You’ve walked through storms that tested every part of you, and you stood back up, with courage in your heart.

PTSD may have shaped part of your story, but it does not define who you are. You are still whole, still capable, and your light and strength are still in your heart — they have only been waiting for you to see them again.

On this path of recovery, there will be moments of grief, anger, and pain. Let’s not push these feelings away or keep them bottled up. At such times, it helps to sit together, speak with compassion, and support one another.

Despite the past, I want you to believe in yourself. The strength that carried you through the darkness is the same strength that can now guide you toward healing. You have the power to begin anew, to rebuild your life piece by piece into something peaceful, meaningful, and filled with joy.

There is no rush, healing moves at the pace of kindness. Just breathe. Take one small step, then another. Trust that each moment of courage counts, and every gentle choice you make for yourself is a quiet victory.

Leave the pain where it belongs, in yesterday. Open your heart to the possibility that tomorrow can feel lighter. You deserve happiness, love, and a life that feels like home.

You’ve survived the hardest parts already. Now, it’s time to live again: freely, bravely, and filled with hope. The future is yours to create, and it can be beautiful beyond measure.

You are now becoming whole in new and beautiful ways. Gently step into your own light, and trust that every day holds a chance for renewal. You deserve peace. You deserve love. You deserve the good life you’ve always dreamed of: because it’s still waiting for you.

I want you to know that I understand because I’ve walked that path too. You’re not alone in this journey. If you ever need someone to talk to, a voice that listens and truly believes in your courage — I’m here. Always.

With Love and Light,
Jeanne💗

Feature Photo Credit: UnSplash

Graphic Credit: Author Owned

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

Jeanne Jess

Having navigated trauma and its long-term effects myself, I understand how non-linear, layered, and deeply personal recovery can be. Every article here is written by me from the heart, based entirely on my own lived experiences and personal journey. The goal of my writing is to encourage all those who, like me, are living with a lifelong medical diagnosis, and everyone navigating difficult times in their lives. May my texts bring you comfort and encouragement. My website: https://www.janehealingangels.com/

www.janehealingangels.com/

As adults in this day and age, we have the power to stop children from being abused, but many still choose to ignore the obvious. Our children are still suffering at the hands of abusers — even now. It can happen anywhere in the world. It can happen next door in your neighborhood.

We have to be open enough to see what’s going on. Our future generation is at stake here, but we can stop it if we act now.

Child abuse or any type of abuse of another human being should be stopped. The fact that it’s still happening is breaking my heart. I wish I had the power to stop every single one, but I can’t. I need your help.

This article is about spotting those little tell-tale signals that immediately scream that something is not right. I can see abuse from just one look.

A child who is subjected to sexual abuse or any kind of abuse will act differently from their peers.

I know, because I was that child.

It doesn’t matter how frequently abuse happens. A developing brain that has been exposed to trauma will have changed. That child will start to act differently.

The child will use coping mechanisms to survive the trauma any way they can. These coping mechanisms might be the body’s response to what is happening or even a direct threat to carry out a certain behavior by an abuser.

The Frozen child

A deeply traumatized child might suddenly become frozen and withdrawn. or become mute and stare into space (catatonic). They may be sitting with their legs drawn up to their chests and rocking back and forth.

This child is in deep despair and feeling helpless. When a child is in this state, it is unable to communicate because the brain is protecting itself by doing a complete psychological shutdown.

I have been in this state many times, and it is terrifying.

Any child suffering from abuse will build up a strong shell around him / her to survive. They may seem disinterested and rude on the outside, but instead they are deeply hurting inside.

The Control child

A child may display behaviors, such as an innate need to control a situation. They will not trust anyone and be suspicious of new situations. They may seem particularly hypervigilant and may come across as not in control of their bodies; for example, they might display changing emotions in quick succession like anger followed by sadness followed by running away, almost like a traffic light changing colors. The same child may react very oddly to certain situations, like laughing if someone is hurt or starting to cry profusely at a bumblebee that is lying dead in the grass. These are all coping mechanisms from trauma.

The Sudden Change in a Child

A professional looking after children will know them and know if a child suddenly changes behavior, which is a red flag that something is not right. If you suspect something, observe that child at play.

Watch how the child holds itself, how it walks and how it behaves around other children. Watch their language. What does it sound like? Would a normal 6-year-old use “those words” or can you hear something odd?

Notice how the child behaves at pick up and drop off times. What is it like with their caregivers? How does it behave after a long weekend or a vacation?

If anything appears “wrong” you must report it. Start a “behavior journal”. This will build up a true picture of the child. Chances are nothing is going on, but would you be willing to take that risk if something happens?

Avoiding Physical Contact

A child might suddenly hate physical contact or being touched at all. They might even recoil if anyone touches them. A young child might feel so scared and threatened that it hides itself away for long periods.

The child could be sitting under a blanket, hide under a bed, table or behind a sofa or roll up into a ball in a corner sucking a thumb, regressing into baby behavior.

A young child might be overly attached to things like a blanket, pillow or a teddy. Having something soft and tactile could be a small relief for a traumatized child.

An older traumatized child may suddenly seek solitude from everyone and play in an odd way. An older child might want to be left alone, shutting everyone out — alone in their bedroom or in the playground.

The Sudden Artist / Creative child

A child might start creating stories and drawings of the abuse or making up characters who act like abusers. The child might use language that they have been exposed to that contains words a child should not know.

A child who is displaying this type of behavior does not have the language to explain what they are experiencing and will use a medium that they know to make sense of it.

The Child Pushing Physical Limits

A child might suddenly start to push itself excessively hard to the point of collapse, and not realize its body limitations. This is called desensitization.

A child might stay out in the cold and rain too long, not realizing frostbite is forming. In summer weather, that same child might get extremely dirty and not care how they look because no one cares for them.

An older child may be starting to break the limits. What happens if?… Climbing really high trees, racing friends on their bikes, hitting things, and hurting others.

Seeking Roughness in People

An older child may start hanging out with friends who are not appropriate and experiment with drugs and alcohol. They might start spending time with other families and staying out as long as possible. Avoiding going home to their abusers at any cost.

The Self-harming Child

A child is seen torturing themselves (self-harming) with sticks or tools (like knives), making their hands bleed, and developing blisters and bruises on purpose.

This is a big, desperate cry for help. This means the child is on the verge of giving up in a downward spiral of hate and shame for itself and not just the abuser.

The Child Actor

A child acting out the abuse itself anywhere is obviously a massive red flag for anyone, but sometimes this could be more subtle and disguised in their normal play. Like abusing dolls, teddies, or pets, even insects or anything that could be restrained and hurt.

Overall Body Indicators

An abused child may seem strangely jittery, tense and may even use rigid robotic movements and hyper alert of their surroundings. This would be particularly apparent during a change in routine.

Head Constant Aches and Stomach Pains

A child suddenly developing chronic headaches or feeling sick is another sign that all is not well. A child might feel threatened and become paranoid by keeping their eyes on a swivel. These children feel desperately unsafe in their normal environment.

Physical Changes

A child suffering sexual abuse may struggle to sit down if they are a girl. They may suffer from chronic vaginal pain when going to the bathroom. This child may avoid going to the bathroom and ignore their bodily signals, and have wet accidents.

Testing Behavior

An abused child may often copy friends’ rough behavior to see the reactions they get from adults. This child may never have been given boundaries and may have to learn what is good and bad behavior.

Another behavior is to become very angry and be rough with toys, animals, or even their peers. These are called temper tantrums.

Rejecting Common Food Types

A child might suddenly start rejecting certain foods that remind them of sexual abuse like cream, custard, mayonnaise and yogurts.

The People Pleaser

A child who is being abused gets very good at reading people around them and deflecting attention away from them. They may try to seek affirmation from adults that they are ok and “been good”. This child is seeking approval of adults.

Fear and Terror

A child might suddenly get terrified of something, which reminds them of their abuser/s. This might seem completely harmless to everyone else.

A child might start incessant crying or become hysterical over nothing or suddenly become upset at the sight of men with beards or someone with glasses.

All these coping mechanisms are called by the professionals as a “Fight / flight / freeze / Fawn” state of being.

It is a survival state.

This is what happens when the brain’s sympathetic nervous system becomes overactive, which makes the body go into a “fight / flight / fawn and freeze” state. The Amygdala part of the brain becomes hyperactive under the conditions of extreme stress like traumatic experiences. The memory gets “stuck in this part of the brain in vivid detail until it is triggered years later.

My name is Lizzy. I’m a trauma survivor, a wife, a mom, a teacher, and an author.

If you like reading my posts, then please follow me.

For more about me: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support your fellow writer:

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484

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

Elizabeth Woods

For more about me: https://www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Elizabeth Woods grew up in a world of brutal sex offenders, murderers, and inconceivably neglectful adults. Elizabeth is passionate about spreading awareness of what it is like to survive after trauma. She is the author of several books and has written her memoir, telling her childhood story: The Sex-Offender’s Daughter: A True Story of Survival Against All Odds, available on Amazon Kindle and paperback.

Elizabeth is also the author of “Living with Complex PTSD” and the Cedar’s Port Fiction series: “Saving Joshua”, “Protecting Sarah”, “Guarding Noah” and “Bringing Back Faith,” and “Restoring Hope,” available here: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B0BCBZQN7L/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=7e223b5b-1a29-45f0-ad9d-e9c8fdb59e9c&ref_=ap_rdr&ccs_id=931f96e2-c220-4765-acc8-cc99bb95e8bd

www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com/

Trigger Warning: This post contains personal accounts and detailed discussions of childhood abuse. If you are currently feeling vulnerable or find these topics distressing, please prioritize your well-being before reading.

Childhood abuse is one of the worst forms of torture that a person can endure. It feels like being in a war zone, imprisoned by cruel dictators and forced to live under their every will and command until the law “says” you are old enough to have your own life. I know this because I have lived in this particular “war zone” called child abuse.

I was stuck and I had no one to lean on for help who had my corner. No adult saw my pain and need to feel safe and no matter how much I cried for help, I was ignored.

My own mother had to be “bullied” by my teachers to take me to the doctor when I had an STD. She insisted I was “fine,” and everything was fine. Well, within all that “fine-ness,” I was left to suffer in the hands of cruel sexual predators and neglectful adults. It was only when those STDs turned nasty with infection, and I couldn’t go to the bathroom that adults took notice and told my mother. If they had not, I would be dead.

The same thing happened years later when I suffered several miscarriages from abuse. I had never been told by mother that girls of a certain age would start their periods. I didn’t know what they were, and I was convinced that I was dying. The truth that I was pregnant at age 13–15 was laughed at. I had no boyfriend, and I was a loner at school, so how could I possibly be pregnant?

No one saw the obvious truth. I had “unusually heavy bleeding,” and my mother was angry when I went through packet after packet of sanitary towels. I was sick with cramping and infection that I was in a haze like a zombie and yet mother made me go to school. I got no medical treatment, nor was I taken to the ER. I was left to suffer through them all with the shame and stigma that comes with being a menstruating young girl.

For some of them, I managed to hide by locking myself in the bathroom and just letting the blood gush out of me in painful spasms. It was terrifying! I often bled through my clothes because I couldn’t stem the bleeding.

My final miscarriage was very public in a packed church full of most of my school friends and their families. I started having painful spasms in church, and I couldn’t leave since I was doing a reading. Blood was pouring for everyone to see, as well as a giant red stain on my glowing white dress.

It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Instead of being taken care of, I was laughed at and people whispered and pointed fingers at me. The shame and guilt of being “dirty and un-hygienic” were on most people’s lips.

Taking Stock of the Damage

A childhood full of abuse and neglect will often lead to Complex PTSD. It is one of the worst forms of Post-Traumatic Stress because you feel as if you are still living in the past. The memories keep getting triggered years after the abuse ended.

Complex PTSD causes the body to act and feel like it is constantly under attack, stuck in the “war zone” of hurt.

A person will continue to feel this way years after the abuse happened into adulthood and beyond. It can take a lifetime to feel safe and trust people again. I know because I’ve lived with Complex PTSD my whole life. Everything feels like living through a magnifying glass. I feel different from others, and no matter how much therapy I have gone through, I still cannot change that mindset. I still feel different because I see life in so much more detail. I notice everything around me, even when I pretend I don’t.

Hyper-Vigilance & Alertness

After suffering from years of abuse, the body goes into survival mode long after the trauma has ended. The body still believes it is under attack even though the brain has long made you forget anything that ever happened.

The Body Keeps the Score by Dr. Bessel Van Der Kolk is an excellent book that describes how a survivor feels long after trauma, and how it affects a person in every aspect of life.

Trauma survivors feel jittery, on edge, restless, jumpy, hyperactive, and excitable all rolled into one big mix of emotions.

It’s weird to feel hyper about everyone and everything around you without understanding why. Your body is on autopilot like a robot.

Years ago, I believed that I was different from other people. I didn’t seem to react in the same way people did to noise and emotions. It’s tiring to live like this because you react to every little stimulus that hits you during the day.

You see everyone and everything through a magnifying glass.

A misfiring exhaust on a car can trigger a survivor to instinctively curl into a ball and shy away from the noise. The smell of perspiration in a gym can trigger a survivor right back to the abuse. A crying child can break you out in hives and make you want to ball with pain from sympathy. Heading downtown to shop or even going to your local food market can be exhausting.

Any perceived threats along the way are neutralized by taking a different route or avoiding certain people. This is called dissociation because you disconnect from all stimuli, become numb, and switch off. Life becomes too much. Without addressing the reason why life becomes exhausting, we suffer all over again.

Hyper-arousal

I can only speak about my own experiences as a sexual abuse and trauma survivor when talking about hyper-arousal. It is not something many people admit or talk about because it’s embarrassing and private.

My body was constantly “turned on.” There was no off switch after years of having been “a sex toy.” My body just couldn’t turn itself off. The damage was done.

Living without an off switch brings many problems in later life. As a child, I always struggled to go to the bathroom. I had so many “wet accidents” and smelly discharge. In later life, I’ve always struggled with stress incontinence, like a woman gets after childbirth for a while, or I imagine a symptom of old age. My “little problem” has always been there.

Hyper-sensitivity

A survivor of trauma is always going to be a sensitive and emotional human being, no matter how much you try to hide it through dissociation. It’s always there. I am more attuned to my surroundings and people than others appear to be. People in general have this seemingly “I don’t care” attitude, going through life with a neutral face. We often read on the subway or switch off listening to music or podcasts. We do anything not to be in the moment.

I care about the people around me, and I bend over backward at the cost of my own health to help a wronged human being. I know I do it, but I feel I must help someone in need, whether it is an old lady needing help to cross the street, or a child falling over.

Boundaries are difficult to understand, especially boundaries towards yourself.

I am lucky to collaborate with people who look out for me, and don’t let me work too much. I have always been taken advantage of in the past, but now I am finally learning the importance of having a break.

Relaxation

Relaxation is probably one of the most difficult things to do as a survivor. The body is consistently hyper all over. To relax or even think about relaxing means allowing yourself to feel. That is dangerous because that is when you remember. Your memories come flooding back, and your body reminds you of all the past hurts.

Being on the move and letting your body remain in hyperdrive throughout life is much easier than relaxing. Most people relish the thought of relaxing, but survivors tend to do anything to avoid it. Even if they appear to be relaxed. I can guarantee that they are anything but relaxed.

How to begin to learn to relax

I have always loved water, even though it’s also a source of great pain for me. It was one of the places where I was first sexually abused as a child. I also witnessed a woman being raped and killed in a river. Since then, I’ve worked hard to try to overcome my fear of water. It was, after all, not the water that caused my fear, but the activities in it.

Eventually, I managed to conquer my fear and reset my thinking. I taught myself to have fun and relax in water instead of feeling terrified. Swimming is a great way of relaxing without being still. When I’m in water, I am alone with my thoughts, and no one can talk to me and disrupt me. I can focus on my body and my breathing while my brain can switch off or mull over a problem. Whatever is on my mind, I usually surface feeling better.

If you are a survivor like me, try to see if being in water can help you too.

My name is Lizzy. I’m a trauma survivor, a wife, a mom, a teacher, and an author.

If you like reading my posts, then please follow me.

For more about me: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support your fellow writer:

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484

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

Elizabeth Woods

For more about me: https://www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Elizabeth Woods grew up in a world of brutal sex offenders, murderers, and inconceivably neglectful adults. Elizabeth is passionate about spreading awareness of what it is like to survive after trauma. She is the author of several books and has written her memoir, telling her childhood story: The Sex-Offender’s Daughter: A True Story of Survival Against All Odds, available on Amazon Kindle and paperback.

Elizabeth is also the author of “Living with Complex PTSD” and the Cedar’s Port Fiction series: “Saving Joshua”, “Protecting Sarah”, “Guarding Noah” and “Bringing Back Faith,” and “Restoring Hope,” available here: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B0BCBZQN7L/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=7e223b5b-1a29-45f0-ad9d-e9c8fdb59e9c&ref_=ap_rdr&ccs_id=931f96e2-c220-4765-acc8-cc99bb95e8bd

www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com/

I wrote this poem a few months ago, drawing from the well of ancient, long-buried feelings about the first time my mom forced my mouth open and poured Dawn dish soap into it. I was four. Although I had received spankings with a variety of objects over the last year (when her new partner introduced physical child abuse to the mix), this was new. As I choked on the pungent combination of soap, snot, and tears, I grappled with confusion and fear. Soapy bubbles of snot popped around my face, and I struggled to breathe. The soap burned my throat and nostrils. My mom, who had never done anything this cruel, tightly gripped the insides of my elbows, screaming at me to stop crying. 

To this day, I am only half sure what I “did” to bring on that previously foreign punishment. I only have a flash of a memory and clues from what came after to guide me in making deductions about what motivated her to unleash a new brand of assault. It was the first time of many. Washing our mouths with soap became a go-to when a hard smack across the face or tightly gripping our cheeks didn’t suffice after we “said something we shouldn’t have.” Sometimes it was a curse word; other times, an opinion. The times when my mom suffocated my opinions stung the most. 

There’s a little part of me that thinks that the first time I “got the soap,” it may have been after I shared my thoughts about her new partner; I didn’t like him and didn’t want him there. I solidly remember saying such while living in the house where I first choked on soap; whether that statement led to my oral “baptism” or not, I will never really know. I only know that time and time again, my words fell silent. The person who should have listened to me and heard me instead again and again gagged me. Had she asked me why I didn’t like him, it may have saved me from nearly a decade and a half of the sexual abuse and mental abuse that he initiated as early as he did the beatings. 

She didn’t ask, though. Instead, she silenced me. I learned to shut myself up, closing off my thoughts and feelings from the world. I sewed them up tightly within, and over the years, I only allowed them to escape when safely veiled beneath the mask of my poetry. 

I learned to suppress the truth of my reality, even from myself. For the next three and a half decades, I downplayed the cruelty of some of the things I experienced. That’s not to say there weren’t parts of me that knew many of those things weren’t right…that they were downright abusive. Of course, I KNEW that. I just couldn’t allow myself to FEEL it for a very, very long time. If you’re reading this from a place of trauma yourself, I suspect you know exactly what I’m saying.

I didn’t want to feel these things for a simple reason: I love my mom. Despite the cruelty of what I just described, I want to emphasize that she’s not a horrible person. She did, however, do some very bad things. Sometimes, even worse, she didn’t always do the things she should have done to protect her kids…like listen to us when we needed her to hear us the most. I have a lot of very strong feelings around those things. Only in recent years have I allowed myself to acknowledge and truly embrace those hard feelings. Those feelings come across strongly in the poem above. There are parts of me that take issue with some of the lines that erupted from me because they feel too binary. I’ve come to learn that life truly is not and does not have to live on a pendulum of sharp swings from one extreme to another. And…despite my hesitation around this “black and white” perspective, I’m keeping those uncomfortable lines in the poem. Those uncomfortable lines are a part of my truth. I need to feel them just as they are so that I can finally work through them and move forward.  

For me, a key part of moving forward lies in putting words to my experiences and accepting my story for what it is. Sometimes I wonder where my ability to string words into powerful phrases originated. I think that maybe it comes from that place within that was time and time again suppressed, choked, and gagged. When I write, I experience a ferocity of feeling, both freeing and terrifying in its ability to help me find meaning in the meaningless. Again and again throughout my life, I have returned to the refuge of my words. Fortunately, there were some things within me that simply couldn’t be silenced. I clung to the life raft of the words no one could take from me. I disguised my feelings in the poetry I wrote relentlessly as a child and teenager, and even sporadically throughout my adulthood, until a year ago when the floodgates opened, and it ALL began pouring out in a river of emotions. These days, I have again begun to write poetry, and I am learning to write my story in a much more direct kind of way. I’m taking ownership of my words and story. We ALL deserve to reclaim the words and the feelings that were taken from us. 

Scrubbed Innocence

You lit a lava fire that blazes in my throat
Its flames engulf me in fear 
They rage, burning the broken bridges
Between then and here 

In silencing my words, you murdered my trust in you
Violent echoes of the past
Color my eyes in lonely shades of blue
Your mutilation of motherhood 
Cast my world in shadows
A violation of my childhood
left me alone, bearing too much to handle

You suffocated my sense of safety
Left me drowning in my tears
Instead of saving me from my hell
You trapped me in yours

Your cruelty choked my confidence
The scorch of my tears ran through rivers of snot 
You scrubbed away my innocence
Nightmares bubbling to the top

You stood center of some of my darkest hours
You were supposed to be my soft place
You were supposed to be my mother
Instead, I’m left with smoldering embers of an unnamed guilt
The parts of you that loved me
No longer felt

I’m still choking on your brutality
Buried beneath suffering remembered
Your conscience stands empty
After all that I endured, after all the pain you rendered

Photo by Alex Shute 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.

Heather Jurvelin

Finally feeling truly alive for the first time in my life, I am writing from a place of gradual healing with an eye to the future and a hope of connecting with others on similar paths. Forced to withhold a tsunami of emotions deemed irrelevant under the roof of my childhood “home,” the blank white pages of my notebooks invited my raw reflections without judgment. Writing allowed me to free the burdens of my soul, but at some point, I muzzled myself. My pen lay dormant for years until, at 41 years old, I experienced a traumatic flashback during an everyday activity that shook me to the core. Five days later, I started writing about the things I had long withheld. I couldn’t stop. Written words have once again become my refuge. I now recognize that these words, resurrected from the ashes of my pain, may have the power to help others. Above all, I want to magnify and share the messages that I have most treasured on my journey: we are not alone and we don’t ever have to go back. This is where we live now and the future is ours.

“Be careful whom you trust; evil cloaks itself in many forms.”

What is love if it doesn’t hurt, or like in my case, crash with a whimper? Perhaps your first crush was like mine? Nick was a 20-something Anglo-Indian with Bobby Deol’s looks, John Travolta’s swagger, and an angelic, disarming purity. We met on a rainy day outside his place; cousin Martin played matchmaker. Me, a rebellious teen with a sassy, blunt bob, shook hands with this shy guy whose guileless grin hit like a thunderbolt. Then he spoke, and it all went downhill — his voice was a bizarre mix of Sachin Tendulkar’s soft drawl and Michael Jackson’s high-pitched lilt. Although I was a die-hard MJ fan, I was gutted. Nope, not my vibe, despite my love for Jacko’s voice.

Jokes aside, all humans are creatures of habit. Our routine is sacrosanct, and so are our friends, family, and community. But what happens if this fragile thread of trust breaks? Much like the Garden of Eden, where roses bloom, you will find thorns. The past is engraved into our DNA as unspoken codes, known as epigenetic trauma.

Trauma from abuse and neglect creates CPTSD, unseen scars that affect both victims and future generations.

The Boomerang!

When you heal from an abusive childhood and CPTSD, it becomes imperative to find opportunities to recover through healthy gene expression by reversing toxic epigenetic patterns. My friend Bella has been through so much pain and trauma; it hurts her even as an adult. Her mother was a stunning single mother living in a small town who attracted many suitors. Unfortunately, she chose an unworthy man, a balding sadist whose charm concealed his vicious nature. Bella, barely 6 years old, immediately recognized that he was someone who made her uncomfortable—a predator in disguise. While her mother, blinded by love, saw his viciousness as humor and his control as love.

The False Pillars of Trust

We all lean on a support system, believing they’ll protect us. But pillars crumble, and Bella’s stepdad was no pillar. Meanwhile, her mother demanded that the siblings call him “Dad” before vows were even exchanged.

This situation resembles those who believe, “if you pretend it doesn’t exist, it will all just blow away!” The red flags were obvious if only her mother had opened her eyes.

The Predator’s Playground

One dusk, in her school playground, after everyone had left, the predator struck, forcing a humiliating punishment for being defiant. Right there before her “mother’s” eyes, he asked the 6-year-old Bella to roll down her pants and air her shame to the elements. If she didn’t abide by the ignominy, her ears would be boxed, taunted, or worse. So the scared little girl did so as speedily as she could, turning 360 degrees in a hurry, lest someone catch a glimpse of her unmentionables and laugh at her disgrace. The bald Lilliputian bully thought it was funny. As time rolled on, he proceeded to demean little Bella every day. So much so that she hated being around her mother or him. Then, finally, one day, the little girl put her foot down and threw a tantrum. As they say, bullies hate being called out.

And so that put a stop to the mortification for some time. But the tormentor found other ways to hurt her. The nightmare grew when he married her mother, finding new ways to subvert—locking up Bella, exploiting her fears and phobias, and thrashing her for minor mistakes. Her sibling stood by her, helpless but loyal, enduring the same.

Their mother never questioned. The sadist thrived on this pain; his cruelty became a twisted game. Bella grew moody and withdrawn, her childhood stolen by a man who cloaked perversion in parenting. Even when the siblings became adults, when he returned from his “overseas job,” his harassment evolved—unwelcome touches, suggestive innuendos, all disguised as fun. Relatives turned a blind eye, abetting the crime with silence. What is worse, we may ask—the predator or those who let him roam unchecked?

Pamela Calls Out the “Peeping Tom”

My friend Pam was eleven when she visited her hometown for a wedding. She stayed at her Uncle John’s mansion. Pam loved playing with her gang of little cousins, stirring mischief amid the wedding chaos. One day, while climbing the mansion roof, they caught her uncle John’s youngest son, Nathan, 16 and notorious, sprawled like a snake, peeping into a bathroom window. Pam’s outraged scream rallied the family, their racket drawing the aunts. Nathan was thrashed, his name forever tainted. Later visits to her uncle John’s had the women bathing with extra caution. Nathan’s married now, but do the ladies in the family trust him? Never.

Father Bob’s Redemption

All my life, I have been inspired by the Australian Roman Catholic priest Father Bob, or Robert John Maguire. He was no stranger to abuse and neglect. Born into poverty, his childhood reeked of alcohol and violence, his father’s fists bruising both mother and son. Orphaned by fifteen, losing his sister to tuberculosis at eleven, Father Bob carried scars deeper than flesh. Yet, those wounds didn’t break him; they forged a priest with a rebel’s heart, a champion for the forgotten. He was a man who turned pain into purpose, serving the marginalized with a fire no abuser could snuff out.

The Unending Trauma: An Anarchist’s Creed

Writing this cuts deep, so I shroud it, shielding the raw ache of my own memories. I’m familiar with darkness. As a paradox of pragmatism and rebellion, I always speak my mind. Life has taught me to confront truths. Scars make us realize that trust is earned. Bella’s challenging childhood didn’t break her; instead, she emerged strong, building a life filled with family, community, and a successful career. She learned to forgive—not just her abusers, but herself. Her journey mirrors that of Father Bob Maguire, whose upbringing in poverty and violence shaped him into an advocate for the marginalized. Both their experiences transformed pain into resilience and empathy.

Rewriting the Epigenetic Script

Epigenetic trauma is a silent phantom in our blood, passing pain across generations. Healing doesn’t erase these scars—it transmutes them, forging resilience, redemption, and forgiveness to break the cycle.

1. Awareness: Name the Ghost. Healing begins by confronting the past.

2. Re-regulating the Body: Alter your stress-related genes through meditation, exercise, and breathwork. This will ease anxiety and calm the nervous system.

3. Rewriting the Narrative: Change your story with therapy to transform from victim to survivor.

4. Crafting a New Epigenetic Landscape: When you regulate your lifestyle, you reshape your genes.

5. Breaking the Karmic Cycle: Exploring advocacy work can help. Many survivors of abuse and rape have found healing in the sharing of stories.

Final Thoughts: The Long Road Ahead

Intergenerational trauma is woven into our DNA through epigenetics and shapes who we become. Researchers have unpacked its neurobiological toll, offering sharp intellectual clarity. As for me, Mark Wolynn’s “It Didn’t Start with You” ignited my own CPTSD journey. Parents and children bear the physical, emotional, and psychological scars of past trauma, linked to disorders like depression, PTSD, and chronic fatigue syndrome.

Animal studies reveal early stress rewires brain regions like the hippocampus, impairing cognition. Science shows us that lifestyle and therapy can shift gene expression. You may not be able to erase your past but you can rewrite your story, and heal your darkest shadows for the generations that come after you. It is time to find your path—whether through art, expression, service, community, reading, or therapy—and rewrite your own destiny.

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.

References and sources:

NCBI

PMC

Psychology Today

Verywell Mind

Johns Hopkins Medicine

Photo by digitale.de 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/

Do I tell my parents?
Do they deserve to know what happened to me?
Would they believe me?
Would they hold it with care, or would it break me all over again?

If you’re here, standing in that in-between place, you’re not alone. This is one of the hardest crossroads survivors face. For some, the decision feels clear. For others, like me, it’s layered and ongoing.

Sometimes the abuse happened under your parents’ roof.
Sometimes it was hidden in plain sight.
And sometimes, you don’t even know if they know.

You might find yourself circling questions like:

• Do I owe them this truth?
• Will it bring healing or harm?
• What if they can’t hold it? What if they say the wrong thing, or nothing at all?
• What if I speak it and everything changes—or worse, nothing does?

The truth is, sharing your story with a parent is not required for healing. It is a choice. And like all sacred choices, it deserves time, care, and safety.

Ask Yourself These Questions First

Before deciding to disclose, here are a few grounding questions to sit with:

1. Why do I want to share this?
Is it for connection? Clarity? Validation? To reclaim power? To draw a boundary?
There is no wrong reason, but knowing your why can anchor you.

2. What do I hope will happen? What do I fear might happen?
Give yourself permission to answer both. Hope and fear can live side by side.

3. Have I processed this enough to hold steady if their response is hurtful, shocked, or dismissive?
If not, that’s okay. It may not be time yet.

4. Do I have support ready, a friend, therapist, or coach to debrief with afterward?
You are not meant to carry this alone, no matter how strong you are.

If You Do Choose to Share, Prepare Yourself First

Here are a few things that can help:

• Write down what you want to say.
  It can be a letter, a few bullet points, or a full narrative. Organizing your thoughts helps you stay grounded.
• Practice.
  Talk it through with someone you trust. Let your nervous system rehearse what it feels like to be witnessed.
• Set boundaries before the conversation.
  Say things like, “I just need you to listen right now,” or “I’m not looking for advice or debate.”
• Prepare for all outcomes.
  They may meet you with compassion, or they may not. Your truth is still valid.
• Have a plan for how to step away if needed.
  If things get overwhelming, you get to pause, end, or redirect the conversation.

And If You Decide Not to Tell Them? That’s Valid Too.

You do not owe anyone your story. Not even your family.

You can be deeply healing and wildly brave without ever telling your parents what happened.

Not telling doesn’t mean you’re hiding. It means you are choosing what is safest, kindest, and most aligned for you right now.

And if your answer changes later? That’s okay. This journey is not linear.

Final Thoughts

This part of your story, the telling, the not telling, the wondering, still belongs to you.

You don’t have to rush. You don’t need anyone’s permission. You get to honor your truth in whatever way feels right. You are not broken. You are becoming. And that is powerful.

As for me, I still haven’t shared my story with my parents.
They can’t even hold my warm memories without minimizing them, so I’ve chosen not to interrupt my peace just to be met with silence or dismissal. I may never get the response I would hope for, and that’s a grief I’ve learned to hold gently. For now, protecting my healing matters more than being understood by people who never truly saw me.

And maybe that’s the bravest choice of all.

Photo by Ioann-Mark Kuznietsov 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.

Danica Alison

Danica Alison is an optimist, deep thinker, and out-of-the-box adventurer who finds meaning in life’s chaos. She’s a writer, a healing advocate, and someone who believes healing is a journey best traveled with curiosity, humor, and a little bit of rebellious joy.
A lifelong lover of stories, both lived and told. She is passionate about exploring the messy, beautiful process of being human. Whether she’s writing, learning, or connecting with others, she brings a mix of warmth, honesty, and a refusal to fit into neat little boxes.

www.DanicaAlison.com

Eight years ago, I had the joy of connecting with Rebecca O’Donnell, author of Freak: The True Story of an Insecurity Addict. I immediately adored her fierceness, authenticity, and willingness to take on the tough corners of healing, bringing it all into the light!

We recently reconnected, and and I learned that she’s just published a new book for kids (or adults who need to re-parent their inner children!). Hurt Magic is a beautifully illustrated and powerful story of facing down both internal and external bullies – check it out!

I’m so excited that Rebecca was up for sharing a bit more about herself, her journey, and her healing!

Without further ado:

RACHEL: Can you tell us a little bit about you!?

REBECCA: I’m an Artist/Writer in New York. I used to teach Art Therapy at an abused children’s home. I was good at it because I was one of them. Physical, sexual, mental, and emotional abuse. I told the kids, “You have a manure pile of memories. Nothing you can do about that. Now, you can drown in the stink or turn it into compost and grow a garden. I wouldn’t be nearly as good a teacher for you if I didn’t have an idea of what you’ve been through.” It’s tough battling the self-hatred and insecurity which comes with surviving these horrors, but man, is it worth it. You’re worth the fight.


RACHEL: What inspired you to start writing about/exploring this topic?

REBECCA: I was seeing a therapist to help me with my traumatic amnesia, and she suggested I start writing a journal. I hated it. So one day, I just started rambling into the computer. Before I knew it, I had 150 pages. Took a while for my therapist to talk me into letting her see it, haha! But then she told me I should expand it into a memoir. One of my readers asked me to combine both my art and writing into a children’s book for abused and/or bullied kids. An abuse survivor herself, she hadn’t found any children’s books that inspired her. So I did. Helping others is a multi-faceted blessing. You help others who need it, and that sharing of your own kindness heals you as well. The way I see it, if you want to feel worthy, do something worthwhile. Even holding the door for someone or complimenting somebody is something worthwhile. Baby steps are still steps. 


RACHEL: What key insights or lessons have you learned through your experiences with this subject?

REBECCA: That there are far, far more of us than even I imagined. I don’t think there are more predators and abusers than ever; I think people are speaking out more, so their filth is getting dragged into the light. And that is a magnificent, hope-filled miracle. Courage is contagious, and we’re nobody’s dirty little secret.


RACHEL: What challenges or misconceptions do you think people face when dealing with this topic, and how can they overcome them?

REBECCA: The biggest mindfrak our abusers do to us is to convince us that we’re ruined, dirty, rancid, etc, because of what they did to us. I told my mom about my dad attacking me immediately after that first time. Her response was, “If you didn’t flirt with him, he wouldn’t do it.” This is all too common. I was a child, her child, and she blamed me for somehow causing it.

People stare at me like a deer in headlights nowadays when I tell them I was sexually abused. Many get angry. “People don’t talk about that in public.” Why not? I was such a basket case for half my life because I believed that nonsense. I even tried to kill myself because the weight of feeling dirty, stupid, and weak was crushing me.

Insecurity is my addiction, and around 15 years ago, I started treating it like a substance addiction. I did self love exercises (which I violently opposed for months when I first began) every day, stopped my abusive inner voice from slamming into me 24/7, quit telling body shaming jokes about myself to others (I was hilarious and could always get a laugh, which outwardly fed me and inwardly crushed me because they were laughing that I was fat and ugly) and every night I’d say, “Good night beautiful mind, good night beautiful body, good night beautiful spirit.” Didn’t believe a word of it for six months. I was that deeply addicted to hating myself. But persistent repetition is key. That’s the only thing that’s worked for me.

Keep at it, even as your inner voice screams “LIAR!!” at you. I love myself now, no longer blinded by shi*-colored glasses or rosy denial ones. Clear lens now, and clear-eyed. But I’m an insecurity addict. If I stop doing my self love exercises, I can feel myself sliding back into the that self abusing cruelty I weirdly miss. That’s how I know it’s a behavioral addiction. Let me tell you, it’s a lot of work, but becoming your own soulmate is astonishing. So go for it.


RACHEL:  Are there any common myths or misunderstandings about this topic that you’d like to address?

REBECCA:

“What were you wearing that set him off?

“Why didn’t you just say no?”

“Why didn’t you tell somebody?”

“Why didn’t you fight?”

“You’re no good in bed because you’re so damaged.”

“You’re great in bed because you’re so damaged.”

“Why did you ever have kids? Statistically, you’re going to abuse them too.”

All these questions are abusive but usually stem from ignorance, not cruelty. Most of the world is blind. Recognize that truth. The way I see it, I wouldn’t get mad at a blind person because they can’t see me. So it’s okay to educate people. One time, I did a lecture on the subject of incest and the damage it causes, and a group of people came up to talk to me afterwards. A man, obviously trying to make a joke, laughed, “Incest is best, a game the whole family can play!” I asked, “Do you play it with your daughter?” He attacked me. People had to pull him off. I talked to him later, and it turned out he’d been abused as a kid, so he instantly saw red from my reply. If people have a complete freak-out like that, there’s usually a big hidden wound there. Don’t take it personally.


RACHEL: What resources, tools, or next steps would you recommend for readers who want to dive deeper into this topic?

REBECCA: When I was first writing my memoir, I had to put things into chronological order, then gauge my age at each time. I looked at photos of myself and was truly startled by how little I was. I found that putting stuff into chronological order, no matter how hard it was to write it down (I puked, had panic attacks, and sweated like a horse, woke up from nightmares), I had to do it for the book. I’d scrawl a couple of sentences or paragraphs, then shove it in a drawer until I could bear to look at it again. It was a revelation. When I first wrote the words, I was super emotional, devastated, and angry at myself for “letting it happen.” But when I pulled those pages out again, it was a completely different feeling. I felt compassion for her. She was just a kid. I was just a kid. And that helped me begin to see the truth. I’m not a piece of shi*. I never was. It was always a lie.

—
I hope you will take something for yourself today from Rebecca’s story and wisdom! I know I did! 🙂


To the magic of healing!

P.S. If you’re ready to take the next step in healing from abuse and would like to explore enrolling in the Beyond Surviving program, start by applying for a Discover Your Genuine Self Session.

Photo by Clay Banks 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.

Rachel Grant

Rachel Grant is the owner and founder of Rachel Grant Coaching and is a Sexual Abuse Recovery Coach and M.A. in Counseling Psychology. She is also the author of Beyond Surviving: The Final Stage in Recovery from Sexual Abuse.  Based on her educational training, study of neuroscience, and lessons learned from her own journey, she has successfully used the Beyond Surviving Program since 2007 to help survivors of childhood sexual abuse who are beyond sick and tired of feeling broken and unfixable break free from the pain of abuse and finally move on with their lives.

www.rachelgrantcoaching.com

But the grief is still there. Quiet. Confusing. All-consuming. It lingers in the silence. It whispers in the questions. It pulses through the ache of “what could have been” and “what should have been.” And the hardest part? Much of this grief doesn’t have a clear source, an ending, or even a name.

This kind of grief is often called ambiguous loss. It’s what Dr. Pauline Boss describes as a loss that’s unclear, without closure. For those of us healing from complex trauma and childhood abuse, ambiguous loss is everywhere. We grieve things that are hard to define, like the version of ourselves we never got to be, the family we pretended we had, or the safety we told ourselves existed. It’s the pain of losing something that may not have ever truly been there.

There’s the grief of the childhood you didn’t get. Maybe you’ve spent years trying to convince yourself it “wasn’t that bad” or that others “had it worse.” But at some point, in healing, you start to see the cracks. You begin to understand what should have been. You realize that while other kids were being nurtured, protected, and celebrated, you were surviving. That grief runs deep. It’s mourning the little you who was robbed of joy and innocence, without ever realizing it at the time.

Then there’s the grief of the dreams you used to have. Maybe you imagined a life full of love, or a version of success that made it all feel worth it. And now? Now you’re sorting through the wreckage of expectations that were built on survival. You’re letting go of the hope that healing would look a certain way, or that life would one day “make sense.” The grief of unmet dreams isn’t dramatic or cinematic. It’s often quiet. A slow unraveling. A daily reckoning with reality.

And finally, there’s the grief of rebuilding. Starting over, not from scratch, but from scar tissue. Piecing together a new identity after realizing the one you had was shaped by trauma. There’s grief in that too. Grief in the loss of illusion. In the loneliness of transformation. In the deep fatigue that comes from carrying your story and choosing to heal anyway.

So, how do we heal grief like this?

First, we name it. You can’t grieve what you haven’t acknowledged. Maybe it feels silly to mourn something that “wasn’t real” but your body remembers the absence. Your heart knows what it needed and didn’t get. Naming that loss validates it.

Then, we give ourselves permission to mourn. Really mourn. Cry, write, rage, go quiet. There’s no right way to grieve. No rule book. Grief is not a problem to solve. It’s a process to move through with care.

Ritual can help too. It might feel awkward at first, but creating space to honor what’s been lost matters. Light a candle for your inner child. Write a goodbye letter to the version of you that stayed silent. Say out loud the dream you thought would save you. It doesn’t need to be grand. It just needs to be honest.

As we grieve, we start to reimagine who we are becoming. This part is slow and fragile and fierce all at once. We learn to build an identity rooted in truth, not survival. We stop asking who others want us to be and begin asking, “Who do I want to become now?”

And maybe most importantly, we find others who get it. The kind of grief that comes with trauma is lonely. But it doesn’t have to stay that way. When we share our stories, something shifts. We are no longer invisible. We are seen. And when we’re seen, we heal a little more.

Grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes it shows up as exhaustion. Or numbness. Or the quiet ache of realizing that the past cannot be changed, but the future is still yours to shape.

If you are grieving a childhood, you never got…
If you are mourning a dream that never came true…
If you are piecing your life back together, one scarred fragment at a time…

You’re not broken. You’re in process. And that, dear friend, is brave, meaningful work.

A Personal Note:
I didn’t fully understand this kind of grief until I was in it. Until I found myself mourning things I couldn’t even name. If you’re in that space too, I just want you to know that you are not alone. This isn’t the kind of grief most people talk about, but it’s real. And it deserves tenderness. You are worthy of healing, of rebuilding, and of a life that feels like it finally belongs to you. Take your time. Hold your heart gently. You’re doing work that matters.

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.

Danica Alison

Danica Alison is an optimist, deep thinker, and out-of-the-box adventurer who finds meaning in life’s chaos. She’s a writer, a healing advocate, and someone who believes healing is a journey best traveled with curiosity, humor, and a little bit of rebellious joy.
A lifelong lover of stories, both lived and told. She is passionate about exploring the messy, beautiful process of being human. Whether she’s writing, learning, or connecting with others, she brings a mix of warmth, honesty, and a refusal to fit into neat little boxes.

www.DanicaAlison.com

At first, I tried to push them back in, trying to make them fit into the version of my life I had always known. But no matter how much I willed them away, they kept coming—not in full, cohesive scenes, but in flashes, in body sensations, in a deep, unshakable knowing that left me questioning everything.

And that’s when the real battle began.

The Shock of Remembering

Nothing prepares you for the moment your own mind turns against you. One day, you think you know yourself. The next, you are drowning in memories that do not feel like yours but somehow are.

It feels impossible. Unbelievable. Like something you might have read in a book but never expected to happen in your own life. And yet, there it is.

For me, the shock came with a mix of emotions I did not know how to handle. Grief for the childhood I thought I had. Rage that my brain had kept this from me. Terror that if this was true, then nothing in my life had ever been what I thought it was.

And then came the worst question of all: What if I’m making this up?

The “Am I Making This Up?” Spiral

If you have been here, you know the loop.

• Why now?
• Wouldn’t I have always remembered if it were real?
• What if I’m just looking for attention?
• What if I planted this idea in my own head somehow?

I wrestled with these thoughts constantly, dissecting every memory fragment, analyzing every feeling, desperate for proof that would make it undeniable. But that proof never came in the way I wanted.

Instead, my body became the evidence. The panic that gripped me in certain situations. The way I froze at a touch, I should have been able to tolerate. The overwhelming nausea, the shaking, the way my mind wanted to flee even when I was safe.

My body had always known, even when my mind did not.

But the doubts were relentless. There were moments when I was certain I had broken completely, that I was unraveling, that soon I would not be able to trust a single thought inside my own head. I had been sure of my past once. If that could change, then what else was not real?

When the World Feels Unreal

One of the hardest things about repressed memories resurfacing is how they shatter your sense of reality. Everything becomes uncertain: your past, your identity, your relationships. And if you are anything like me, you crave certainty. You want someone to confirm what you remember, to tell you it is real, to give you something solid to stand on.

But most of the time, that doesn’t happen.

I started second-guessing everything. I would stare at old photos of myself as a child, looking for signs in my own eyes. Did I look happy? Did I look scared? Could I have been hiding something even from myself?

And then there were the nightmares. The ones that left me gasping for breath, the ones where I woke up drenched in sweat, my body aching in ways I could not explain. My mind tried to tell me they were just dreams, but my body told a different story. The fear, the disgust, the panic. It was real.

I had to learn how to exist in the in-between, to trust myself even when I had doubts. To accept that my brain had done what it needed to do to protect me and that just because I didn’t remember for decades didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

The Despair of Not Knowing

No one talks enough about the despair. The way it can swallow you whole. When you start remembering pieces of something so unthinkable, its weight is unbearable.

I remember curling up in bed, unable to move, unable to function, my mind replaying the same thoughts on a loop.

“This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
But what if it is?
What if I’m losing my mind?
What if I’m just broken?“

Nothing shakes your sense of reality like waking up one day and realizing your past is no longer what you thought it was.

I would search my memories for signs, clues, anything that would either validate or disprove what I was starting to uncover. But memory does not work like that. It does not arrive neatly, in perfect order, with timestamps and witnesses. It drips in, slowly, sometimes violently, and often without warning.

And then came the darkest thoughts.

“What if I’m making this up because I want an excuse for my struggles?
What if I’m just broken beyond repair?“

I became convinced I was unraveling, that I would wake up one day completely lost inside my own head. The fear was not just about what had happened to me; it was about whether I could ever trust myself again.

The Darkness That Almost Swallowed Me

The grief was unbearable. It was not just about the memories. It was the loss of the life I thought I had. The childhood I had once cherished now felt like a dream I had woken up from too late.

And the worst part? There was no one to validate it for me. No way to prove or disprove what my brain was screaming at me.

There were days I couldn’t breathe under its weight. Days I wondered if I would ever feel normal again. Days I thought maybe it would be easier if I just disappeared.

This is the part people don’t talk about. The way the pain can feel so heavy that it drags you under. The way remembering doesn’t feel like healing at first. It feels like dying.

Grounding Through the Chaos

If you are in this place, if your world feels like it is cracking open, and you do not know how to hold the pieces, I want you to know you are not alone. And you are not broken.

Here are some things that helped me (and might help you, too):

• Validate your emotions, even when you doubt your memories. Your feelings are real, no matter what.
• Find safe people to talk to. Whether it is a therapist, a coach, a support group, or trusted friends, do not do this alone.
• Ground yourself in the present. When the past tries to pull you under, remind yourself that you are here, now. Feet on the floor. Breathe in your lungs. Safe.
• Give yourself permission to not have all the answers. Healing is not about proving what happened. It is about reclaiming yourself.

You Are Still You

When the past cracks open, it can feel like you are losing yourself. But you are not. You are still you. Maybe even more than you have ever been.

I won’t pretend this journey is easy. It is disorienting, painful, and sometimes feels impossible. But you are not alone. You do not have to have every answer to start healing.

Your story matters. Your pain is real. And you deserve to heal, whether the world ever sees your truth or not.

You Are Not Crazy. You Are Remembering.

If you are here, in the middle of the storm, feeling like you might not make it out, I need you to hear this.

You are not broken. You are not making this up. You are not crazy.

Your brain protected you the best way it knew how. And now, it is giving you back what you are ready to hold.

You do not have to remember everything to heal. You do not have to prove anything to be worthy of support.

Your pain is real. And you are not alone.

Hold on, friend, even when it feels impossible. Hold on.

Because the other side of this? It’s worth it. And so are you.

Photo by Vincent Burkhead 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.

Danica Alison

Danica Alison is an optimist, deep thinker, and out-of-the-box adventurer who finds meaning in life’s chaos. She’s a writer, a healing advocate, and someone who believes healing is a journey best traveled with curiosity, humor, and a little bit of rebellious joy.
A lifelong lover of stories, both lived and told. She is passionate about exploring the messy, beautiful process of being human. Whether she’s writing, learning, or connecting with others, she brings a mix of warmth, honesty, and a refusal to fit into neat little boxes.

www.DanicaAlison.com