Internalized Worthlessness: When You Truly Believe You Don’t Matter

Khalil stood in front of his bathroom mirror, adjusting his tie for the third time. His therapist Dr. Rivera had suggested this simple daily affirmation: “I matter. My voice matters.” But today, the words felt foreign in his mouth, like stones too heavy to lift.

The promotion letter lay unopened on his dresser—the department chair position he’d been quietly encouraged to apply for. Instead, he’d recommended his colleague Tariq, insisting Tariq would be “a better fit.” Yet in his current role, Khalil regularly stayed hours after his shift ended, taking on the cases nobody wanted, covering colleagues’ weekends without complaint, and volunteering for every committee that needed members.

“You’re the hardest working doctor in this hospital,” his supervisor often said, not realizing that Khalil’s relentless work ethic wasn’t ambition but atonement—constant payment for the space he occupied in the world.

Downstairs, his achievement awards lined the hallway—the community leadership plaque, his medical school diploma, framed articles about the free clinic he’d helped establish. His mother Amara had insisted on displaying them, proud of the son who had “made something of himself.” What the awards didn’t show was how he’d driven himself to exhaustion earning them, taking on impossible workloads while declining recognition that might put him too visibly in the spotlight.

At the clinic, he was known for working through lunch, seeing extra patients, and personally making follow-up calls on his drive home. The staff marveled at his dedication while worrying about his health. Last month, he’d nearly collapsed from pneumonia after refusing to take sick days, convinced the clinic would fall apart without him—not because he was irreplaceable, but because he felt responsible for everyone else’s welfare while dismissing his own.

“You coming to the fundraiser tonight?” His colleague Nisha had texted earlier. “They’re recognizing your refugee healthcare initiative.”

Khalil had responded with a thumbs-up emoji, not mentioning how he’d personally covered three families’ medical bills last month when funding ran short, stretching his finances thin. He hadn’t told anyone, adding it to the invisible ledger of things he did to prove his worth—a ledger that somehow never balanced, no matter how much he gave.

Last week, he’d run into Leila at a conference. Now married with children, she’d mentioned casually, “Remember how I always said you worked too hard? Looks like nothing’s changed.” She didn’t know that after their breakup, he’d thrown himself even deeper into his career, taking overnight shifts and weekend rotations that no one else wanted, filling every moment so he wouldn’t have to face the silence of his apartment and the whispers of inadequacy that filled it.

He practiced his smile in the mirror—the one that projected confidence while hiding the constant calculation happening behind it: Am I doing enough? Have I earned my place today? What more should I be giving?

The irony wasn’t lost on him. As a doctor, he fiercely advocated for his patients to prioritize their wellbeing, to set boundaries, to recognize their inherent value beyond what they could produce or achieve. He could articulate with perfect clarity how every human deserved care and rest simply by existing. For everyone except himself.

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that comes from trying your absolute hardest to make a difference—whether in the life of someone you love, a community you care about, or a cause you believe in—only to watch your efforts disappear like teardrops in an ocean. You extend your hands to try to hold back what feels like a tsunami of dysfunction, injustice, or pain, and find yourself nearly drowning in the process. And after years, perhaps decades of this pattern repeating, something shifts deep inside. A quiet, devastating conclusion forms: I don’t matter.

This is internalized worthlessness—what psychologists might clinically term “existential invalidation” that has been absorbed into your very sense of self. It goes beyond mere discouragement or feelings of ineffectiveness. It’s the bone-deep belief that your existence, your voice, your efforts fundamentally lack the weight or significance to affect the world around you. Yet this belief, however entrenched, is a distortion, not a truth.

How This Wound Forms

Internalized worthlessness rarely begins in adulthood. Its seeds are typically planted in childhood, often in homes where a child’s emotions, perspectives, or needs were consistently dismissed or minimized. In narcissistic family systems, children learn early that their reality holds less value than the distorted reality their caregivers insist upon. They’re told they’re “too sensitive,” “overreacting,” or simply wrong about what they’ve experienced.

But even those who grow up in relatively healthy homes eventually encounter a world that can be profoundly invalidating:

• The high-achieving student whose genuine passion is met with indifference
• The whistleblower whose truth-telling is punished rather than rewarded
• The compassionate friend whose efforts to help a struggling loved one are resisted or rejected
• The advocate who watches institutions protect the powerful while abandoning the vulnerable

Each instance reinforces the message: “I don’t count. I can’t change anything. I make no difference.”

In our modern digital landscape, this wound now comes with metrics. Social media platforms offer concrete numbers to measure our “impact”—likes, shares, follows—creating an endless treadmill where we can never quite outrun the feeling of insignificance. Previous generations may have wondered about their reach; today’s can watch it quantified in real-time, often reinforcing feelings of inadequacy.

One of the most powerful and often unconscious dynamics in this struggle is how our primal need for attachment frequently overrides our authenticity. As humans, we are wired for connection before almost anything else. When faced with a terrible choice between maintaining our authentic sense of worth and maintaining attachment to important people in our lives, our survival brain will often sacrifice our self-worth to preserve the attachment.

This explains why even people who intellectually understand their inherent value may continue to behave as if they don’t matter when around certain people – particularly authority figures, romantic partners, or family members. The threat of losing connection activates such primal fear that abandoning our truth feels like the safer option. Children in invalidating environments make this bargain instinctively: “I’ll believe I don’t matter if it means you’ll stay connected to me.” As adults, we continue this pattern unconsciously, particularly in relationships that echo our early attachment experiences.

The Blueprint for Future Relationships

This early conditioning creates a powerful template that shapes all future relationships. Having learned that their needs and opinions matter less than others’, many carry this blueprint forward, unconsciously seeking out or creating situations that confirm what they already “know” to be true. They enter friendships, romantic relationships, or work environments where they automatically defer to others, accept mistreatment as normal, and feel guilty for having needs at all.

They become magnets for people who sense this pliability and exploit it – partners who expect them to remain in relationship while being totally neglected, friends who disappear when support is needed but demand immediate attention for their crises, bosses who pile on extra work without recognition or compensation. They’re so busy hustling for their worthiness, they don’t even notice their own self-worth baseline is at zero.

What makes this cycle so devastating is how it confirms the original wound. Each relationship that follows this pattern becomes another piece of “evidence” reinforcing the belief that was planted long ago, operating beneath your conscious awareness but directing your choices nonetheless.

The Paradox of Accomplishment

Perhaps the cruelest aspect of internalized worthlessness is that it often persists despite objective evidence to the contrary. Many who suffer from this belief are highly accomplished individuals—teachers who’ve inspired hundreds, healthcare workers who’ve saved lives, artists whose work has moved many to tears, parents who’ve raised kind and capable children.

Yet deep in their nervous system, a primal panic remains: I haven’t done enough. It’s not enough. I’m not enough.

What makes this so insidious is that this belief often operates completely outside of conscious awareness. Many people reach middle age or beyond before realizing that “I don’t matter” has been the invisible force shaping their entire lives – their career choices, relationships, how they respond to conflict, their reluctance to ask for help, their endless drive to achieve, their difficulty receiving love. It’s not a thought you consciously think, but more like an operating system running silently in the background, influencing everything without announcing its presence.

When you receive genuine words of appreciation, these validations can get dismissed as the other person just being nice, unable to alter your core belief of unworthiness. The belief exists primarily in your nervous system, not your logical mind, which is why reasoning with yourself rarely helps. You can’t estimate how much you would need to achieve or how many affirmations it would take to finally feel secure in your worth.

This relentless sense of ‘not enough’ is not just personal but reinforced by cultural narratives that equate worth with productivity, self-sacrifice, and external validation. Messages from family, media, and institutions can make it seem as though our right to exist is contingent on what we contribute, further embedding this belief beneath conscious awareness.

As people age and their spheres of influence naturally shift or narrow—retirement from a profession, children growing independent, physical limitations increasing—this sense of worthlessness can escalate into an existential crisis. They feel they’ve failed to earn their right to occupy space on this planet, as though existence itself were a privilege that must be continually justified through service, achievement, or impact.

The Wider Context of Invalidation

This personal wound exists within societal structures that reinforce it. Many who feel this profound worthlessness are responding to very real systems of invalidation:

• Survivors of narcissistic abuse whose reality was systematically denied
• Marginalized groups whose histories, experiences, and pain are routinely dismissed
• LGBTQIA+ and gender non-conforming people whose identities are questioned or rejected
• Immigrants facing dehumanizing rhetoric, policies, and the constant threat of deportation
• Patients with invisible or contested illnesses who face medical gaslighting
• Neurodivergent individuals whose perceptions and needs are invalidated
• Whistleblowers and truth-tellers who face institutional silencing
• Elderly people whose wisdom and contributions are increasingly overlooked
• Children whose emotions are dismissed as manipulation or overreaction

In each case, people receive the message that their existence, their suffering, their perspectives simply don’t matter enough to deserve acknowledgement or response. For those holding multiple marginalized identities—like being a disabled survivor of color—these messages compound. Systems of oppression conspire to amplify worthlessness, making healing both more urgent and more complex. When these messages compound over time, the toll on mind, body, and spirit becomes inevitable.

The Compounding Weight of Intersectionality

For those holding multiple marginalized identities—such as being a disabled survivor of color or a queer immigrant—messages of worthlessness are amplified by overlapping systems of oppression. For example, Black women often face the “strong Black woman” stereotype, which equates worth with relentless self-sacrifice, while neurodivergent individuals may mask their needs to avoid being labeled “difficult.” These layers create unique barriers to healing, requiring approaches that honor both personal trauma and systemic erasure. These systemic intersections often exacerbate the trauma types we’ll explore next.

The Impact of Different Types of Trauma

The wound of worthlessness can be deepened by various forms of trauma that operate at different levels:

Systemic Trauma: When entire communities or identity groups face discrimination, marginalization, or violence, the message that “you don’t matter” becomes institutionalized. This creates a burden that goes beyond individual healing, requiring collective recognition and systemic change.

Intergenerational Trauma: The feelings of worthlessness can be passed down through families, with parents who never healed their own wounds unconsciously transmitting these beliefs to their children through behaviors, attitudes, and unspoken family rules.

Developmental Trauma: Occurring during critical periods of brain development, this form of trauma shapes how the nervous system responds to stress and connection, often creating deep patterns of shame and self-doubt that feel wired into one’s very being.

Cultural Trauma: When dominant narratives consistently devalue certain ways of being, thinking, or existing, people can internalize these messages as truth about their fundamental worth.

Each of these trauma types requires specific healing approaches that acknowledge both the individual pain and the larger contexts in which that pain exists.

Internalized Ableism: A Special Form of Worthlessness

For neurodivergent individuals, people living with disabilities, and those with chronic illness, internalized worthlessness often takes the specific form of internalized ableism. In a society that equates productivity with value and independence with dignity, those who need accommodations or whose bodies or minds work differently receive constant messages that they are “less than.”

This can manifest as:

• Feeling like a burden when asking for needed accommodations
• Pushing through pain or exhaustion to appear “normal”
• Hiding aspects of neurodivergence to fit in, even at great personal cost
• Measuring self-worth by ability to function according to neurotypical or able-bodied standards
• Constant apologizing for needs related to disability or neurodivergence

Healing from internalized ableism involves recognizing that human value does not depend on productivity, independence, or conformity to neurotypical standards. It requires finding communities that celebrate neurodiversity and disability justice, where different ways of being in the world are recognized not as deficits but as valuable forms of human diversity.

The Just World Fallacy and Cosmic Unfairness

Many who struggle with internalized worthlessness are, at heart, idealists. They believe deeply in justice, compassion, and the possibility of a better world. They are the ones who feel actual pain when witnessing cruelty or indifference. Their sensitivity—often pathologized as weakness—is actually a form of moral courage and empathic awareness.

When these sensitive souls repeatedly witness:

• Corrupt individuals rising to power while ethical ones are marginalized
• Wealth accumulated through exploitation rather than contribution
• Vulnerable populations abandoned by systems meant to protect them
• Truth distorted while lies are amplified
• The natural world desecrated for temporary profit

…something breaks inside. They feel like a tiny speck trying to resist a tornado of corruption and cruelty, powerless against forces that seem to reward the very qualities they’ve refused to embody: selfishness, manipulation, callousness, greed.

The psychic burden of maintaining hope in such circumstances becomes overwhelming. The gap between what should be and what actually is grows too vast to bridge, and with it comes profound disillusionment about one’s capacity to matter in such a world.

Few experiences cut as deeply as pouring everything you have – your time, energy, heart, voice, resources, and courage – into fighting for justice or positive change, only to watch the forces of corruption, indifference, or cruelty prevail anyway. The environmental activist who watches corporations continue to pollute despite years of advocacy. The family member who tries everything to help a loved one escape addiction only to attend their funeral. The whistleblower who sacrifices their career to expose wrongdoing, only to see perpetrators promoted while victims remain silenced.

The unique agony of these experiences lies in having to continue living in the reality you fought so hard to change. You must still breathe the polluted air, still pass the house where your loved one used to live, still read industry publications praising those you know have caused harm. Each day becomes a reminder of your defeat, your smallness against systems that seem designed to crush the compassionate and reward the callous.

After several such defeats, a bone-weary exhaustion sets in – not just physical tiredness, but a depletion that reaches into your soul. You begin to wonder if the problem isn’t the injustice itself, but your naïve belief that your efforts could ever make a difference against it. And that wondering hurts more than any external defeat ever could.

Many who experience this deep wounding come to see their own empathy and moral sensitivity as liabilities rather than strengths. They may wish they could stop caring so deeply, stop feeling the pain of others, stop being moved to action by injustice. This too becomes evidence for the belief that something is wrong with them – that they were built incorrectly for this harsh world, too tender to survive in it without constant wounds.

The Toll of Worthlessness

When the belief that you don’t matter takes root, it exacts a devastating toll across every dimension of your being:

Mental and Emotional Impact

The mind becomes a battlefield where what you know clashes with what you feel. You might understand in your head that all people have value, but your heart refuses to include you in that category. This painful split creates a constant inner tension that wears you down day after day.

You might find yourself living in constant worry, always on high alert, thinking “If I stop proving my worth even for a moment, I’ll be abandoned.” Depression can settle in like a heavy fog, bringing thoughts like “Why even try if nothing I do matters?” When you make a mistake, shame can wash over you for days, far beyond what the situation calls for.

Many describe the crushing experience of “emotional flashbacks” – where a small setback today suddenly throws you back into the overwhelming feelings of being worthless that you experienced as a child. The voice in your head becomes so harsh, so familiar, that you mistake it for the truth rather than recognizing it as echoes from the past.

For some, this struggle becomes so unbearable that they lose the will to continue. The thought takes root: “If I don’t matter, why go on?” This isn’t simple sadness, but a soul-deep exhaustion from fighting to feel valuable in a world that seems to confirm at every turn that you aren’t. This despair can lead to a dangerous defeat – not just on goals or dreams, but on life itself.

Physical and Somatic Manifestations

The body keeps the score of this internal battle:

• Chronic tension, particularly in the shoulders, jaw, and stomach
• Disrupted sleep patterns, often with difficulty falling asleep
• Digestive issues triggered by chronic stress
• A sensation of heaviness in the chest or throat
• Exhaustion that doesn’t resolve with rest
• A physical collapse response when facing situations that trigger feelings of ineffectiveness

The Body’s Role in the Experience of Worthlessness

The belief that you don’t matter isn’t just a mental concept—it lives in your body as well. Research in trauma studies has increasingly revealed how our bodies store emotional wounds, particularly those formed in early childhood before we had language to process them.

When children experience consistent invalidation, rejection, or neglect, their developing nervous systems adapt to this reality. The constant state of feeling unsafe, unwelcome, or burdensome creates patterns of physiological stress that become encoded in the body. Over time, these patterns become your baseline—so familiar that you don’t even recognize them as abnormal.

This embodied experience of worthlessness often manifests as:

• Chronic muscle tension, particularly in areas associated with protection (shoulders, jaw, abdomen)
• A collapsed posture that literally takes up less space in the world
• Shallow breathing that never quite fills the lungs completely
• Disrupted interoception (the ability to sense and interpret internal bodily signals)
• A persistent feeling of being “on guard” even in safe environments
• Disconnection from bodily sensations as a survival mechanism

What makes this particularly challenging is that many people with internalized worthlessness have diminished interoception—the ability to accurately sense what’s happening inside their bodies. You might not notice hunger until you’re lightheaded, fail to register fatigue until you collapse, or be unable to identify emotions until they’re overwhelming. This disconnect happens because sensing your needs requires believing those needs matter—something your nervous system may have learned wasn’t true.

Healing worthlessness therefore cannot be purely cognitive. You can intellectually understand that you matter and still have a body that behaves as if you don’t. True transformation requires working with the nervous system directly, helping it establish new patterns of safety, belonging, and inherent value. Practices like trauma-sensitive yoga, somatic experiencing, or even simple body awareness exercises can gradually help reconnect you with the bodily sensations that have been muted or misinterpreted for so long.

Pay particular attention to moments when setting a boundary or asking for something you need creates intense physical reactions—racing heart, churning stomach, dizziness, or the urge to flee. These are not signs that you’re doing something wrong; they’re your body’s outdated alarm system responding to perceived danger based on early experiences. With patience and practice, you can teach your nervous system that standing in your worth is safe, that your needs are valid, and that your body deserves to exist fully in the world.

No one is funding my writing. If this saves you a therapy appointment, feel free to buy me lunch: Venmo @ellentift

Spiritual Impact

Perhaps most profound is the spiritual crisis this belief creates:

• A sense of cosmic abandonment or rejection
• Difficulty receiving love or care from the divine
• Questions about whether existence itself has meaning
• Disconnection from one’s sense of purpose or calling
• The painful sense of being invisible to whatever forces govern the universe

Beyond Achievement: The Many Faces of “Not Mattering”

While feelings of worthlessness often attach to achievement and impact, they manifest in many other domains:

Relational Worthlessness

Many experience the belief that they don’t deserve love or meaningful connection:

• The person who automatically moves aside when someone walks toward them on the sidewalk
• The partner who can’t express needs for fear of being “too much”
• The friend who never initiates gatherings, certain no one truly wants their company
• The family member who sits silently at holiday gatherings, feeling invisible
• The person who accepts mistreatment, believing they deserve nothing better

Bodily Worthlessness

Some experience profound alienation from their physical existence:

• Difficulty taking up physical space or speaking up
• Neglecting basic self-care, feeling their body doesn’t deserve attention
• Apologizing for basic needs like hunger, rest, or medical care
• Pushing through illness or pain to avoid being “a burden”
• Feeling fundamentally uncomfortable in their own skin

Existential Worthlessness

Others experience a cosmic sense of being superfluous to the universe:

• The belief that their death would go largely unnoticed
• Feeling like an “extra” in the story of life rather than a protagonist
• A persistent sense that no one cares about their perspective
• The sense that their suffering or joy is insignificant to the larger world
• Feeling fundamentally alone even in crowded rooms

Moral Perfectionism: The Exception Rule

Those who struggle with worthlessness often live by a profound double standard — what we might call “the exception rule.” This manifests as the unshakable belief that:

“It’s fine for others to be human, make mistakes, and have limitations—but I must do better.”

This isn’t ordinary perfectionism aimed at achievement, but a moral imperative about one’s basic right to exist. The person operating under this belief system might:

• Easily extend compassion to others while mercilessly judging themselves
• Set impossible standards for themselves that, when inevitably unmet, confirm their unworthiness
• Make elaborate excuses for others’ shortcomings while allowing themselves no margin for error
• Believe they must “earn” what they freely insist others deserve inherently
• Feel fraudulent when receiving care or compassion they freely give to others

This moral perfectionism often operates beneath conscious awareness, becoming so deeply ingrained that it’s perceived as fact rather than a learned belief. It often stems from early experiences where a child’s worth was contingent on meeting impossible standards, carrying responsibilities beyond their years, or compensating for dysfunctional family systems. The child learns that their basic safety depends on extraordinary performance, creating a profound split between what they believe about others’ worth and what they believe about their own.

Read the rest of this article in the first book of Ellen’s series “There’s A Word for That”: https://a.co/d/05GMPCCX

Copyright Notice: This excerpt is from my book. All content is © 2025 Worldwide Groove Corporation. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of this material without permission is prohibited. Thank you for respecting my work. 😊

Photo Credit: Original Content Image

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

Yes, because of my CPTSD, I was a people-pleaser. This was like a survival-mode I learned as a child. And that doormat syndrome was often painful for me, for many years. Until one day, I had had enough and decided to change. Here is what I learned:

Studies show that people-pleasing significantly increases the risk of burnout. People-pleasers are especially susceptible because their difficulty setting boundaries and their desire to be loved by everyone directly lead to chronic stress and emotional exhaustion.

Maybe you’re an empath, and perhaps you’ve often heard, “Oh, you’re so kind.” Many of us were raised to be good girls or good boys to earn our parents’ approval and affection. Nothing is more traumatic for a child than losing that parental love.

Children who experience love withdrawal when they make a mistake naturally become people-pleasers. What many don’t realize is that these patterns often lead to depression and chronic burnout later in life.

Being taught to be a good girl or boy as children turns people-pleasing into a learned, but deeply painful emotional pattern. At home, in church, and at school, the message was the same: we had to be kind and nice. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be loved and might even be rejected by our entire social circle, triggering primal survival fears in young hearts.

The roots of that chronic fear of rejection run deep and are triggered in every area of life, both private and professional. Naturally, we always do more than we’re asked to do, driven by that OCD-like need to keep everyone around us happy. This is where burnout and depression gently take root, growing over time when our efforts remain unreciprocated.

Yes, people will love you as long as you serve them in one way or another. The people-pleaser is often the best student, the most perfect secretary, the kindest boss, and, of course, the ideal parent. People like you because you’re always the first to help others.

But one day, the sky becomes clouded. You notice that weird feeling in the background and realize that people may be abusing your kindness: they aren’t there for you when you need them and don’t appreciate all your efforts. Often, we respond by working harder, trying harder, and performing better until we find ourselves in the doctor’s office, exhausted and perhaps diagnosed with depression.

There is a lasting impact of early approval‐seeking.

When you grow up trained to be a people-pleaser, it often looks on the outside as if everyone likes you; but they stop liking you as soon as you learn to say, “Sorry, no. I can’t help this time.” The more you establish healthy boundaries, the more they criticize you, accusing you of selfishness.

When a people-pleaser awakens and starts setting boundaries, their children often rebel because their parent suddenly says “no” as part of a healthy upbringing. Coworkers begin to gossip because they can no longer exploit your kindness and must handle their own tasks. Employees in your team, too, have to learn to respect their boss in earnest.

And, of course, all the groups that once welcomed you (as a volunteer, donor, or committee member) will let you go as soon as you stop paying with your time or money. They never truly cared about you, only about the resources they could extract.

Maybe, those so-called best friends, or even family members, will tell you that you’ve disappointed them lately, because as a people-pleaser you were their favorite trash bin for emotional issues. But since you learned to say “no” and you’re no longer as available as before, of course, they’re disappointed: they can’t use you for their narcissistic intentions anymore.

Now, another important point: as people-pleasers, we were often trained to forgive and taught that we should always remain kind and nice to those who hurt us. In many situations, this pattern is deeply harmful. It’s one of the main reasons so many of us end up feeling exhausted, depleted and depressed

Depending on the situation, yes, we may forgive, but we don’t have to stay in contact.

If you keep seeing toxic, negative, critical narcissists and other manipulative people, you’ll never move forward or reach your goals in life. If you feel worse after every conversation, that’s a clear sign it may be better to move on.

Like my grandfather used to say, “It is often wiser to spend a season in your own gentle company than to remain surrounded by those who do not truly see, honor, or respect your sacred light. When you lovingly release connections that no longer feel aligned, you create beautiful, open space for the Divine Universe to bring in people who genuinely cherish you.”

It’s wonderful to be kind and helpful – so long as it’s mutual and the appreciation is genuine, valuing you as a person rather than your performance. You are not a doormat or a trash bin for other people’s unresolved issues, jealousies, laziness, or frustrations. There is great relief on the other side of healthy boundaries, and sometimes going no-contact is simply the healthiest way to protect your peace of mind.

Warning signs you’re a doormat for others include chronic exhaustion and resentment, guilt when you say “no,” and feeling used or unappreciated. And the cost of continuing to “be good” often shows up as burnout, depression, and loss of identity, along with relationship imbalances at home and work.

It’s better to be alone for a short time than to stay with people who have no honest respect for you, who belittle, judge, and criticize you just to keep you pleasing them. When you let go of the wrong people, you create space for the divine universe to bring better people into your life.

The good news is that you can build a healthier tribe: because you deserve people who truly support you, respect your boundaries, and uplift your self-worth.

If this message resonates and you need help with a similar situation, feel free to reach out.
With warm regards,
Jeanne
💗

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

“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.

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.