CPTSD Survivor Stories | CPTSDfoundation.org https://cptsdfoundation.org The Foundation for Post-Traumatic Healing and Complex Trauma Research Mon, 13 Apr 2026 12:45:13 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 https://cptsdfoundation.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/cropped-Daily-Recovery-Support-Globe-iPad-Fav-32x32.png CPTSD Survivor Stories | CPTSDfoundation.org https://cptsdfoundation.org 32 32 When Being “Good” Hurts: The Doormat Syndrome https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/04/13/when-being-good-hurts-the-doormat-syndrome/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/04/13/when-being-good-hurts-the-doormat-syndrome/#respond Mon, 13 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987502950 Setting Boundaries and Protecting Your Peace of Mind:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is a lasting impact of early approval‐seeking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credit: Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/04/13/when-being-good-hurts-the-doormat-syndrome/feed/ 0 The Journey of Recovery – Why Some Heal Faster: Uncovering the Factors Behind PTSD Recovery https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/03/19/the-journey-of-recovery-why-some-heal-faster-uncovering-the-factors-behind-ptsd-recovery/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/03/19/the-journey-of-recovery-why-some-heal-faster-uncovering-the-factors-behind-ptsd-recovery/#respond Thu, 19 Mar 2026 10:00:00 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987502896

Like many of you, dear readers, I have had certain experiences that led to CPTSD. At one point in my life, my CPTSD had become so overwhelming that I struggled to speak and eat normally, and there were times when I would stutter as a result. Before I got the right diagnosis and finally met a PTSD specialist, I was often misdiagnosed. I was told that I was too sensitive, too emotional, and overreacting.

All these judgments and criticisms made me feel worse about myself. Getting the right diagnosis was a big relief for me. And working with that doctor, a specialist in trauma recovery, helped. Because in all the years before, I was a real specialist in “running away” from situations.

But in this article here today, I want to focus on something much more uplifting: the journey of healing and recovery. I believe it’s important to talk about what helps, what heals, and what inspires us to keep moving forward. My hope is that by sharing these insights, people will find comfort and encouragement on their own path to healing.

Have you ever wondered why some people seem to recover more quickly from PTSD than others?

I certainly have. After being diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD) and desperate to make my panic attacks stop, I not only worked with a specialized trauma therapist but also read extensively on PTSD to gather as much information as possible.

Sometimes I even found myself arguing with my doctor, asking, “Why does recovery take so long?”

Here is what I learned:

Factor #1: Age at the Time of Trauma
One crucial factor in why some people recover faster than others is their age when the trauma occurred.
Children’s brains and nervous systems are still developing, so when trauma strikes early in life, the younger the child, the deeper and more lasting the impact can be. In contrast, a fully grown adult with a mature nervous system is affected differently by the same event. Therefore, an adult can recover more quickly.

Additionally, an adult has the knowledge and life experience to react and respond effectively in many situations, whereas a child naturally feels overwhelmed and scared because they cannot defend themselves physically and lack that experience. Consequently, the same event is far more traumatizing for a child than for an adult.

This is why trauma in early childhood leaves deeper scars on the nervous system, making recovery take longer and requiring deliberate work with a therapist. Early-life trauma embeds deeper neural and physiological changes because a child’s brain and stress-regulation systems are still developing. These “molecular scars” can be seen in altered gene-expression patterns and circuitry long after the event.

Factor #2: Physical vs. Psychological Wounds
The second factor behind differences in recovery is the nature of the trauma itself. Physical traumas, such as childhood abuse or serious accidents, involve direct bodily harm, embedding deep physiological and emotional wounds. Physical traumas create both somatic and emotional wounds, driving lasting dysregulation in stress-response pathways. Psychological traumas, on the other hand, do not cause a physical injury and are often easier to process and heal.

Factor #3: Cumulative Effects of Trauma
The third factor involves the frequency and accumulation of traumatic events. When situations are repeated or new traumas build on top of earlier ones, they often lead to CPTSD, whereas recovering from a single event is generally easier.

Factor #4: The Importance of Early Support
Another important factor influencing the recovery process is how quickly the person accessed help, emotional support, and a safe environment after the traumatic events. Many children receive no help and suffer in silence for years. Only later, as adults, can they seek support and find a qualified trauma therapist.

This is why, when people say they have PTSD, they may be referring to entirely different experiences. I always ask about their age at the time of the trauma, the nature and frequency of the events, and other pertinent details, since these factors reveal whether recovery will take more or less time.

One example: Relearning Safety and Presence – no longer running away. This was a big one for me to learn. Although most people find it simple, with CPTSD I had to relearn how to feel safe and stay fully present in the here and now – a “simple” skill that’s incredibly hard to master for those of us with CPTSD.

🌿These are just some basic insights to get started. I’ll write more about this in the future.


As always, as with all my articles, my hope is that what I share may encourage others on their path of life.
Feel free to reach out if you have any questions – I’m always happy to share what I’ve learned on my journey.

💗 With love, Jeanne

Photo Credit: Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/03/19/the-journey-of-recovery-why-some-heal-faster-uncovering-the-factors-behind-ptsd-recovery/feed/ 0 The Hidden Legacy of Relational Trauma: Breaking Free from Codependency and Complex PTSD https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/19/the-hidden-legacy-of-relational-trauma-breaking-free-from-codependency-and-complex-ptsd/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/19/the-hidden-legacy-of-relational-trauma-breaking-free-from-codependency-and-complex-ptsd/#comments Thu, 19 Feb 2026 11:00:00 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987502674 I have often been asked why I am an outspoken writer, willing to tackle thorny and difficult issues well beyond my usual scope of mystical interest. In an era of stifling correctness that governs much of the media, it would be career-savvy to “stay in my lane.” So why do I speak out? As with most human phenomena, the answer lies in my genetic wiring as a free thinker, unabashedly opposed to groupthink, and my personal history shaped by neglect, abandonment, and relational wounds. The ideals that drive me are love, freedom, and truth; any attack on these standards feels like an existential crucible.

Those in the complex trauma community, especially myself, are well aware that childhood interpersonal relationships set the stage for toxic patterns like codependency—experiences that echo and intensify those childhood violations of safety and worth.

The Onset of Abuse and Humiliation

My own childhood was marked by toxic parenting and relational trauma, beginning at age 6 when my mother remarried. Soon after, life became a living nightmare as I endured the hardships of neglect, physical and emotional abuse, displacement from home, and a dysfunctional family history. These violations of dignity and safety created deep anguish, instability from neglect, issues with self-worth, fear of abandoment and shame for being who I am.

Confronting the Pain and Building Resilience

Withdrawal, hypervigilance, and distrust are core elements of CPTSD that linger into adulthood.

I first wrote about these experiences in the third person to keep some emotional distance. Facing them directly now shows how this long-lasting relationship trauma shaped my ability to bounce back, along with a practical side that wanted to heal my emotional wounds.

Toxic Patterns  

Strangely, in my line of work, I frequently encounter women—and men—who seem determined to prove they are unworthy of healthy, reciprocal love. They repeat cycles of painful relationship choices, often returning to dynamics that echo earlier wounds. Because early life shapes how you view love. While it is tempting to simply blame “a bad childhood,” unresolved CPTSD frequently plants the seeds for these patterns.

What Codependency Looks Like

Unhealed trauma often leads to codependency: a pattern where people put others’ needs first, ignore their own needs, and look for approval by trying to fix, please, or take care of others—often in unfair, one-sided, or even toxic relationships.

Ego and the Marriage Trap: A Cautionary Tale

I hold firmly to the belief that each of us carries an innate code of ethics—an internal compass distinguishing right from wrong. Despite the depth of my own childhood pain, I have never intentionally harmed another person emotionally or physically, and I never will if I can help it.

Consider the messy marriage of my friend Rene. Her husband Charles had a shall we say, ”momma” complex bordering on unhealthy attachment to a narcissistic parent. Everything he did was with the intention of seeking her approval. So tied was he to his mother’s apron strings that the marriage suffered.

Both partners were stubborn and ego-driven; together, they were a disaster waiting to happen. They walked on eggshells around each other, clashed constantly, and allowed “mother-in-law” interference, financial stress, and family pressure to widen the rift. A few years after his mom’s passing, Charles became a victim of a deadly disease.

Yet, despite Rene nursing her husband through the debilitating disease—a moment one might expect to cultivate closeness—nothing really changed. They ended up living in separate parts of the same house. Her once-vibrant self-respect eroded into a chronic state of pessimism and fear. Individually, both were decent people; together, their colliding egos poisoned the bond. While pride and stonewalling create isolation in relationships, it is vulnerability and love that disarm conflict.

The Poison of Unresolved Anger: Paulina’s Story

Hatred and prolonged anger corrode the body and mind. My friend Paulina endured severe childhood sexual abuse from a cousin at age 9 and buried it deeply. At 21, she entered an abusive marriage, enduring beatings and infidelity while pregnant, all for the sake of her child. When she discovered the cheating, her rage erupted. She divorced, fought in court, and won a substantial settlement, becoming financially independent overnight.

Years later, Paulina met a genuinely kind, loving man. Yet she could not fully receive his love—unresolved rage, fear, and shame blocked her. Despite my encouragement to focus on the present, she felt compelled to seek confrontation and closure with her childhood abuser. Traveling to her remote village, we discovered the abuser had passed away. The news brought a partial release: she no longer needed to confront him. But the man who had waited patiently for her had, under family pressure, married someone else. Heartbroken but ultimately free from the grip of hatred, she continues to seek true love, and I hold hope for her.

The Deeper Message in The Pain

These experiences—my own childhood, Rene ’s marriage, Paulina ’s journey—illustrate how unhealed trauma fuels codependent habits. It increases patterns of chronic people-pleasing, blurred boundaries, attracting or remaining with unhealthy partners, and attempting to “repair” old wounds through current relationships.

Recognizing the Signs of Trauma

Trauma from codependent dynamics often shows up as persistent feelings of unworthiness, hyper-responsibility for others’ emotions, chronic anxiety in relationships, and a deep fear of abandonment. Survivors may struggle with self-trust, feel empty when alone, or experience physical symptoms such as tension, digestive issues, or exhaustion from the constant emotional upheavals.

Common warning signs include:

  • Martyr Syndrome. Over-focusing on a partner’s needs while ignoring your own.
  • Saviour complex: Feeling responsible for fixing or controlling their behavior.
  • Abandonment issues: Intense fear of rejection that leads to bending backwards in excessive compromise
  • Toxicity: Attracting or staying in unbalanced, abusive relationships
  • Chronic resentment, suppressed anger, or emotional numbness.
  • Difficulty saying “no” without overwhelming guilt.

The Secrecy of Silence

Many remain silent about codependent patterns due to profound shame. Thinking they seem “too needy” or “defective”, fear that speaking up will lead to abandonment, or the internalized belief that enduring pain proves love and loyalty. This enforced silence keeps the trauma cycle alive while ingraining powerlessness.

Codependency can both originate from and increase CPTSD. Childhood relational wounds condition you for adult trauma bonding, where love feels conditional. The constant relational strain magnifies toxic shame and emotional flashbacks, reinforcing feelings of unworthiness and isolation. Understanding this link to codependency is a core part of CPTSD recovery.

Healing the Inner Child.

Healing begins with turning toward the wounded inner child with the compassion that was missing in the past. Through gentle practices such as inner-child visualization, therapeutic writing, somatic grounding, or mirror work, survivors can offer themselves the self-validation, safety, and unconditional acceptance they were once denied. Re-parenting oneself involves setting healthy boundaries, practicing self-soothing, and gradually rebuilding self-worth independent of external approval.

The Bottom Line: Finding Help is the First Step to Healing and Recovery

Trauma-Informed Steps for Support and Healing for Survivors:

  • Validate your experience: The patterns were survival strategies, not character flaws.
  • Practice boundary-setting: Start small—say “no” without explanation or apology.
  • Regulate the nervous system: Use breathwork, grounding exercises, or body scans to interrupt dysregulation.
  • Seek specialized support: Work with therapists trained in complex trauma, attachment, or codependency (e.g., using EMDR, IFS, or somatic approaches).
  • Cultivate self-compassion: Use daily affirmations rooted in truth (“I am worthy of mutual, respectful love”).

CPTSD Foundation offers daily support, trauma-informed resources, blogs, and safe communities to help heal from childhood relational trauma and codependency. Explore attachment wounds, neurodiversity, and practical strategies to reduce isolation and rebuild your life.

Your pain is valid. Healing isn’t linear—every small act of self-kindness builds resilience and opens the door to real connection. You’re worthy of peace, mutual love, and full recovery. Help is available—reach out.

Support

Helplines and Immediate Support: If you are in crisis or need urgent support:

References and sources:

Photo by DICSON on Unsplash

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

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/19/the-hidden-legacy-of-relational-trauma-breaking-free-from-codependency-and-complex-ptsd/feed/ 4 There is Life After Hidden Abuse https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/16/there-is-life-after-hidden-abuse/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/16/there-is-life-after-hidden-abuse/#comments Mon, 16 Feb 2026 11:00:00 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987502730

Writer’s Note: I previously wrote about my experience being a victim of psychological abuse. Two years from my first writing, I find myself in a much better place in my recovery, and I want to share new insights. I also want to recommend a book by Shannon Thomas that greatly impacted my life. 

I’d had enough of the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles and decided it was time to escape to a simpler place to clear my mind. With a long weekend approaching, I booked a shipping container on a farm in California’s wine country. As I drove through the rolling hills and sun-soaked vineyards of Central California, I finally started to relax. This weekend was for me and me alone. 

At the top of my weekend to-do list was unpacking an Amazon package containing a book I had been itching to read: Healing from Hidden Abuse by Shannon Thomas. I had read dozens of other books in search of clarity regarding a specific trauma from high school and college that still inhabited my body, but none had provided the understanding I was seeking. Little did I know that within this little package lay the answers I had been desperately searching for. 

What is psychological abuse? 

Psychological abuse is a sophisticated form of brainwashing, stalking, and mind control. The perpetrator(s) deliberately selects a target and employs subtle and strategic methods of coercion, intimidation, and manipulation, gradually wearing down the victim’s mental state without leaving any evidence. Due to its covert nature, when the victim speaks up to ask for help, she is often not believed and is labeled to be the “crazy” one. Meanwhile, the abusers walk away with no blood on their hands.  

Psychological abuse is not limited to romantic relationships or parent-child dynamics. I didn’t seek it out, nor did I cause it. It didn’t happen in my home, and it wasn’t the result of a silly conflict with a boyfriend. It happened at school, where I became the target of covert bullying by two individuals–twin sisters. They used me as a measuring stick for their academic success, believing that if they could extinguish my bright light, it would make them appear more successful in comparison. 

My abusers were deranged. They had a sick obsession with identifying my internal weaknesses, insecurities, and fears. They weaponized this information against me, attacking me where it hurt the most. Over time, they eroded everything that mattered in my life: my relationships with family and friends, my love for learning, my sense of safety, and my innate zest for life as an empath. And they did it all in a way where not a single soul would notice. Except for me.

A silent murder: no words to describe the pain

To explain what psychological abuse feels like to someone who has never experienced it, I would compare it to what the prisoners endured in the Stanford Prison Experiment of 1971. It felt as though I was curled up into a tight ball, starving in a solitary confinement cell of my own mind, body, psyche, and soul. My abusers and their “flying monkeys” would occasionally pass by my cell, gawk at my suffering through the narrow window slit with smirks on their faces, and dangle a carrot in front of me to taunt me. I would crawl closer and closer to the carrot with my trembling hand extended, but at the last second, they would rip it back through the window slit and walk away laughing, leaving me to starve again in the darkness. 

Though I had seemingly more significant traumas to recover from, I wrestled for years with post-traumatic stress symptoms related to these bullies. My abusers took over my mind uncontrollably. I couldn’t clearly describe what they had done to me. My reality had been distorted. Even after they were long gone, they continued to dictate what I did, said, and thought. I was utterly terrified of them. I avoided anyone and anything that might remind me of them or trigger flashbacks related to their abuse. This avoidance grew exponentially over the years, and I ultimately lost everything from my hometown because of them. I didn’t trust anyone anymore. I couldn’t even trust myself.

Misdiagnosed, misunderstood, and revictimized

It takes someone who has survived psychological abuse to truly understand its impact on the mind, body, psyche, and soul. Throughout their time tormenting me, my abusers caused me to end up in the hospital numerous times. I learned the hard way that most mental health professionals do not understand psychological abuse and mind control, which can lead to further gaslighting of the victim. The medical providers labeled me with schizophrenic and psychotic diagnoses and injected various anti-psychotics to calm me down. While these short-term treatments numbed and tranquilized me, the long-term effects of the abrupt medication changes only created more side effects after each discharge.  

I didn’t see any improvement with a therapeutic approach either. The fact that my experience stemmed from school bullying, rather than in a romantic or familial context, made mental health professionals take it even less seriously. I was laughed at, misdiagnosed, and dismissed as overthinking, paranoid, hysterical, even obsessed. 

Some professionals took things even further. Being upfront about my Stockholm Syndrome reactions to the abuse, including suicidal ideation, got me in trouble. Multiple professionals diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder and ordered me to be institutionalized. Another diagnosed me with Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly Multiple Personality Disorder), suggesting that my perpetrators were one of my “alters.” He convinced me that my abusers weren’t real people but rather figments of my imagination, and then spent three months brainwashing me into communicating with numerous other alters he fabricated. If the psychological abuse hadn’t already done enough crazymaking, these medical providers, who groomed me to fulfill their own sick agendas, made me feel even more insane. 

Topo Chicos and Central California cafés 

Sitting at a quaint café in Paso Robles, California, I was at my wit’s end. My body couldn’t take it anymore. I ordered a Topo Chico, poured it over a glass of ice, and began reading Healing from Hidden Abuse. 

I had only planned to read the first couple of chapters and then get on with my day, but three Topo Chicos and a multitude of tears later, I had finished the book cover to cover. 

I sat there in awe. I did not know this woman, and she certainly didn’t know me. But she understood me. It was like she had written the book specifically for me. In that moment, she was sitting across the coffee table, holding my hand and wiping away my tears, reassuring me that one day everything would be okay.

This was in the summer of 2022. Over the next two years, I reread the book four times and listened to the audiobook on repeat during long drives. At the time, I was still living in California, but I noticed in Shannon’s bio at the end of the book that she was a counselor in the metroplex of my hometown. I knew in my heart that one day, I would meet the woman who validated what I had been through.

Deprogramming and recalibration

Fast forward to 2024, and I found myself living on the outskirts of my hometown. I reached out to Shannon and was accepted as her client. 

Meeting with Shannon was my saving grace. As I stepped into her office, I was terrified to face yet another mental health professional who might revictimize me. But the moment I entered her office, I felt a warmth that I hadn’t experienced in any therapist’s office before. The Christmas decorations filled me with a childlike joy, and the Diet Coke from the mini-fridge was so refreshing. 

In her book, Shannon guides readers through the six stages of recovery from psychological abuse. It’s safe to say that I had been stuck in Stage 1–the Despair stage–for many years. When therapy began, I could barely articulate what had been done to me. I was dissociated, overmedicated, and sleep-deprived.

Additionally, I was still concerned I might be The Girl Who Cried Wolf. In a world where the words narcissist, sociopath, and psychopath are thrown around carelessly, I felt guilty for calling myself a victim. Was I no different from all the tone-deaf TikTokers who sling these labels onto the slightest person who annoys them?

From despair to restoration

Shannon assured me I wasn’t overthinking anything and that my pain was valid. With patience and empathy, she began walking me through the stages of recovery. 

At that time, I was still meeting with several other therapists and psychiatrists across different parts of the state, along with multiple hospital visits, including what would become my final suicide hold of my life. In environments where my suffering continued to be pathologized, Shannon listened with open ears and didn’t add fuel to the fire.

My recovery process from psychological abuse, both in therapy and on my own, felt like I was deprogramming from a cult. My body had to recalibrate itself, and my mind needed to register that I was no longer in danger. But I didn’t want to spend any more time rehashing and ruminating about what had been done to me; I had already endured enough of that in my head for years. While I did some of this with Shannon, and it was necessary at first, the real work was in reclaiming my power.  

What Shannon did so well in our work together was fast-track my healing to what she identifies as the Restoration phase (Stage 6) of recovery. I took active steps to begin rebuilding a life of peace and contentment. She encouraged me to get colorful decorations for my blank apartment walls, take on part-time jobs to have social interaction during my recovery, and get a little bit of exercise each day. Therapy became an opportunity to create a beautiful painting from a blank canvas. 

Taking my power back

The panic attacks, crying spells, and paramedic visits are long gone. I no longer have emotions attached to the abuse. The only things that remain are the visual and auditory remnants of the trauma, in the form of flashbacks, and I won’t stop until they are eradicated as well.  

Because of what the twins did to me, I have unlocked an internal strength I didn’t know I had. During my healing process, I discovered that my abusers were ten thousand times more afraid of me than I ever was of them. I was not targeted because I am weak; I was targeted because of my strengths. I was targeted because I possess the very qualities that my abusers never will. While they had me fooled for quite some time, with a clearer head and a restored subconscious, I can finally see them for the con artists they truly are.

It is possible to recover from the crazymaking

Survivors, if no mental health professional has given you this validation, I hope you can hear it from me: You are not crazy; you were just damaged by crazy. You are not sick; you were just injured by truly sick people. You do not have a personality disorder or any other extreme diagnosis as a result of what you’ve experienced; you are a trauma survivor who had healthy reactions to being violated. You are not broken beyond repair; you are simply a survivor of an insidious form of hidden abuse that is widely misunderstood by both mental health professionals and laypeople. 

Rest easy and know this: You are normal. You are healthy. You are human. You have survived pure evil, and you just need to be listened to.

Baby steps to a beautiful post-abuse life

I hope my story encourages survivors that healing is possible. Over the past two years, after receiving proper support regarding the reality of what I experienced, I have worked tirelessly to rebuild what my bullies robbed from me. Slowly but surely, I am restoring my life to a sense of normalcy.

My work with Shannon has shown me that there is life, freedom, joy, and peace after psychological abuse. Each time I left Shannon’s office, I felt a renewed sense of hope that it would be possible to return to the “me” I once knew. In both her writing and in the therapy room, Shannon leads with compassion, empathy, and a tender heart for survivors of psychological abuse. In Shannon, I have gained a lifelong confidant and therapeutic relationship that I know is 100% safe to return to if I ever need it. 

For those seeking clarity on their suffering, I encourage you to curl up with a cozy blanket and read Healing from Hidden Abuse. Please visit www.shannonthomas.com for more information. 

Featured Post Photo by Oscar Keyson Unsplash

Quote attributed to Tracy Malone. Graphic created by post author.

To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

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.

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/16/there-is-life-after-hidden-abuse/feed/ 2 Living With Trauma: A Life On The Edge https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/09/living-with-trauma-a-life-on-the-edge-2/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/09/living-with-trauma-a-life-on-the-edge-2/#comments Mon, 09 Feb 2026 11:00:00 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987501314 Living with Trauma is not easy. It can include a daily rollercoaster of emotions, most of which are unwelcome. It feels like being inside a constant washer spin cycle of hurling emotions, as we plunge in and out of trauma memories.

Some days, the nightmares keep us awake all night and haunt us during the day for no apparent reason. It’s like having a perpetual shadow glued to your back, and it won’t leave you alone.


The days when you don’t understand the flashbacks are even worse. Fear sets in, and it makes you feel uneasy.

Have you ever felt that way?

Have you ever stood in a queue in the food market and started to tremble?

I have.

It wasn’t one of my finest moments. It was years ago, and I still remember it because of how I felt.

I had just been to therapy, and it had been a big session with a lot of triggering memories. I should have driven straight home, but I needed some essential items for the following day.

As I stood in that queue with people all around me, I noticed I was hot. My heart decided to run a marathon in my chest, and my body trembled, like a leaf in the wind. My hands were full of items so I couldn’t just leave. The room fell silent all around me, and I felt as if I was right back in my worst moment. I felt his hands around my neck, squeezing ever so gently…

NO — I screamed inside my head and squeezed my knuckles on my items without anyone seeing what I was doing. The loaf of bread came out a little worse for wear, but other than that, my groceries survived my hands. I breathed in and out slowly and focused my eyes on a poster advertising a brand of diapers. I must have read the slogan several times until my brain understood its meaning. I wiggled my toes in my sandals to feel the floor.

Another time, I was at one of my friends’ barbecues. Lots of adults talking, kids running around, music playing from a boom box. Everyone was enjoying themselves. One of the dads went to the kitchen to get a knife to cut some meat, and he walked across the yard towards the grill. Suddenly, my whole world slowed down. All the voices and music stopped, and I froze. All I could do was stare at that knife as it bobbed in a hand that was walking across the yard.

My flashback took me to a very different hand that was walking towards me with a menacing grin. My scream made everyone stop, and it catapulted me back into the present. Someone had turned off the boom box, and everyone stared at me. Our kids were frozen in place.

A familiar voice put his hand on my back, said my name, and where we were. My husband turned me around and held me. His firm body with the familiar smells made me realize where I was, and I was shaking.

After a few minutes, I found myself sitting in a chair with a glass of iced tea in my hand. The music was playing, the adults were talking again, and the kids carried on playing.

These flashbacks can happen anytime to a trauma survivor. It doesn’t matter where you are or who you are with.

Like the turtle, a trauma survivor has to survive the constant cold water showers (triggers) that threaten to consume us. The most important thing is that you have a strategy to cope with them as they happen because they will. There is nothing worse than not being prepared for an emotional onslaught.

My advice to all trauma survivors out there is this.

  1. Have a coping strategy that works for you during the day. I have several that I draw on and use at work and wherever I end up during the day.
  2. Grounding is a great technique that helps get you back to the present moment. Use your senses to ground you firmly back into the present.
  3. Allow yourself to “bail out.” If the flashback isn’t going away, have an excuse ready to leave the room if you are with people.
  4. Time — Always make sure that you are fully back in the present moment before you return to what you were doing. If you need a break, tell someone that you are popping out for a coffee break or something that you can easily manage.
  5. Self-care — This is the big one. You have to look after yourself after a flashback. I know this doesn’t come easy for a survivor, but you have needs. If your body has reacted to a trauma memory, you will not be able to function for a while without some kind of care plan. A glass of water, a snack, a short walk around the office, or maybe close your eyes for five minutes to shake a building headache.

My name is Lizzy, and I’m a mom, teacher, author and mental health blogger. I write for those who don’t always feel that they have a voice. For more about me, my books and articles check out my website: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support my writing, and buy me a coffee.

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484here

Photo by Amanda Phung on Unsplash

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/02/09/living-with-trauma-a-life-on-the-edge-2/feed/ 1 When the Client’s Body Reacts, but the Story Isn’t True https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/12/03/when-the-clients-body-reacts-but-the-story-isnt-true/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/12/03/when-the-clients-body-reacts-but-the-story-isnt-true/#respond Wed, 03 Dec 2025 10:43:05 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987501067 Tears, tremors, and vivid descriptions can be compelling. They are not proof. In complex trauma, memory is less a film reel and more a patchwork of emotional flashbulbs, fragments, and protective edits. Somatic reactions tell us that something mattered to the nervous system. They do not tell us who, where, or when. Therapy becomes dangerous not when clients struggle to remember, but when therapists stop being curious.

Many clinicians meet clients who arrive with ritual abuse claims, fractured timelines, no corroboration, and a history of moving from specialist to specialist in search of answers. Most are not fabricating. Many are not remembering with precision either. A common statement appears in these rooms: if the body reacts, it must have happened. It sounds compassionate. It is not. It shortcuts assessment, confuses physiology with fact, and turns treatment into a confirmation loop. The alliance becomes a mirror that reflects back whatever the client fears most, rather than a container that steadies and clarifies.

Consider a typical presentation from practice. A client recalled being left overnight in a freezing basement. The concrete floor, footsteps overhead, a cold doorknob out of reach. The scene held sensory weight and carried real fear. Later, family records showed the home had no basement. The conclusion is not that nothing happened. The conclusion is that the image may have fused borrowed fragments and emotional truths into a single picture the nervous system could organize around. The body reacted. The target of that reaction was misidentified. What needed work was not a fast-track diagnosis based on physiology, but a paced inquiry into what the body was trying to protect and what events might actually fit the pattern.

The nervous system encodes threat. Implicit memory lives in posture, breath, and gut. None of that provides coordinates. Somatic evidence flags significance. It does not settle attribution. Collapse those two and accuracy drops. In trauma care, accuracy is not a luxury. It is ethical triage. Misreading hyperarousal as proof of incest, or adopting a story that later fails against hospital logs or sibling testimony, harms clients and families and erodes trust in the field. The emotional pain remains real. The backstory can still have holes.

Memory science has been clear on this point for decades. Some dislike the mess that research exposed, but disliking a finding does not erase it. Suggestion is powerful. The therapeutic relationship amplifies that power because trust lowers a client’s defenses against influence. Recovered memories do occur. They can surface slowly and unevenly and later find support in records or witnesses. They do not usually arrive polished, and they never deserve to be declared true on the basis of shaking hands or a rolling stomach. The correct posture is steady attunement, careful pacing, and respect for a mind that can both shield and distort.

The larger problem is cultural. Many therapists fear that skepticism will be heard as betrayal. They worry about appearing to side with perpetrators. They default to affirmation in order to avoid conflict. Caution then gets mislabeled as minimization, and verification gets mislabeled as doubt. In that climate, it is tempting to protect one’s reputation rather than the client. That is not care. That is drift.

A responsible approach is plain and repeatable. Stabilize first. Map what the body does before, during, and after certain narratives. Separate sensation from story. Ask where the language came from and what other explanations could fit the same physiology. Invite corroboration where it is possible to do so without harm. Hold space for what cannot yet be known. Keep the alliance strong without making promises the facts cannot carry. Somatic validation and factual verification are not enemies. They are different tools used for different questions.

Good therapy does not hand people answers. It teaches people how to hold possibility without certainty, and how to test what can be tested while protecting what still needs time. If a client reports abuse, the report is taken seriously and treated with respect. The work then proceeds without rushing the story into a fixed shape. Memory is important. That is why it deserves clinical accountability rather than slogans or ideological immunity.

Final thoughts

Somatic truth and factual truth are not the same category. Both matter. One guides immediate regulation and safety planning. The other guides attribution, repair, and justice. When clinicians keep those lanes clear, survivors get care that is humane, scientifically honest, and legally durable.

References

Scientific American. People Likely Aren’t as Susceptible to False Memories as Researchers Thought. 2025.
Murphy G, et al. False Memory Replication Dataset. University College Cork. 2023.
Loftus E. The “lost in the mall” technique. 1995.
Otgaar H, et al. The return of the repressed. Perspectives on Psychological Science. 2019.
McNally RJ. Remembering Trauma. Harvard University Press. 2003.
van der Kolk BA. The Body Keeps the Score. Viking. 2014.
Lynn SJ, Lilienfeld SO, Merckelbach H, et al. Dissociation and dissociative disorders. Clinical Psychology Review. 2014.

Cover Image: jonathan-borba-OhU7gVp0D7c-unsplash.jpg

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/12/03/when-the-clients-body-reacts-but-the-story-isnt-true/feed/ 0 Epigenetic Trauma: Predators, Abuse, and Ancestral Healing https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/07/02/epigenetic-trauma-predators-abuse-and-ancestral-healing/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/07/02/epigenetic-trauma-predators-abuse-and-ancestral-healing/#comments Wed, 02 Jul 2025 12:27:42 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987500605 Trigger Warning: This article contains stories of abuse; reader discretion is advised.

“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.

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/07/02/epigenetic-trauma-predators-abuse-and-ancestral-healing/feed/ 3 Befriending the Ache of Awakening From Survival https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/06/16/befriending-the-ache-of-awakening-from-survival/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/06/16/befriending-the-ache-of-awakening-from-survival/#comments Mon, 16 Jun 2025 12:23:21 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987500380 Taking the Edge Off Sadness

There can be a sadness that emerges when we begin to truly see, when we wake up to the realization that we have lived much of our lives in survival stress. It is the grief of recognizing that our choices, our relationships, our very sense of self may have been shaped by the unseen hand of a nervous system wired by our past for both protection and presence.

This sadness is not the sharp, immediate sting of loss, nor the acute heartbreak that follows devastation. It is an ache—a deep, tender sorrow that pools in the body like a riverbed worn smooth by time. It lives in the weight of the chest, the quiet exhaustion behind the eyes, the subtle heaviness in the limbs. It is the sign we do not even realize we are holding.

Sadness as a Nervous System Imprint

The body learns to carry it as a familiar companion, whispering, This is just how things are.

For some, sadness settles as a quiet withdrawal —a loneliness and a feeling of isolation. Maybe a shutdown every now and again that numbs the edges of life. For others, it intertwines with the breath, constricting the chest in a gentle but persistent grip. It can manifest in the way we move, how we carry our shoulders, the way we hesitate before reaching out, a lack of boundaries that constrict our hearts, or a cold emptiness that invades the core of our being. And yet, this sadness that can often feel like a permanent weight is a messenger, not a captor. When we resist it, suppress it, or fear it, it sinks deeper into the nervous system and numbs our capacity for joy and inner peace. But when we learn how to use our nervous system to help us heal, and how closely entwined emotions are to this system, we can allow our sadness to guide us towards our truths and an enriching presence.

Helping Sadness Feel Safe

Much like a child who has learned not to cry for fear of being unheard, yelled at, or shamed, our sadness needs to know that it is welcome here and that there is a grief for the loss of time. As we move forward with a nourishing, deeper wisdom. Sadness is not something to be banished or fixed, but something to be held tenderly. If we stay connected to how we respond to our sadness, it can feel safe with us and create immense space for all of us, and not just the history of our experiences embedded in the memory and pathways of survival.

By placing a hand over the ache and saying, I see you. You are allowed to be here too, and how that can create a shift that opens to a broader horizon. The sharpness dulls, the sting of emotional pain is soothed, the weight lightens, the sadness softens in the warmth of our attention. This is the beginning of true integration—not just intellectually understanding our past, but giving our nervous system permission to be with and hold more lightly what it has stored for so long. 

The Healing Language of Sadness

“Sadness gives depth. Happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots. Happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed.” — Osho

To feel sadness deeply is to know that we are alive and room for so much life, your definition of life and feeling alive to enter your bloodstream, and you begin to flow more freely. It is a testament to the parts of you, that kept getting up, that kept searching, that longed for more, that believed that there has to be more to life than this, that yearned for a quality of inner safety a deeper connection, and inner ease but perhaps never fully received or experienced it. Sadness is the soul’s way of acknowledging what still can be.

When the heart weeps and the body feels, it does so because it recognizes something greater inside itself than what it has been externally given- it invites your soul and a deeper truth to fully emerge.

And that is where the release begins with the truth within this present moment that can feedback new information to this super vigilant system, instead of relentlessly tracking for danger, error, and everything that could go wrong, we also learn how to track for all that is ok, warm and friendly in this moment. 

Create A Soft Landing

Taking the edge off sadness is not about erasing it or getting over it. It is about creating a space for it to breathe and rest, rather than something we must endure. It is about meeting it with a deeper breath, a deep inhale, along with another inhale and a long, slow exhale, no matter how restricted it might feel to breathe, try not to force it, inhale as naturally as you can, allowing every exhale time to receive that tender warmth. In doing so, you are offering the whole of you back to yourself, no matter who stole parts of your heart and soul; you are now reclaiming all parts of you. You create copious amounts of space for joy, not as a forced antidote, but as a natural counterpart that emerges when we no longer fear the depth of our own sorrow.

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” — Rumi 

Sorrow is healing  the wounds and carving a pathway to openness for you to meet your true self,  shining a light on you. Hold yourself tenderly, softly, gently, and steadily, and notice how your nervous system begins to respond when it feels safe with you and with the deeper knowing that even in our sorrow, we are whole.

Cheering you along from survival to a soul revival.

Photo by Melissa Askew 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.

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/06/16/befriending-the-ache-of-awakening-from-survival/feed/ 1 My Best Friend in the Psych Ward https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/06/11/my-best-friend-in-the-psych-ward-part-1-of-2/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/06/11/my-best-friend-in-the-psych-ward-part-1-of-2/#comments Wed, 11 Jun 2025 09:56:51 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987500250 TRIGGER WARNING: Writer’s Note: This post contains references to suicidal ideation, sexual assault, and psychiatric ward experiences.
Names have been changed.

Five words got me tied up on a stretcher in the back of this ambulance. Five words, starting with “I want” and ending with “myself.”

I was enrolled in a rigorous academic summer intensive. My courses at the intensive included cryptology, calculus, cognitive neuroscience, and yoga – a little break from the books. I’d been struggling with my mental health for a few years, but I did what I did best to escape my excruciating pain: I stuck my nose in the books.

After a sleepless night, tormented by my flashbacks, I let those five words slip to my roommates. Word got back to a counselor, and within a couple of hours, I was hospital-bound. No attempt, no real threat, just a voiced desire to escape this life.

Watching the world disappear from the back window of the ambulance, I felt a sickening mix of emotions as I knew my life would never be the same again. I had no clue where these guys were taking me. All I knew was it wasn’t going to be a vacation.

My home for the next few days

The paramedics wheeled me into a dingy hallway, untied me, and turned me over to the hospital staff. Now that my tears had dried and I could see the guys in better light, I noticed that both of them were actually pretty cute.

How embarrassing that they saw me like that, I thought to myself, brushing my hair with my fingers a little.

I begged them one last time, “Do I have to stay here?”

“Yes,” they said. “You’ll be okay. It’s safe here. And they’ll give you the help you need.”  

The evaluation phase

In the evaluation room, there were four nurses: two male and two female. They asked me dozens of questions, and I answered them robotically.

Whatever the paramedics put in my IV really doped me up, I thought. But it’s nice not to be feeling any anxiety right now, I thought to myself, negating the fact that I was so numb I really wasn’t feeling anything at all.

After dozens of initial questions, the male nurses left the room, leaving me with the two females. They ordered me to strip naked. The last shreds of my dignity disappeared as they began strip-searching every crevice of my body. I stood awkwardly with my arms out to the side in a “T” position like I do during TSA checks at the airport. Their final request came as a surprise to me.  

“Lastly, we’re gonna have you turn around, squat all the way down to the floor, open your butt cheeks with your hands, and cough as loud as you can.”

I almost laughed because I thought they were joking.

“What?” I asked, confused.

They were serious.   

“Why do I have to do that?” I asked, ever-so-innocently.

“Sometimes, people carry drugs or contraband down there. It’s for your safety. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Contraband? What’s contraband?” I asked, genuinely confused.  

At just seventeen years old, I had no reason to believe that anyone, especially myself, would carry a weapon in their private parts. I also knew nothing about drugs beyond my school’s “Don’t do drugs, kids!” campaign.

There was no point in arguing. I was here, by law. My body was no longer my own.  

I stood up, slowly released my hands from my butt cheeks, and looked the nurses in the eyes again. I felt different, like a ginormous chunk of my purity had just been stolen. Over the next three days, my innocence was going to be ripped to shreds even more.

My living quarters

Next, they showed me around my living quarters. It was a glorified version of the prison cells I had seen in some of my favorite movies, Escape from Alcatraz and The Shawshank Redemption.

The bedroom had dirty grey concrete walls and a small shelf built into the wall for the limited toiletries they gave me. Only one small bed sat smack dab in the middle. I could tell from one quick glance at the pillow that it wasn’t my favorite Tempur-Pedic kind.

Night number one

In the night, I tossed and turned. The messages inscribed in ink on the wooden headboard and armrests by previous patients swirled batlike in my mind.   

“Fuck you.”

“You deserve to die.”

“Burn in hell.”

“Weak.”

“You didn’t succeed.”

“Coward.”

I sobbed into the pillow that was as hard as a brick.  

None of the patient rooms had doors. Directly across from my room was another room identical to mine. Its occupant was a girl of about fourteen. All night, she sat on the edge of her bed, catatonic, staring me down with penetrating eyes of disgust and horror.

What does she have against me? I literally just got here… I wondered, taking her staring contest a little too personally.

And then, another game of hers began. Every few minutes, she would slowly open her mouth and scream bloody murder while continuing to stare deep into my eyes. Then, she would slowly and silently walk around her bed in circles, before sitting back down and repeating the whole cycle.

I shrank under the covers and hid from her haunting stare so she wouldn’t perceive me as a threat anymore.

It didn’t work. I made up my own game to distract myself. I’ll count sheep in between each scream and see the highest number it gets to. That’ll be the number of the puzzle I’ll do in my Big Book of Sudoku once I get out of here.

After a few hours, exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I slept through her cacophony – the most unique lullaby I had ever drifted off to.

The next morning

When I awoke, she was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring. I flashed an awkward smile at her as I scurried out of my bedroom.

“Good morning, Natalie. Would you like to take a shower?” a nurse greeted me with a smile, offering me a thin, white towel and two tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner.  

Ugh. She’s had too much coffee this morning, I thought to myself, as I rubbed my eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” I gladly accepted.

My shower was my ten minutes of privacy and peace. It was a dark room with a single light shining down from the center of the tall ceiling. It reminded me of a dungeon. I looked down at my toes and cringed as my bare feet caressed the tiles that housed years of the feces of my psych ward ancestors.  

In the dungeon, tears overtook me. I cried softly so that no one would hear me. I tried to visualize the clean water washing away my despair. It didn’t work. I felt like I was bathing in raw sewage.  

The view from up here

With my hair still wet from the shower, I brought one of the chairs to a barred window and looked down at the outside world. I saw birds, cars, pedestrians, trains, hospitals, billboards, and freedom. I counted pedestrians as they crossed the intersection and made up stories about them – their names, their professions, their hobbies, and their favorite songs. I could see them, but they had no clue I was up here.  

I wrapped my palms around the cold bars and shook them, fantasizing about my Escape from Alcatraz. They didn’t budge.

Acceptance washed over me. I had no other option but to be here and sit with my own mind. I guess I’ll just have to make the best of it.   

My fellow inmates

I made a point to talk to some of the other patients and hear their stories. The outside world may have seen them as unworthy, but, to me, they were beautiful souls in desperate need of help. They just needed to be heard. Many were hesitant to talk to me. They seemed intimidated by the fact that I was patiently listening to them, unlike the professionals from the system who had devalued their experiences. Slowly, some opened up.

Their stories were a museum of cruelty. One thirteen-year-old girl told me nonchalantly, “I’m pregnant with my uncle’s baby, and my parents don’t know yet.” 

The banality with which she told me was heartbreaking. I dug more into her story and found that incest had been going on for years. This place was clearly safer for her. I would have preferred her to stay here rather than go back home.

My new friend

The ward was always chaotic. Patients gibbered, screamed, hissed, and threw things. But in the very back corner of the ward lobby, a girl sat quietly at a table alone, coloring. She looked peaceful, so I sat next to her.

She was slim with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes. Her face looked pained, but there was still a little light in her eyes. Even though I’d just sat next to her, I felt like I’d known her my whole life.

She handed me some broken crayons and said, “Wanna help me color?”

And that is how I met Lucine.

The conversation flowed naturally. We began talking about our lives. I loved to dance, and she loved horseback riding. She gushed about her horses, Bread and Butter. She spent her summers in Northern California training for riding competitions. Tears filled her eyes as she said, “Each day at school, I just couldn’t wait to get home to Bread and Butter. They were my only friends.”

Lucine had the sweetest heart. I saw myself in her. I thought: If there were a girl like this at my high school, she’d totally be my best friend.

To make her feel more comfortable opening up, I told her that I was lonely and bullied at my school.  

“So was I,” she said.

I shivered as her honesty sparked flashbacks within me.   

“You know,” she said, “There’s a national school that takes on students for personalized learning. It wasn’t safe at school, so my parents signed me up for this new school. I was scared, but I love it now and will stay until I graduate. All my courses are just with me and one instructor. It goes at my pace, and I don’t have to worry about dealing with all the bullies from my old school. Plus, I get out of school early, so I have time for my horses. What city do you live in?”

I told her where I lived.

“I know they have a location there. Ask your parents about it.”

Even though I only had another year of high school, going back for that long made me feel sick. It was worth a shot to look into this.

I made a mental note for when I got out of here: Beg the ‘rents to take me out of my high school and enroll me at Lucine’s school.

Talking about school reminded me of what I was missing out on. It was July, and I was coloring a paper Christmas tree with scraps of crayons. I desperately wished I could be in my cryptology class. Instead, I was serving my time for those five words.  

I made another mental note: Next time, I need to be more careful before letting those five words slip out of my mouth.  

Recess

We were allowed 30 minutes of daily “recess” in a cage on the roof of the building.

The other kids immediately grabbed the red balls out of the bin. Some played dodgeball, others played foursquare. This was part of their daily routine – some of them have been here for weeks or months.

A staff member stood, watching over us. I retreated far enough away from the action so that any balls that lost control wouldn’t peg me. I sat against the concrete wall with my knees buried into my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs.

“Hey, Natalie, do you want to play dodgeball with us?” one of the girls asked me.

“No, thank you.” I just wanted to keep to myself.

The kids were smiling and laughing as they played. Everyone seemed genuinely happy.

It’s weird they seem so happy. The sun isn’t even out. Don’t they realize that this place is literally a prison?

And then, it hit me. They’re happy because this place is safer than anywhere else for them, including their own homes. My heart broke when I realized this. I curled up into an even tighter ball as I felt their pain wash over me.  

Lunch time

Lunch was meatloaf, a stale slice of bread, applesauce, some dried Lucky Charms, and orange juice. One whiff of the meatloaf made me gag. I picked the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and ate them one by one. I washed them down with the OJ. That was all I ate that day.

Group activity

After lunch was activity time. We got a piece of paper, markers, and fifteen minutes to draw the voice in our heads.

Once people began to share their drawings, it was clear that most didn’t draw anything, or only drew some scribbles to play along and convince the staff that they were “getting better” so that they’d have a chance at an early release.

It was Lucine’s turn to share. She drew a vividly intricate monster that haunted her thoughts. It belonged on the walls of an art gallery, not a psych ward.

She gave voice to the hidden symbolism in her artwork. Every part of the monster’s body represented something in her head. She fought back tears as she poured her heart out in front of the strangers around her. Her raw authenticity was so refreshing. My eyes welled with tears.

She finished her presentation; then there were a few seconds of silence. The others in the circle burst out laughing.

What’s so funny? I thought, as I looked around the circle, bewildered.

Oh. They were laughing at Lucine.

Lucine hung her head and sobbed. I wanted to run over and give her the biggest hug. But physical contact with patients was one of the many things on the list of “no-nos” they gave me when I arrived. I resisted the urge.

When she finally looked up, she caught my eyes, and I gave her an empathic pouty lip to let her know that I felt her pain and did not participate in the laughter. That was the only hug I could give her.

“Well, okay then…” The facilitator frantically looked around as her voice shuddered. “Who’s next?”

I spent the rest of the day making Lucine feel appreciated. We colored some more, made up our own dance routines together, played the pedestrian game, and talked about our futures.

“That one’s Danny,” Lucine joked, pointing to a pedestrian in a suit. “He’s an investment banker, but he hates his job. He only works to support his wife’s spending habits. What he really wants to do is play the drums in a heavy metal band!” We giggled. That day, we shared laughter together until our starved bellies couldn’t take it anymore.

My new friend was ripped away from me

After what felt like an eternity, my prison sentence had been served.

It was time to say goodbye to Lucine. She was sitting at the coloring table, frantically scribbling something with a crayon.

“Wait! Natalie!” She ran over from across the ward. “Take my number!”

A nurse intervened before Lucine could give me the paper. The nurse held her arms out and ripped the paper out of Lucine’s hands. “There will be no contacting other patients outside these walls.”

Lucine looked shattered. We looked at each other with the saddest eyes. I wanted to hug her so badly.

“Time to go, Natalie,” the nurse told me.

It felt like my only friend was being ripped away from me.

“Stay strong, Natalie!” Lucine yelled loud and proud. “You can do this!”

Speechless, I could only raise my hand in farewell.

Lucine lives on

It’s a shame the psych ward didn’t let me keep in touch with Lucine. All I ever wanted was a friend like her. But I think I made the best of my time there. Many others lashed out and acted out. And, rightfully so. That place was horrible. I squashed all my desires to scream bloody murder and cry rivers of tears. I didn’t want to give the staff any reasons to extend my stay. I still can’t believe how many of those beautiful children were forgotten and neglected, with stories and lives that no one heard or valued.

Today, I am free of all my suicidal ideation. I want to believe that Lucine has found that same freedom. She was not the type to give up.

On occasion, when I’m driving through the countryside and see horses in their pastures, free as can be, I can’t help but think of Lucine. A decade has passed, and I have no way of knowing for certain. But I just know deep in my soul that Lucine is still here with us. I know that she’s somewhere out there, riding bareback in the California sun, her blonde hair trailing behind her, forever free of the monsters in her head.

Feature Post Image by Joonas Sild on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/photos/empty-bed-bpMiUGF2Cps

To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

 

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.

]]> https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/06/11/my-best-friend-in-the-psych-ward-part-1-of-2/feed/ 2 When the Past Cracks Open: Navigating Repressed CSA Memories in Adulthood https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/04/10/when-the-past-cracks-open-navigating-repressed-csa-memories-in-adulthood/ https://cptsdfoundation.org/2025/04/10/when-the-past-cracks-open-navigating-repressed-csa-memories-in-adulthood/#comments Thu, 10 Apr 2025 23:56:21 +0000 https://cptsdfoundation.org/?p=987500106 For most of my life, I had no reason to question my past. I had warm childhood memories, a solid understanding of who I was, and no indication that something darker lurked beneath the surface. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, my mind cracked open, and pieces of a story I never asked for started falling out.

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.

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