companion in the darkness of our childhood. 

Our text went like this…

Me: “Could you sum this up in a sentence? What has been the impact of the loss in your life caused by childhood trauma? I’m trying to put my finger on meaning. What is the meaning of the loss, to you?”

Bro: “This is pretty difficult.” Pause. “I think it boils down to the loss of love. When you are exposed to severe trauma, you enter a place and time where there is no love. And you really need this love. You need it all of your life but especially when you are a child. And that lack of love, the fact that you were used for other purposes besides love, causes profound damage that alters a person for life.”

And there it is. The meaning of the loss can be summed up in one simple phrase; the loss of love. It is hard to wrap your head around, hard to fathom being used in such a way just because someone else wanted to gain power over a helpless child.

How do you assign meaning to your life and find your place in the world after trauma? In childhood, we saw ourselves by the definition our abusers gave us. Dumb, stupid, inept, hated, despised and rejected. They put us in the place they wanted us. The place that would serve them best. For me, this carried over into adulthood and lasted until middle age. The system is so powerful, the longing to be loved so deep, we will do anything to believe we can achieve it. So we continue to flail around doing the best we can to fulfill the place we have been assigned.

Accepting the flaws of our families and then assigning a new meaning to our place in the world is what healing looks like. We are the exact opposite of what our abusers forced us to believe. Our place in the world can be many things. We can find new purpose as we get to know other survivors and participate in support groups. We can choose trustworthy people to be in a relationship with. We can enjoy the day for its own sake and our place in it. We can serve others, and we must strive to embrace this core belief—we matter just because we exist. 

The meaning of the loss is tremendous. I honor that, and I honor myself as a survivor. What is the meaning of the loss to you? Defy trauma, embrace joy.

email me at: hello@DefyTraumaEmbraceJoy.com

Sign up for a FREE trauma-informed newsletter with exclusive content and downloads at https://authorrebekahbrown

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.

Rebekah Brown

Rebekah Brown, a native of the south, now resides in the Great American West. Surviving a complicated and abusive family system makes her unique writing style insightful as well as uplifting. Rebekah is the proud mother of two and grandmother of four.

I have never liked processed meat, and that flavor of tortured meat and spices laden with green olives and pimentos made no sense to me. The meat had a pungent, hot dog-like flavor (As this thing is basically bologna, that makes sense.), but much stronger. This was not food for a child. I would start to gag when I would open the lunchbox and smell the bologna on steroids. I would quickly scan the lunchbox for something edible and then I would close it quickly before I had to smell it anymore.

And yet, they would pack it in my lunch every single day. Did nobody ever see the untouched sandwiches in the box, or did I quickly throw all that out so that nobody would know that I rejected the efforts of my brothers? I couldn’t get up the nerve to complain about the disgusting stuff, so they continued to pack them. 

Any time I get near processed meat, it tastes like sorrow and neglect. 

Speaking of strange meats, people used to serve beef liver at least once a week. In the 50s and 60s, liver was considered a health food, with its high iron content, whereas it is actually an unhealthy choice because the livers of those animals had to filter all the poisons in the animal’s environment. 

Beef liver was cheap. And so there it was at Celeste’s table every week. Celeste cooked liver like she cooked everything else—by tormenting it.

Look, there’s nothing good I can say about liver. But it can be nearly edible if it is handled correctly. Cooked liver can taste bitter. When overcooked, liver can get rubbery and tough. Everything Celeste touched was overcooked.

There was Celeste, frilly apron covering her tweed suit, cooking liver until the meat capitulated and admitted its wrongdoing. She served the creation on her fancy Spode china and put it down in front of me. I attempted to cut the meat and a chunk of it flew off from the main dry chunk, soared through the air, and landed pathetically on Celeste’s white dining room carpet. 

In a real home, a dog would be there to snarf up the piece of liver.

“Eat that liver.  I cooked it and you will eat it. You will not leave the table until you have eaten the entire piece of liver.”

I just couldn’t. It was dry as a pile of wood chips and stuck in my throat making me gag. And the smell! 

So I started taking the part-chewed pieces of meat and putting them into a paper napkin. At the end of the meal, I rolled the napkin up and forced it into slats under the table. 

She’ll never find that.

But she did. A week later, she discovered the napkin full of partially chewed liver pieces and she made me sit at the table until I had eaten every single piece. 

I should have puked it all out.

But then, I would have to clean it up.

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.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

“Surviving while f*cking trying to thrive” was the initial title for this piece but it is a better explicit beginning statement to describe how frustrating and difficult complex trauma is; how life-jarring trying to heal from abuse and neglect can be. And the irony of trying to heal and face old wounds that expose and break us apart, and dismantle old paradigms, stories, and flimsy safety features while at the same time attempting to hold ourselves together.

Life with complex trauma is a roller coaster ride of uncertainty – plunging us into deep crevasses only to find ourselves back on the rising swells of hope and possibility. Everyone that has experienced trauma has their own way of dealing with and expressing the deep hurt and pain, the losses and never agains, and hopeful rays of light that come in whims of uncertainty and unreliable, chaotic thunderbolts. You may know someone that has alluded to past abuse or childhood trauma, or this may be you.

In the end, we all have the wish to heal, to thrive, to feel fully into our body and mind – and into the moment. We long to know what true love feels like and looks like – we long to trust another fully and let ourselves unfold. We yearn to know who we are without the shackles and memories of traumatic experiences haunting our every breath, and the words and actions of callous abusers creeping through our mind disguised as our own thoughts and beliefs.

I heard someone say “healing is ruthless honesty.” It stung.

Pains and hurts find us and bite the hardest when we are at our most vulnerable.

It brings us to our knees and as we grow, we find a similar sting from events and others that we meet along our life’s path.

Patterns return.

Cycles cycle.

It hurts.

It burns.

It tears us apart again and again as we try to heal and piece ourselves together.

The saying “two steps forward and three steps back” is an understatement but we know what it means.

Hope: the thing that keeps expectation alive – of good things, salvation, and relief to come.

The princess in the locked tower waiting for rescue by a handsome prince.

But this is not a fairy tale and hope always disappoints. If it were not for the constancy of disappointment, we might still have an ounce of hope left but now there is nothing for it – hope is long gone, and good riddance too. I often wonder what is left when all hope is gone.

I hike, I write and I think. I read.

I watch and listen to teachers, healers, and therapists, and I exist.

I study nonduality, I write poetry, I soak up the sun.

Life goes on and nothing really changes except the healing – the endless f*cking trying – to integrate all parts of myself, heal and become whole, understand the universe, and let the past go.

To be free of what I think is holding me back, what keeps me imprisoned, and feeling separate from the world.

My trauma –

a fortress surrounded by a huge moat filled with alligators pretending to be a barrier of safety,

an unwanted prison,

keeping dangerous and unknown others at arm’s reach.

The drawbridge comes down but rarely.

Easier to just keep it drawn and wonder if the food and money will hold out or if I will get lucky and die before I have to worry about diminished resources and more feelings of lack.

Life can be cruel in these ways.

Dead woman walking.

A ghost at the grocery store.

Waiting for death – wondering at life.

No more hope.

No more fire.

No more abiding.

F*ck it!

Writing has been a way of speaking my truth. Of salving my pain. Of not normalizing or minimizing trauma but breathing in and breathing out ruthless honesty. Of understanding and learning to love and nurture myself. It has been a further effort to share what I have learned and unearthed along the way. I have become an archeologist of trauma – simple and complex, and an autobiographer of the forced, unbidden, experienced, and accepted life stories and the story of survival and attempts to reach the gold ring of thriving. It is a way to help share light, love, and understanding with others who are also struggling, and say fervently – you are not alone; those whose life has been overshadowed by abuse, trauma, and neglect, and are venturing to appreciate themselves, heal, and step more fully into their own lives.

As I stand back as an observer, this space of HeartBalm is my brain unfolded, my heart unfurled, my way of being and seeing and processing life – relaxed and sometimes pausing in the eternal moment of Now. The entirety of it is a map of sorts – of my life, the trauma points, the harrowing journey from complex abuse and non-sensical actions and events to learning about love, life, connecting and belonging; the mysteries of this universe, the world, and everything in between. Trying to make sense of it all when none of it – this life – has rarely ever made sense to me.

I believe there was a gift in my trauma, and the world not making sense. In light of life’s cognitive dissonance, it gave me an opening to poke holes in the false reality of what I was told to believe; in my deserving of being used, exploited, and abused, and unworthiness to be loved, to belong, and to be kept safe. There was always something seemingly there – where I knew that I was Love, I was innocent and that those trying to make me wrong, hurt me, tell me I was different, and endeavoring to make me believe that I had no worth was not true. It was nonsensical to me somehow. That knowing has stayed with me even in the moments of life and experience when I forgot myself and carried on believing what they showed me and told me.

A deep truth and awareness arose out of that constant gaslighting and projection of others’ broken selves, deep insecurities, and unhealed wounds onto me. Those adults projecting their own lack and fears onto a child by way of abuse and neglect should reflect clearly the true reality of how weak, small, and selfish abusers are, as well as mentally ill. The overarching trajectory and path of my life were and are buried in their stories about me, how they treated me, the trauma and neglect I endured throughout my life with them, and how I must continue to endure it today.

As I heal, and bring light to the false stories, the pain and hurt of what I experienced at the hands of those that should have loved me, and the patterns of betrayal, disregard, and abuse happening from those in my interpersonal sphere I am enlightened by it. It shows me clearly what I am not and never was.

As I heal, I am able to see more and more clearly, and meet parts and pieces of who I am, who I thought I was, and how I functioned, struggled, and survived. How I got here.

As I heal, I am able to allow more fractured parts of myself, and unhealed wounds to come forth into the light of my awareness and be transformed. I am more able to open to whether the triggers, flashbacks, and raging storms of reemerging pain and allow them to come forth to be integrated into the infinite spaciousness of who I am in this moment. My-being – my-self is finding a new path forward that includes all of me – the more integrated sense of being – that which I know as my innate and authentic self.

As I heal, I feel more empowered to do what I must do to learn how to love life, love others, and especially love myself. I am learning to stand in my truth without apology, and embrace the fact that, as the saying goes “I have no more f*cks to give.” My journey is mine – it is sacred – it is not for anyone else to judge, shame, or tell me what, when, why, or how quickly I need to get there. Healing includes grieving, and grieving takes time. Healing is uniquely personal. It is a journey – whether done with the help of someone or others you trust or taken on yourself. It is your sacred gift to yourself and requires no opinions from anyone else.

Healing from trauma takes an unrelenting spirit and mindset to embrace who you truly are as innocent, as Love, and as a bold, courageous, unapologetic, unique, and deserving being in this world, at this space and time.

Healing takes no prisoners and leaves our internal landscape scorched and raw at times.

Healing allows for transformation, truth, peace, and love but one must be willing to accept it as it comes and leave the rest behind.

Healing asks for the death of old ways of being, old ways of existing, and old ways of thinking about and holding ourselves.

Healing is not a magic pill or cure or something that happens overnight. It is a process – a practice of patience and steadiness, of presence, of loving yourself through the darkest nights, of opening yourself up to the possibilities of your life, and readying for life to show you what you are not so you can understand the truth of who you are.

I heard someone say “healing is ruthless honesty.” It stung at first but now I understand as Rumi said:

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

_Rumi, “Rumi’s Little Book of Life: The Garden, The Soul, The Heart, and the Spirit”

To read or explore more please reference this publications resource list:

• Subscribe to the HeartBalm Channel on YouTube. A growing collection of “HeartBalm Meditations with Sunny” are available.

• Rumi, “Rumi’s Little Book of Life: The Garden, The Soul, The Heart, and the Spirit”

For other helpful articles, tools, and topics visit the HeartBalm Archives, and for healing-guided meditations please visit the HeartBalm Meditation Toolbox on the home page. To subscribe or to find out more information go to the HeartBalm website.

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.

Sunny Lynn, OMC

Sunny Lynn, OMC is a spiritual counselor, writer, poet, photographer, meditator, and nature lover on a mission of transmuting complex trauma through self-love, healing, and bringing balm to hearts everywhere. She has a blog and podcast – HeartBalm at heartbalm.substack.com that speaks on the topic of self-care and self-love, mindfulness and healing while living with CPTSD.

www.heartbalmhealing.com

Lost in the Woods: An Inside Look at the Fractured Experience of Trauma (as published in The Friday Edition of HeartBalm Healing at https://heartbalm.substack.com)

INTRODUCTION: In the previous Friday Editon, I wrote about The Downward Spiral of Flashbacks & Dissociative Episodes which is very relevant to this writing and why I wanted to give this brief introduction on today’s offering. As I looked back on when “Lost in the Woods” was written it is apparent that I was still in a dissociative state because of its recent date, subject, tone, and my faint memory of it. I highlight this to showcase how even in the grips of reliving complex trauma, we still move forward, keep creating, continue moving through life, and survive amidst the chaos, fog, fear, worry, and depression that come with flashbacks and dissociating. Because I write for a larger audience to help heal and bring understanding to subjects and experiences related to living with a condition like CPTSD I want to offer this personal experience. This is a deep dive into the experience of reliving the trauma, of facing our fractured parts, watching how they operate and exist, and the intense struggle, profound pain, and creative and herculean healing efforts that come with healing complex trauma.

Often my healing process is to move closer to the pain, see what is playing out, the characters that are present, allowing it all to be there even the horrifying parts and pieces of it. I am then able to try and bring in a non-judgmental, loving, and benevolent part of myself to begin the process of saying “enough” to the inner critical part. This entire technique is not easy, and I do not always have the strength or energy for it but I must have had enough frustration and wherewithal on this occasion, and thankfully captured it on paper.

I feel scared, humbled, and grateful to be able to share this with you and hopefully give insight and understanding of the trauma experience as it is unfolding. And, to urge everyone to write, journal, and befriend your frightened inner child(ren) and yourself, and to see the story playing out in order to bring wisdom, love, and understanding to its unfolding narrative.

This speaks to the inner battles that rage within us as we try and live life. We may be conscious or semi-conscious of them, or totally oblivious and unconscious of these internal wars. These inner battles bring fear, shame, blame, and devastation that can spill out into our daily lives and retraumatize us, and wreak more havoc. I had to find a different way and this is part of my ongoing process for I must meet them over and over again until they are resolved, loved enough to heal or dissolve of their own accord. There should be no shame or guilt in being a trauma survivor when it is known how difficult life can be for those that must live with the aftershocks of trauma, abuse, and neglect, and heal from it with little help and resources.

Lost in the Woods: An Inside Look at the Fractured Experience of Trauma

Lost in the woods she reverts to her survivalist nature of hypervigilance and hyper-attunement. She becomes highly sensitive to all sounds, sights, others, tastes, and sensations. Her only knowledge now is walking the tightrope that is her world in this moment. She is trapped in the darkness of her surroundings and wounds where no parent comes to support her, help her, or save her. Even as an adult she reverts to her old role of mother to herself – a child mother trying to navigate a terrifying world.

I cry for her – I yearn to hold her and help her – give her all of the things she needs – all of the things as an adult I would offer a wounded, scared, desperate child. Yet, I can’t always reach her in the deep dark jungle where she wanders alone. Her focus becomes a terrorized march to figure out the map that she is lost in – yet there is nothing there to map and no direction that offers respite. She grasps and reaches for knowledge, and understanding – curious about this sparkle of light, or that change in the storm. She reaches for anything that might give her a sense of how to survive this place and how to find solid ground again.

Her mind rages at the injustice. Her heart aches and closes down in defiance of letting anyone else in that could upset and ignite the inferno that sits in embers ready to alight at a moment’s notice. She loses patience for herself – unable to work out which way to go and how to be safe. Her anger is total. Angry at those that would leave her lost in this no-woman’s land, searingly judgmental of her own failures to find resolution and understand this hellish existence, seeing her own finger pointing back at herself in blame, shame, and anger. There is only this place of emptiness – no heart, exhausted, drained, and failing body, a mind emptied of options, and a hopeless bid that there is anyone left in the world to exorcise her from this land of demons and lift her back to the light of Love’s embrace, and freedom.

The flood of thoughts and feelings of this child-mother have overtaken all reason, all mechanisms, and sense of being from the adulting being and threatens to obliterate everything – pointing to the finality of burning it all down to stop the pain, the loss, the war within that stirs the wars without. There is no peace in her being – no peace for herself except for the sliver of light that never leaves and gently expresses and shares its ceaseless love. It is an opening to remember herself again. To step away from the role she has taken on of mothering her own self that sounds equal to her own mother abuser.

A gentler voice beckons to stop and look again. Look again at the innocent child that feels lost and at war with herself and the world. To see herself again as found, loved, loving and loveable, adored, grounded, safe, and protected. To feel the truth of these things rather than the hellish beliefs put on her by others and accepted as her responsibility to own and therefore become. She is asked to find peace with her own feelings instead of beating and berating herself for having any. She has had to be her own maternal source using the language of hatred, withholding, judgment, severe criticism, shame, blame, guilt, and manipulative maneuvers learned from the mother abuser – and now using it against herself. The child was only able to go as far as the parents would allow. Her stubbornness and creativity kept a small sliver of light in view but so often overwhelmed by swaths of darkness that blotted out all light that tried to find her.

She is drowning in her own wounds. Losing consciousness and life as she succumbs to the travesty of believing that as her own family tried to destroy her for so many years it would have been better if they had. Left to her own devices, her own fractured mind and thoughts, her own darkening world of lost and alone, and not having enough strength to find herself again – she wanes. She lets go and sees the futility of fighting. The enormous cost to mind, body, heart, and soul with each falls back into the abyss to find the way back is beyond herself – beyond comprehension, logic, and reason.

It is here that her limp psyche is lifted to a higher view. She can see the infinite jungle below – thick and impassable – with no vantage points to gain insight or find clarity to take the next step. She can see the point in the middle of it all where she is lost – and high above the enormity of finding her way out looks impossible and never-ending. Her place in the deep forest is a ruse to keep her in the game. A ruse to keep her small, feeling unsafe, and not risk getting close to anyone or holding onto hope of something better.

Her mind, like the jungle, is so tangled, overwhelmed, and intent on creating more complicated twists and turns that even with an overview of clarity it is still impossible to find an open space to be still and find rest. This maze of loss and seeking a way out, exhaustion, and terror holds her body in debt and draws on her strength, energy, and health. Even with light and lucidity offering their hand the toll of her yearning for survival and righting feels out of reach. Giving over her hand to the light is surrendering her life; a life even in tatters, shredded, and in chaos, her body ripped, stabbed, and bloodied is still hers. She has given a fight of a lifetime to have her own life, her own way, and be free of those who used her to blame, hurt, exploit, shame, manipulate, judge, and silence her so they didn’t have to feel their own anger, shame, and hatred. A sacrificial lamb grown into what?

She is ready to give over. Ready to accept the hand of found, of love, of freedom and being. Yet, her own maternal terrorizer still holds her back. She can feel the deep intensity of this force. The flailing, screaming, angry one that still hangs on to her with both hands. If she accepts this force dies. This powerful place of pasts lifesaving remedy has turned jailor and tyrannical protector. It is strong. It is vicious. It is determined. The beauty lies in its intent to keep her safe, protected, and alive but not its mother-abuser tactics of harassment and hate. She is no longer willing to be bullied by the angry voice of herself as child-mother. She is ready to let her go and find peace within herself.

She reaches out and accepts the loving hand of light – the offer to let go and allow herself to melt into the flow of life even if that means letting go and death of her fractured self. She feels her world opening up and growing brighter. There is a lightness in this place of submission. She is never hopeful but curious about embracing Now as the only place that exists and allowing the threads of the past still tied tightly to her ankles to drop away and never find her again.

She is learning to find peace in herself and her feelings. To accept, love, and nurture her own wild, creative, singular self with Love as mother and guide, and accept her own hand to hold in the infinite space of Now.

From the perspective of Presence, you do not heal ‘from’ trauma. Rather, you simply reconnect with that Sacred Place ‘in’ yourself that was never traumatized, never broken, never damaged in the first place; your true Self, absolute and ever-present, uncorrupted and free. Is not a destination; it is You, alive and awake in the safety of the Present Moment. Never truly broken, and utterly Unbreakable…

_Jeff Foster, “The Way of Rest: Finding The Courage to Hold Everything in Love”

For other helpful articles, tools, and topics visit the HeartBalm Archives, and for healing-guided meditations please visit the HeartBalm Meditation Toolbox on the home page. To subscribe or to find out more information go to the HeartBalm website.

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.

Sunny Lynn, OMC

Sunny Lynn, OMC is a spiritual counselor, writer, poet, photographer, meditator, and nature lover on a mission of transmuting complex trauma through self-love, healing, and bringing balm to hearts everywhere. She has a blog and podcast – HeartBalm at heartbalm.substack.com that speaks on the topic of self-care and self-love, mindfulness and healing while living with CPTSD.

www.heartbalmhealing.com

Disappointment to the average person can be upsetting and frustrating. Disappointment to the abuse and neglect survivor and/or those with complex trauma can be devastating. It can generate a deep abyss of sadness, trigger deep feelings of loss and failure, and a painful chasm between our expectations and reality. As a child, the repetitive abuse of being let down, used, abused, neglected, manipulated, set up for failure, and tripped up for another’s benefit sets the stage for adulthood of the same. An innocent child lives to hope and love, and even more, hopes to be loved yet for some suffering years of letdowns and disappointments by their own parents and family members is the reality. This abusive pattern can create a deep chasm of disillusionment and defeatism, and develop further into another condition called learned helplessness. This condition is a way of coping with constant and unrelenting disappointments and manifests as persistent failures, an inability to succeed, a lack of self-esteem, low motivation, cynicism, and feelings of powerlessness. This feeling of helplessness affirms a trauma history where one has little or no control over their own body or life, that nothing will change so why bother trying, and that actions to change outcomes are useless? The ups and downs of hope, expectations, and disappointment is a nauseating ride that has no equal, and the fallout and emotional pain can feel much more acute to the trauma survivor. As an adult, being disappointed can become something that devastates us totally, can bring our world to a crashing halt, and threatens to close in around us with such darkness and ferocity that we are unsure if we will ever recover.

One of the ways we can begin to heal from this destructive pattern is to free it by feeling it, stepping into the moment with it, and being able to love what is. I have met disappointment often in my life, and as an adult has run away from it – suppressed and avoided it because of its overwhelming intensity. Recently, when it arose and I was faced with it again my clarity to stop running was apparent at the moment. I must have been ready because I chose to stop avoiding it and learn from it instead. As I sat with the experience of disappointment I could feel my throat tightening and hot and rising anger that moved up from my stomach, to my chest, and to my closed throat threatening to suffocate me even more. I couldn’t speak – the hard mass in my throat would not soften or let go. I could feel an inner scream within me that wanted to get out – a voice filled with years of fury and frustration yet the chokehold would not relent but began to dissipate over time. I continued to sit with it, learn what it had to say, accept how I was feeling and what was coming up. It was intense but I could feel a loving and intelligent energy in the process. It was valuable for me and showed me that I am not a disappointment. I am not a failure. I am not helpless or unworthy. My feelings are valid and I was able to befriend this part of me and allow it to be exactly as it was. I could see that my voice was very ready to let go, and one day it would be released but for the moment I continued to notice it all happening without judgment or expectation – feeling into all that was arising – proud of myself for facing this repetitive energetic foe, and vowing to face it should it arise again.

I know this space well – even though I know I have a voice and a will that can speak, confront, and say deep truths – some old wounds like disappointment hold me more tightly, and are more difficult to unravel and face because of their complexity and the years of overlapping trauma. It is the first time I really sat with it and felt fully into the feelings and sensations arising. It was not easy and a bit scary but as I sat with it and felt into it with interest it began to lessen and dissipate. There is something about looking at a haunting feeling or emotion square in the eye and seeing it truly – standing in your own power and saying I am strong enough to face this monster and see it for what it is, and allowing yourself to feel into it fully with detached, affectionate energy of curiosity.

The devastation and destruction that comes from repeatedly being disappointed, betrayed, and let down as a child by those that are “supposed to” love us, care for us, and create and foster safe environments in total. We are groomed in these environments to be defeated in a sense, and sometimes we take up the mantle of abuse, and learned helplessness, and betray, disappoint, and defeat ourselves as we get older because that is what we have been taught. As we become adults, we often find these patterns recurring as broken trust, betrayal, and dysfunction by self-serving people because that is what we have become accustomed to. Take a fish out of a shark-infested ocean and put it in a de-sharked environment and the fish will still be hypervigilant for sharks. The preyed upon will always be on the lookout for predators even in the safest environments.

When you’re born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it’s not.

_Richard Kadrey

Disappointment is a formidable adversary and worthy of your notice. Worthy of your rebel yell that says “I’ve had enough.” Enough of living with this constant gut punch of disappointment and failure, and going on the merry-go-round back to past traumas, and feeling powerless and helpless. Enough of feeling the old wounds of your inner child decimated by another abusive encounter, manipulation, or let down by a parent or guardian, or family member who should have only ever loved you. Enough of the aching heart, surging anger, and closing airway in the present moment that holds the intensity of a lifetime of betrayals and letdowns. When disappointments continue in our adult world they can become a nuisance and upset daily life – throwing us into the stark darkness of survival mode, and away from living fully and feeling that we are merely existing instead of truly living and thriving. These repetitive events with the pain of our pasts in tow are the invitations to look again – to see them from a new perspective – to stay with them and face them for healing and transmutation. Sometimes it is just time to stop running; to turn and face what is arising within us, and has held us, hostage, for far too long.

These emotions can be powerful and should not be taken lightly but we should also see them for what they are. Emotions are simply “energy in motion” or broken down in a different way “e” [energy] + motion. As you have noticed in your life emotions like feelings and thoughts come and go. They arise in our conscious awareness and then drop away but it is important to note that they are always moving and never stay forever. Some are more intense than others, may linger longer, and leave a mark or trigger past events that create a ripple effect in our world. Some can be intrusive markers in our world that seem repetitive, cyclical, and patterned. This is part of complex trauma. A trauma born of repetitive, and pervasive abuse and neglect, in which a child is unable to get away from the abuser, and where there is no empathetic witness or safe person in the environment to go to for protection. A pattern of trauma that continues to manifest and recur into adulthood.

To read more about complex trauma or CPTSD please check out “Courage, Self-Love, and Complex Trauma” from a previous Friday Edition of HeartBalm.

Facing intense emotions and feelings arising as an adult should be handled with care and delicacy, and with a qualified and compassionate trauma therapist, if possible. If you think you can face these feelings on your own then do so carefully. Have someone in place that you can call if you need to or journal through what is arising. I have done this many times, alongside parts work and other modalities, having education in this arena and a trusted therapist on standby so am accustomed to the process but would not advise it for a first-time exploration unless you have guidance from a professional.

What I want to make clear is that none of it was or is your fault. None of it! You are not broken. You did not deserve to be treated as less than, used, abused, or preyed upon. Your hypervigilance was developed so you could protect yourself, be on high alert for danger and be wary of others. Yet, this is not your truth. Your truth is to live free, see and know the love that you are, and live from this place. To allow yourself to live fully despite what you have endured, been witness to, and how others betrayed you. This is no small task, however, and I do not say this flippantly. I am inviting you to see through the trauma to your true nature, and to another way. I am inviting you to notice the things that still crumple you to the ground and begin to build your ability to stop and be with the feelings and emotions when they arise, feel into them fully, learn from them, and see how you react to the situation and accompanying sensations. Then you can begin to create ways to set more self-loving boundaries, work on building your self-worth and self-esteem by changing negative self-talk, and honor the love and grace that has been with you, is with you now, and will always be at your side. This is an ongoing process but one that with a commitment to self-love and a heart-centered way of living can bring about real transformation and release for anyone on the healing path.

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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.

Sunny Lynn, OMC

Sunny Lynn, OMC is a spiritual counselor, writer, poet, photographer, meditator, and nature lover on a mission of transmuting complex trauma through self-love, healing, and bringing balm to hearts everywhere. She has a blog and podcast – HeartBalm at heartbalm.substack.com that speaks on the topic of self-care and self-love, mindfulness and healing while living with CPTSD.

www.heartbalmhealing.com