Accept me.

\She turned to me and said, or rather yelled, “How dare you ask me that I am your mother!” She was existentially wounded and consumed in the now out-in-the-open, before hidden, repressed core trauma. Why didn’t she take me in her arms and comfort me, as her child was clearly in need of love? That is what I was starving for: love me. Hold me… heal me. LOVE. Accept me.

Later in the early evening, my father came to my bedroom door and said, “You have no idea how badly you hurt your mother.” Then he just turned and walked away. Where did you go, Dad? You could have helped me to cope with my agony, too, then and there. So, I continued to suffer in silence as C-PTSD further reinforced a stronghold within me.

To this day, when I see someone emotionally angered, upset, or hurt toward me regarding something I said or did, I get a devastating gut punch of fear in my psyche. I become consumed in the symbiotic experience of my being responsible for their inner emotional damage and upset; Brutal, toxic shame infiltrates from my core and leaves me in agony. That is a good, I think, definition of co-dependency, where I become responsible for how you feel and, to the point of hysteria, try to fix you. Essentially, metaphorically, I ask any person I hurt, “Do you love me?” I need to get your forgiveness, to be plugged in again frantically, enmeshed as it was when you were not outwardly emotionally suffering. It is my responsibility for your inner feeling of Ok’ness. If you are emotionally hurt, I am responsible, and I live with inner torture for having made you emotionally hurt. Such power I have over others! Such damage was done to a young child from the undealt with, denied, and repressed generational trauma.

This is my core unbearable state, of now an autonomic (involuntary functioning, like breathing) emotional reaction to an interpersonal upset or conflict in a social interaction with another. It is like a psychic umbilical cord from my soul to another’s, where when they feel hurt… I feel hurt, guilty, shamed, and potentially in crisis. Psychic Enmeshment. My inner core is rejection. A developed state of RSD, Rejection Sensitivity ‘Dysphoria’ (unbearable). Did my mother abandon me, emotionally neglect me, or was I rejected by her (a really good question)? This paper certainly talks of the “Black Sheep” in the family, as there was a Golden Child, too. She never left me, but certainly, emotionally, regarding my attachment needs, feeling loved and welcomed as I am, she was absent from my needs being met. And I was shamed for daring to ask the obvious question a love-starved little boy would ask, “Mom, do you love me?” The family narrative is that I was loved… I beg to differ.


After the above essay, “Do You Love Me?,” this would be a good place to lay out my understanding of RSD: “Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria.” (I believe the original naming of this condition was termed Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, but my assumption is Sensitive seemed a better sounding term… as it did for me.) RSD, that state of “Dysphoria” experienced with the feelings of rejection by some, was the culprit or answer I had searched for a lifetime. “What is wrong with me?” Dysphoria is a term specifically chosen to express an experience that is nearly impossible to describe. Its meaning is “unbearable” or an experience that borders on intolerable.

The feeling or experience of rejection is something we all have to deal with in some respect when growing up. But for some of us, this feeling of rejection by others can take on an entirely different inner reality. Rejection can be emotionally painful, upsetting, or certainly unpleasant for most, but for one who has dysregulated emotions, the experience of rejection can consume an individual to the point of a nearly unbearable emotional nightmare. Dysphoria: the near-unbearable, definition-resistant experience of severe psychic, emotional suffering. RSD lives as a potential symptom within those whose emotions are dysregulated. The ADHD community, as well as those on the autism spectrum, and individuals who suffer from depressive conditions whose emotions are dysregulated, are potential candidates for RSD.

Emotional dysregulation. Oddly enough, for the many years of therapy that I sought and engaged in, I hadn’t the remotest clue I was emotionally dysregulated until recently. I had some emotional issues, but no terminology to explain my unexplained hyper-arousal and feelings. Nor was it ever mentioned to me. I was repressed and numbed out, apparently with an emotional system shut down, blocked from open, free-flowing expression.

RSD, arising from untold numbers (multitudes of thousands) of rejection experiences growing up (internalized), is a product of hyper-aroused dysregulated emotions regurgitating the emotional pain lived and accumulated throughout one’s life. RSD sufferers may find relief in a limited number of medicines. I will leave the conversation about meds, as well as diagnosing, up to you and your doctor. Unfortunately, like CPTSD, RSD is not an “official diagnosis” (at least not in the DSM). I have read that psychotherapy may have a limited effect on the impact of RSD. That has been my personal experience that talk therapy is somewhat ineffective for true RSD.

Dr. William Dodson, an ADHD expert, speaks eloquently on the condition of RSD on YouTube and other professional journals.

Photo by Christopher Ott 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.

Jesse Donahue

*Copyright notice. All writings copyrighted and registered with the Library of Congress.

Therapy has helped improve my self-understanding as well as writing skills through journaling and essays. Although this writing journey began in later years, it has led to 70+ essays oriented around issues with CPTSD – a trauma disorder.

My writings, which include therapy notes, poems, novels (unpublished), and essays, are all a part of my ongoing personal therapy. Initially, the essays, intended for my therapist’s eyes only, began with exposing my thoughts, fears, and feelings, or the lack of, onto paper, a journal of therapy notes. Then, with fear overcome and via a personal decision, I shared them with the readers. *My thanks to Paul Michael Marinello, the editor of the CPTSD Foundation. My intent is to encourage readers to recognize traits in themselves and find (if desired) a therapist when they are willing and ready for that step. For some of us, it can be a long and challenging process, over extensive periods, to awaken to the unconscious issues that cause us to act out in life. Our behavior may seem like dancing to a buried, invisible cause we cannot directly see or confront. It is my sincere hope that my insights will assist the reader in the process toward reaching a deeper self-understanding.

Bringing the unconscious out into the light of self-awareness, understanding, and acceptance fosters self-love and the process of change.

 Jesse B. Donahue

*Type a keyword into the foundations search engine. (Jesse, Heart, Personal, Twelve, Bugaboo, etc.) Or, Type Jesse Donahue at The CPTSD Foundation on a Google search.

Published with the CPTSD foundation. Top 10 essays in order of number of views:

1.  ** Personal Honor, Integrity, Dignity, Honesty
2.  ** The Heart of the Matter
3.  * The Smoldering Embers of C-PTSD
4.  * The Hidden Bugaboo (Parts 1-4 of 4)
5.  Twelve Days Without Coffee
6.  Learned Helplessness
7.  Cast Out of Eden by Toxic Shame
8.  *Codependency – Overriding the Monster of Self-Hate
9.  The Emptiness of Yesterday
10.  Surfing the Light Through the Darkness

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/

Since my son was little, he was so fidgety, hyperactive, and accident-prone that keeping up with his energy level was super challenging. When he was in the second grade, I suspected he might have ADHD. So I broached my concern to my husband, who immediately dismissed it, saying that he himself was just like that as a child. My acquiescence to this opinion delayed the diagnosis of my son’s ADHD until he was 17. My husband was never tested for it, but I’d likely been dealing with two ADHDers in my household for all these years. As for me, who knows—I certainly seem to have my share of ADDish (without H) moments. Getting myself assessed, however, is currently not high up on my to-do list.

I recognized that the root cause of my anxiety is complex trauma

During a particularly tough period in my son’s high school career back in 2016, I sought help from a psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with GAD (generalized anxiety disorder). Gaining more understanding of complex trauma over the past several years, I recognized that the root cause of my anxiety is complex trauma. The psychiatrist later agreed.

I wrote The Pond Beyond the Forest: A Memoir of Hope and Healing (due to be published in the fall of 2025), chronicling my struggles with motherhood, marriage, menopause, and mental health. I’d never heard of the term complex trauma until finishing the first draft of this book. It was eye-opening to learn how perfectly its definition captures my lifelong struggles and that my conditions had a name.

I can now see more clearly why that particular phase in my life seemed so overwhelmingly insurmountable

I recently also learned that the symptoms of ADHD (which my son has) and complex trauma (which I have) not only significantly overlap but also can co-occur and create a vicious cycle due to a bidirectional relationship, feeding off each other. Hypervigilance, for instance—one of the hallmark symptoms of complex trauma—mimics ADHD symptoms of hyperactivity, distractibility, and difficulty regulating emotions. Other overlapping symptoms include anxiety, depression, agitation, irritability, impulsivity, inattention, difficulty sleeping, et cetera. How these symptoms manifest can vary widely from person to person, ranging from mild to severe, depending on the interaction between genetics, environments, and stress levels. And let’s throw into the mix the hormonal imbalances of puberty and menopause. All these conditions are said to be influenced by impairment and dysfunction in the brain’s prefrontal cortex, disrupting executive functions and cognitive control. This may explain why they can be so hard to differentiate despite varied underlying causes when focusing solely on behaviors, which can lead to potential misdiagnoses.

I can now see more clearly why that particular phase in my life seemed so overwhelmingly insurmountable—why the experiences and interactions between my son, husband, and me had led to so many misunderstandings and entanglements, and I couldn’t seem to see the forest for the trees. Both my son and I were in the throes of (adolescent vs. menopausal) hormonal wackiness, which undoubtedly caused us to co-dysregulate and worsen our preexisting conditions. To add another layer of complexity, I also had to deal with cultural differences between Japan and America, especially regarding marriage and childrearing. No wonder things went haywire in our household, and I felt like I was going into a tailspin.

Growing up “motherless” with a narcissistic, emotionally immature mother who was often physically absent, the task of reparenting myself should have been an essential priority. But while being preoccupied with parenting my son (with no navigation tools) and trying to break a cycle of generational attachment trauma, I ended up neglecting myself all over again, and this time, sacrificing my marriage, too. I was extremely fortunate, though, to be able to turn the tide and repair the damage caused during this period and restore the relationships in my family.

Many different terms are used to refer to the phenomenon of early damage to the child, resulting in long-term repercussions on his/her/their overall physical, mental, and emotional health. Those closely related terms include complex trauma, complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD), developmental/attachment/relational trauma, childhood emotional neglect (CEN), and the Mother Wound. Experts in the field slice and package their knowledge differently and promote their recovery models and methods with their own talking points and frameworks. Still, they are all premised on one simple factor: Not being nurtured and cared for with loving attention in early life affects one’s brain development, leading to a myriad of subsequent issues.

Public awareness about the impact of trauma on children and adolescents is growing

It is encouraging that public awareness about the impact of trauma on children and adolescents is growing, which is great news considering how crucial the first several years of a child’s development play in laying the foundations for life. We need to keep raising awareness of how prolonged toxic stress in childhood can alter a child’s developing brain structurally and functionally. And whether a child experiences big “T” or little “t” trauma, without a felt sense of safety, the child’s fight-flight-freeze-fawn response may become constantly activated, possibly leading the child to stay stuck in survival mode.

With my book, I seek to bring to life an in-depth longitudinal case study of complex trauma by illuminating and illustrating:

1. The impact of early childhood and adolescence experiences.
2. How unhealed childhood trauma can negatively impact the closest relationships in adult life, especially as a parent.
3. Healing myself is the most critical piece in breaking a cycle of generational attachment trauma.

Writing my book cultivated greater self-awareness and helped me to heal much of my trauma. Still, I believe my healing journey is a lifelong process, like peeling a giant onion—just as I think I’ve got the hang of a certain situational trigger, life throws a monkey wrench, and I find myself struggling with it all over again. Though it sometimes feels like I’m back to square one, I can now see it as an opportunity to dig deeper and heal the wounds more each time.

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.

Shigeko Ito

Shigeko Ito grew up in Japan and immigrated to the United States to pursue higher education. She studied early childhood education, earning a PhD in Education from Stanford University. Drawing on cross-cultural experiences and academic expertise, she explores themes of trauma, resilience, and healing, with a particular focus on childhood emotional neglect. Her work has appeared on the CPTSD Foundation blog and the Anxiety and Depression Association of America website. In 2025, she was named a semifinalist in the nonfiction category of the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Awards. She worked in Montessori preschools for many years and lives in Seattle with her husband of thirty years and beloved animals.

shigekoito.com

We wonder why we are experiencing the same challenges at this new company, in this new role, or new line of business. It’s because we’ve taken our trauma with us.

We see the workplace through the lens of trauma. We cannot run from our trauma because it is part of our story…not the whole story…just a part. I’ve heard it said that the only way to overcome it is to work through it. I am not saying that triggers do not abound in the workplace because they certainly do, but if there were nothing to trigger, it wouldn’t be a problem.

We bring our core beliefs about ourselves and the world with us wherever we go. If we see ourselves as victims, we will feel victimized no matter what environment we are in. If we’ve been told our whole lives that we are not enough, we will feel like nothing we do in the workplace is ever enough for our bosses, executives, companies, or customers. If we were neglected as children, we might not feel heard or seen in the workplace. If we experienced abuse at the hand of an authority figure, we might unconsciously believe that all authority figures or leaders are dangerous or out to hurt us.

Personally, this has been one of the many challenges that I’ve had to work on. While I am advocating for change in the corporate world, my intense desire is to see trauma survivors unlock the chains from their past that are holding them back from achieving their career goals. None of us asked for these obstacles to be put in our path, but they were still dumped there, and now we need to figure out what to do about them. We didn’t have a choice about what happened to us as children, but we have a choice and a voice to determine what happens now.

I am on the path with you, encouraging you, and cheering you on. I want you to be successful, but success is not just handed to you like a participant trophy from a youth soccer program. You have to do the work. I have to do the work. It is an investment in ourselves. For me, it is looking my abuser in the face and saying, “You are NOT going to stop me from succeeding.”

What about you? Where are you on this journey? Can you hear my voice cheering you on? Go…Fight…Win!!!

Cyndi Bennett

Believer. Leader. Learner. Advocate. Writer. Speaker. Coach. Mentor. Triathlete. Encourager. Survivor.
 
Most of all, I am a fellow traveler on the rocky road called, Trauma Recovery. My mission is to minimize the effects of trauma for survivors in the workplace.

Mental health, am I right? Reentering the “real world” after my brain shut down in June has been…interesting.

They call it a partial hospitalization. I was home evenings and weekends, but my weekdays were dedicated to studying coping skills, mindfulness, sharing feelings, and navigating big truths. On day two the floodgates opened. After 15 years of therapy to deal with Bipolar Disorder and ADHD, surprise! Sexual abuse by my father. Complex PTSD it is.

How could a person not remember that for 40 years? I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist. What I do know is that many of my memories are like looking through a tiny telescope. For years I’ve only recalled small snippets of a much larger event. What’s happening now, is that the image is widening. I’m remembering before and after the tiny event, and I’m also getting vivid flashbacks. The flashbacks are familiar. I’ve actually felt the emotional and physical effects of them my whole life, I just didn’t know what they were. I didn’t have an image to connect to. Now there is no doubt…or is there?

I recently learned that I was the scapegoat of a Narcissist father. This basically means that when he needed someone to blame, someone to back up one of his bullshit stories, someone to humiliate or discredit, or just someone to attack, I was his main target. When my core beliefs were being set up between birth and age 7, my father was purposely filling my head with lies.

There’s the “don’t trust your instincts because people who say and act as they like you, are lying. They really don’t like you, they told me so.”

There’s the “I never did that” when I caught him doing something devious, a.k.a GASLIGHTING.

There’s the “you behave disrespectfully to me and need to apologize to me at all times whether or not you know what you’ve done..or really even when you’ve done nothing wrong.”

There are the “secrets that belong in the family. Never tell anyone the truth.”

And so many more. Lucky for me, my brain grew around trauma, so I essentially have brain damage that keeps my Fight or Flight engaged. Mmmmm…constant adrenaline.

Negative core beliefs lead to negative self-esteem which leads to an inability to trust yourself. See? We’re learning together. Even when a flashback takes over your mind and body for an hour while you scream and punch your face, the next day you’re like, “Did that really happen?” Yes, Jamie, it did. You know that because you had another paralyzing flashback a few days later and a few days after that. This is your brain talking. I’m tired of being silenced so I’m showing you everything.

It’s fascinating picking up groceries after something like that. I’ve gotten panic attacks in grocery stores for so long that under “normal” circumstances I can put on a simple mental mask and shop through them. Well, now the mask is ripped off and I’m like a mermaid who just got her legs. Stumbly, confused and completely overwhelmed.

“May I help you?”

“What?!”

“May I help y-”

“Don’t touch me! Apples! I need apples!”

Isn’t this fun?

It won’t last forever, I’m told. As I work through and process the trauma and learn to be present, it will be quieter, a far off memory, not a paralyzing, combative embarrassing situation for which I automatically feel the need to apologize because my core beliefs say I am always wrong and I am not allowed to make mistakes. So, before I promise to buy the produce manager a car for yelling at him, then torture myself for the rest of the day, I think I’ll limit my public appearances until I do some more work.

But then there’s the 8ft. trip to the mailbox where I run into my neighbor.

“How’s work?”

This isn’t awkward at all.

“I’m on medical leave for Complex PTSD caused by childhood trauma.”

I’ve always been a truth-teller. Why sugarcoat? I’m an open book. Ask me anything…and he does. We get into a lovely conversation about emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. I learn a lot about his family’s history, he learns a lot about mine.

“Yes, my father is a registered sex offender. He was convicted of owning and distributing child pornography in 2009. Your mother was abused by her father? That’s terrible.” Just a typical neighborly chat. “Ooh! Valpak coupons! See you tomorrow!”

Strangely, this has been a more typical conversation than I’d expected. It seemed disingenuous to post happy pictures on social media, so I “came out” posting a public reveal of my diagnosis: Bipolar 2 (which leans to the depressive side), ADHD, and Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (like regular PTSD, but instead of being based on a single event, it is due to prolonged trauma). Suddenly I had people revealing their own diagnosis, trauma, or suspicions of both. It seems to be a common thread we all share, but no one quite knows how to put it into words. Especially without apologizing.

A fascinating part about trauma is how it’s physically manifested in me. In my first week at the hospital, my body looked like one of those blow-up characters in front of a car dealership. I’m just doing the wave while people are sharing their deepest fears. Don’t mind me, I just need to stand and sit suddenly for the next hour, no wait, it’s leg jiggling time….and now it’s time to lie on the floor. When my neck, back, and arm muscles get so tight that I’m nauseous and can barely sit still, that’s when I know something big is about to be revealed. I’ve gotten some temporary medicine to deal directly with the physical ticks, flashbacks, and nightmares that continue to emerge.

Hypervigilance is an especially exciting effect. When I sense danger my vision tunnels in a small and targeted way. My ears pick up sounds at a higher and more distinct volume. My skin feels like it burns to the touch.

Being a highly intuitive, empathic person who picks up on people’s emotions before even being close enough to see their faces, this has been happening a LOT (especially in a hospital where other patients display traits I associate with my lying father). It just happened this weekend when my husband and I went out to celebrate my birthday. Just when I thought it was safe to re-enter public life, I spotted a male predator hitting on and touching a woman inappropriately. That cackling laugh, those wandering hands, STOP! STOP!

“Jamie!” Oh, sorry, husband. Forgot you were there. Yes, I would like to switch seats. There’s a predator in my eye-line. How long has the waitress been here?

Dissociation is the most fun of all. That’s when I get to the checkout line, but all I can think about are the coupons that I’m not sure I clipped on my app. Coupons remind me of my Mom and how difficult my dad made things for her which brings me back to childhood trauma, which leads to me unloading the grocery cart of the person behind me. People love when strangers handle their produce. Especially in a pandemic. It’s really fun to explain why you didn’t hear them the first 10 times they tried to stop you.

Other occasions include driving without knowing how you got there, being in a conversation but having no idea what’s been said, or my personal favorite referred to as a “brownout.” I am in a familiar place, like my neighborhood for example, but none of the buildings look familiar, and, oh yeah, I can’t read.

Running through a theme park in fight or flight can be equally as entertaining as being on a ride. There’s nothing like that rush of adrenaline that sparks DANGER! in your body, closing your fists into such tight balls that your fingernails make your hands bleed. You hold your fists to your body because you’re having a flashback and are about to punch everyone around you. All you can see are the holes on the ground where people’s feet aren’t, and you jump from hole to hole until you find enough open space to feel safe. It’s kind of like a water ride because when it’s over, you’re completely drenched.

So, reentry. Still working on that one. If you see a blonde, former mermaid in public, loudly reciting her grocery list while staring at a carton of eggs for an obscenely long time, just give me a wave, and a little understanding while I attempt to start my car with a breadstick.

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.

Jamie Donmoyer

Creative storyteller and recovering scapegoat of a narcissistic parent, working through Complex PTSD one post at a time

Those of us who have ADHD have kryptonite. You know kryptonite right? It’s the little green glowing rock that brings Superman to his knees. When Superman is doing his thing, kicking butt and being a boss, along comes Lex Luther with that little green rock and suddenly, Superman is sapped of all his strength. That is kryptonite.

Kryptonite for ADHD brains is boredom. I know, all of you neurotypicals out there are snickering to yourselves a little bit. 

ADHD Brain Chemistry

ADHD is the result of a deficiency of a neurotransmitter called norepinephrine. This neurotransmitter is buddies with dopamine, the thing that controls our brain’s reward and pleasure center. That has impacts on a number of different brain functions. One of those functions is how we motivate ourselves to accomplish a task.

Often we are given advice from neurotypicals that just don’t work for us.

“Pull your socks up.”

” Quit procrastinating and get it done.”

” Stop being lazy.”

How would Superman deal with those well-meaning suggestions?

“Hey, Superman, quit being lazy and just throw that kryptonite away man!” It is literally the same for a brain that does not produce enough dopamine. It’s the reason why ADHD brains can be amazingly, fantastically productive when doing something pleasurable. Then, that same productive brain literally shuts down when faced with a menial task.

My Personal ADHD Kryptonite

I’ve been an educator for more than 20 years. I also have ADHD and CPTSD. As a teacher, I thrive in the fast-paced atmosphere of a grade one classroom. I could work for hours on setting up my classroom, creating teaching materials, or researching innovative teaching techniques. When the time would come to prepare report cards? Kryptonite. BAM!

Now, I am highly motivated to do a good job, to hand things in on time, and to communicate well with parents about their child’s learning. The motivation was not my problem. I would open up that blank page and immediately shut down. In order to fight this particular kryptonite, I had to develop a coping strategy.

ADHD Kryptonite Busting

Step 1: about 6 weeks before the reports were due I would calculate the number of comments I needed to write in order to complete the task. 24 students multiplied by an English, Science, Social Studies, Math, and General comment equal 120 comments. Over 6 weeks, that meant I had to finish 20 comments each week. Breaking the task down into pieces was essential. 20 comments feel much better than 120.

Step 2: Now I had to ensure that I wrote 20 comments each week to stay on track. Time for some dopamine (AKA bribery). I had to be tough with myself but also hold out that carrot. So, no Netflix until the job was done. Then, a celebration Netflix marathon once my 20 comments were written. It was not easy but I kept my eye on the prize.

Step 3: Week one and two usually went along great and by week three I was struggling. I didn’t give in and watch Netflix, but I would suddenly need to micro-organize my closet or research how to remove stains from my couch. Each time I opened that document to start comments, my brain would groan. Step 3 involved breaking down the task even more. 20 comments per week meant 4 per weekday. Now I would allow myself a reward after every 4 comments.

Step 4: celebrate my accomplishment and try not to think of doing it all over again in 3 months. Actually, it made me kind of feel like Superman to finish those report cards.

The role of the ADHD Sidekick

Coping with report cards is something I figured out after years of frustration, struggle, and feeling like a failure. The strategy works, sometimes. It is currently August of 2021 and my taxes aren’t done. I’ve opened that page hundreds of times and suddenly been compelled to clean my fridge. Taxes are currently beating me down.

Sometimes a sidekick is necessary.

My son was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 5 by a psychologist. She told me that he was a very well-adjusted, intelligent boy. He also spent the whole session on his head, upsidedown on the couch. Yep…ADHD. It was probably incredibly boring to chat with this older woman. Being upsidedown allowed his brain enough dopamine to manage a conversation.

I’m my son’s sidekick. Now that he is almost 15 we spend a lot of time jokingly blaming each other for his forgetfulness.

“Why didn’t you have a shower last night?”

“Why didn’t you remind me? I have ADHD, remember?”

“Yeah, well I have ADHD too so I forgot to remind you!”

But truthfully, it is easier to help him complete his tasks than to do my own. Plus, I understand his challenges very, very well.

A sidekick can help us focus on our goals. It takes a subtle balance of nagging, humor, and letting go.

Sidekick Strategies

I bought my son a vibrating watch and I help him set alarms for things he wants to remember to do. At 6:00 every night that watch vibrates and I hear him thunder up the stairs to take out the recycling. The rule that works for him is to stop whatever he is doing when that watch vibrates and does his task. I’ve always done the same. When I get an email asking me to do something, I do it right away. I am far more likely to get it done right then and much more likely to forget if I close that email.

When he struggles, I try to reinforce for him, the goals he has set. I remind him of the strategies we have put into place Then, I give him a hug and tell him that I am proud of him for battling his own kryptonite.

I am proud. Because ADHD also comes with incredible creativity, a deep sensitivity to peoples’ emotions, and the capacity for outstanding achievements. When we battle that kryptonite, we truly are superheroes!

Michelle is an educator, an artist, and a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. When diagnosed with CPTSD in September of 2020, Michelle began to document her journey on her blog, . She seeks to connect with others on the journey and dreams of creating a charity to offer funds for victims of childhood trauma who cannot access trauma therapy due to cost. Her artwork and her writing help her to express her feelings about this long and challenging journey. She lives in Calgary, AB, Canada, with her two children.

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.

Michelle Tasa