As I listen to Elton John’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” on a loop, I mentally counter the lyrics with the fantasy that the sun will just fall from the sky. Can’t it do me the courtesy of burning out and shrouding me in complete darkness at long last? All it does is illuminate the scorch of my pain. The cruelly ironic side effect of CPTSD is that it often leaves us longing for invisibility even as we are desperate to be seen. It seems to “force” us into actions that are counterproductive to our well-being. Take, for example, my self-imposed exile to a darkened room, where I  repeatedly listen to a song that only makes me sadder. I’m not doing myself any favors, but here I sit.

In a deep depression, compounded by the uncomfortable weight of a generalized sense of claustrophobia, I want to hide from the light. As an added bonus, my seasonal depression, which swings in the opposite direction of what many people experience, buries me deeper in despair. Most people afflicted with Seasonal Depression Disorder experience it at a time of year when the world is overcast, gray, and cold. Meanwhile, in the middle of the hottest and brightest month of the year, I find myself barricaded in a completely darkened room, longing for the forlorn and lazy days of winter to wrap me in a blanket of security. I lay shrouded in the comfortable embrace of darkness and the familiar numbness of profound loneliness. I don’t see any reason to get out of bed or find the light in anything. Right now, I only have room in my heart for darkness.

Part II:

Fortunately, before I sank too deeply into the cave of my pain, my therapist coaxed me from my hole. In the previous day’s therapy session, I voiced profound despair; today, I reached out to her via the patient portal to let her know that the spiral continued downward. She asked if a quick call would be beneficial; that’s usually the part where I say “I’m okay” before covering my head with my pillow. Fortunately, a part of me knows that I don’t want to live that way anymore. I’m tired of burying myself in my head and hiding in the darkness. On the opposite end of the spectrum, my other go-to “coping strategy” of working myself so hard I don’t have time for contemplation also holds no allure. I’m exhausted with being a prisoner of the extreme coping mechanisms that long “saved” me while also suffocating me. Things have needed to shift for a long time, and I’ve allowed myself to shift in increments; I thus accepted my therapist’s offer for a call. Accepting help is a sharp deviation from my usual script. I grabbed hold of the metaphorical hand she offered, partially out of curiosity. What would happen if I didn’t fall into my usual patterns?

Our conversation, short but impactful, represents a slight but mighty shift from my “norm.” The fact that I allowed myself to even participate in an introspective discussion while locked deep in the jowls of depression constitutes a bit of a “miracle.” I am not someone who reaches outward when in despair; instead, I deflate, falling inward. So why wouldn’t I use my coveted vacation time to hide in my room and drown myself in a self-defeating soundtrack of sadness? Knowing my appreciation for Bob Dylan, my therapist encouraged me to change the tune to “Forever Young” and venture out into the sunshine. I said I would try, thinking I would do no such thing. After some contemplation, I admitted to myself that she’s usually right about these things. I begrudgingly dragged my emotionally exhausted carcass outside. 

Part III:

Although I have not teleported into the land of rainbows and lollipops, I am surprised to discover beauty in the day. When I close my eyes, the sun glimmers across my eyelids like glitter. Even as the darkness beckons me inward, I feel the current of hope tugging patiently at my heart. I am gently reminded by the breeze that lands upon my cheek that I will be okay. I’ve changed the soundtrack, and tears of gratitude trickle down my face. I reflect on the irony that the words and sentiment of this song, “Forever Young,” make me think of my Grandma (whose upcoming death anniversary has contributed to my spiral). I reflect on how her “youth” rubbed off on my old soul in many of our moments together. I smile in silent remembrance. I am grateful for the love she planted deep in my heart, even as others stripped me bare. It’s a reminder that things don’t have to be “all or nothing.” It doesn’t have to be pitch dark or glowingly bright. I can sit in the sunlight while feeling the darkness within. I’m in pain, and I’m healing; one does not negate the other. 

Healing is a nonlinear process filled with fluctuating moments of despair and hope, sometimes existing simultaneously. Some days I move forward, and others I fall backward. I often stand motionless. Every once in a while, I take a gigantic leap forward. I am taking it all in stride and am confident that I will eventually arrive at a place where I feel at home in my body and mind. For now, I’ll just sit here, patiently waiting for what comes next.

Lesson Learned:

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves.

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves. Although power may have been out of reach in the small and big moments that eroded our confidence in the world, in other people, and ourselves, we do have the power of choice in the small things as we move forward. Shifting just a little bit can be enough movement to redirect our trajectory in a healthier direction, ground ourselves in the place we are meant to be, and/or return us to our path of healing after we have temporarily lost our footing. Although we can’t change what happened to us, we can adjust trauma’s impact within us. We can learn to dance with, rather than battle with, the ghosts of the past. As a child, I could not liberate myself from the isolation created by the secrets that I carried around like an invisible suitcase. Decades later, I finally have the power to unpack the pain. I can’t change where I was then, but I can change where I am now. I can’t change who I was (or was not allowed to be) then, but I can be who I want to be now. 

Much of the pain I feel today lies rooted in the turbulent landscape of the past; it feels simultaneously ancient and new. The truth is that sometimes I need to wallow in it because when I lived it the first time in real time, I did so in survival mode. I couldn’t sit in anything too long. So, now, as an adult sometimes I do surrender to the pain. I’ve earned that right. And…I don’t want to stay in a place of deep pain. I don’t want the there and then of my life to dominate now. I can still honor what I survived, but I now hold the power to remove myself from the darkness. I can change the song and shift the scenery. Doing this enough times allows me to rewrite my script. 

I think that most of us who live with CPTSD have developed coping mechanisms that, over time, have crystallized into patterns. Although these coping strategies are born in efforts motivated by self-protection, they can hurt us and keep us stuck in places we don’t want to be anymore. None of us is ever going to wake up miraculously healed. Some days, it truly is a matter of just getting through the day. That piece by piece, day by day reality of healing can be excruciating and…it can be empowering. Each day is an opportunity to make small shifts that allow us to change the song and scenery. We can rewrite our script one action and one day at a time. We are the writers and directors of our lives now. 

Photo by Hannah Olinger 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.

Usually, with the flames barely contained, I walked away from the embers, the pain invisibly burning holes in my soul

In previous rounds of therapy, after the crisis or crises had settled, I never stuck around long enough to dig too deeply into the still-hot cinders. Usually, with the flames barely contained, I walked away from the embers, the pain invisibly burning holes in my soul. But…a few things were different this time. For one, my therapist responded to my rage with what I would later learn is the most powerful resource of all, and we all possess it; her compassionate state of “Self” hit me with the intensity of a firehose on full blast. Her soothing nature, ability to bring clarity to chaos, and courage to remain calm amid my meltdowns ignited my curiosity. Trained to conceal my feelings, I couldn’t understand how she didn’t admonish me for my uncharacteristic, dramatic display of emotions. I was so intrigued that I decided not to ghost her after she helped me extinguish the blow of the most recent inferno.

In hindsight, my foray into feelings in those early sessions suggests that something in me was tired of my lifelong pattern of skimming the surface of my problems. Instead of retreating after smothering the flames, I paused long enough to survey the ravaged landscape around me. Devastated by what I saw, I knew I didn’t want to pass this world on to my kids. Exhausted and defeated, I was sick of choking on the smoke of the past and crawling from one fire to another. I was tired of fighting fires alone, and I finally had a therapist who seemed to see through the smoke and flames. She recognized that beneath my molten lava rage lay the embers of one compounded (largely ignored) trauma after another.

Realizing I had an ally to help lead me out of this fiery hellscape, I began resurrecting myself from the still-smoldering ashes of the past. I turned inward and began exploring the sources of my internal “fires.” Without the flames dancing around me, I finally had the mental capacity to learn skills that could not only help me deal with the present chaos but also give me the stability to dive deeper into past traumatic experiences. With an Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) score of 9.5 out of 10 (because I stubbornly refuse to accept full “points” for two of the criteria), it’s been an odyssey through hell. Although the healing process started with a firehose, the efforts to dampen the scorch of long-neglected trauma have been gradual, but productive. Over the past year and a half, I’ve sometimes extinguished one fire only for another to start. Through all of this, I have persevered in a renewed effort to inspect my “faulty wiring” and to assess the hostile conditions that sparked the fires. The initial lag of this work finally freed me from the shackles of survival mode.

And…just when I began to feel the blossoming fruition of unfettered joy, everything began to sour and darken. After four decades of moving from one fire to the next, the slow, painful excavation and examination of my long-held maladaptive beliefs incinerated my newly found sense of peace. Much of this anxious awareness has risen to the surface since starting Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy a month ago. It’s working. Almost too well. EMDR can be a highly effective treatment, but it can come with unpleasant physical effects and provide insight into things that previously hid in the dark. Add to this new-to-me therapy, severe seasonal depression, and the reignition of an old fire (or rather, a fresh perspective of an ongoing problem), and I am suddenly finding myself once again gasping for breath. Almost overnight, a fresh wave of depression has pulled me below the surface. The colors and sounds of the world are suddenly too much and I struggle to draw myself out of bed each morning. I gag on the “truths” I’m discovering about how I view myself and the world. I am devastated to discover that despite my beautiful family and my accomplishments, I am crippled by the belief that I am alone and I am terrified of abandonment. Somewhere along the way (pretty early in life), I became convinced that people are dangerous, feelings are unsafe, and I am worthless. With these painful discoveries, the sunlight within has withered into pungent decay.

This decay, however, will eventually give life to new growth. I, like so many of you, am a survivor and a little darkness (okay, fine, sometimes pitch blackness) will not scare me from this path. I am fighting with everything I have to not just pull myself from this darkness, but to revive my commitment to my healing journey. I am strong-willed and appreciate a good challenge, no matter how painful. Sometimes the pain propels me to dig my heels in even deeper. I will accept the next leg of this journey, even if it is filled with fatigue and a choking sense of claustrophobia. Tempted to escape the intensity of each sound and sight by retreating to the sweet and silent shelter of dissociation, I will continue to face life’s “fires” that I long suppressed. I feel like I have a sunburn and the world is clawing my tender skin, but I will not retreat into the shadows.

Like last time and unlike all the times before, I will stay put to move forward. I have already made it through so much, and I will not stop fighting for freedom from this pain, though I doubt I’ll ever be wholly emancipated from the shadows of my past. Still, I continue building the resources, strength, and support I need to wake from the nightmares of yesterday and get through future crises.

Thanks to decades of experience with depression, I know that eventually the pendulum will swing the other way. With that shift, like always, I will carry the lessons learned in pain to the other side. This time, I will also carry the lessons of healing. I have accepted that the road to healing is not linear, nor is it static. A healed version of ourselves does not lie positioned at the apex of a mountain. Life, whether filled with trauma or not, has its natural highs and lows; I’m riding a low at the moment. The shadows that dampen the light within will not stay. No matter how strongly the fires around me rage, they cannot extinguish the glow of the fire within me. I am a fighter, and I will keep fighting for freedom from the maladaptive beliefs that threaten to suffocate me. I will not suspend my ongoing efforts to tend to the gaping attachment wounds that leave me hollow. I will continue to persevere, just as I always have. This time, armed with more resources, support, and strength than I’ve ever had, I’m fighting fire with fire.

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.

It’s a powerhouse of possibility,  and it’s also a paradox. It keeps us alive. Helps us create. Love. Imagine. It’s where the best parts of us live–the cleverness, the humor, the wild creativity, the gut instincts, and the empathy.

But it’s also where the trauma lives.
Where the fear lives.
Where the ghosts of what we survived are still pacing the halls.

A Hypervigilant Command Center

If you live with CPTSD, then you know that it’s not just a brain. It’s a hypervigilant command center. Always alert. Always scanning. Always assuming the next bad thing is just around the corner–even when life is calm.

When you walk into a room, you don’t just enter. You calculate. You assess. You map out the exits, read every face, and listen for tone shifts. You don’t even realize you’re doing it; it’s automatic.
Learned from years of needing to be ready, just in case.

Emotional Hijacking: When the Past Invades the Present

Then someone says something. Maybe it’s nothing–a joke, a pause, or a look that lingers a second too long. Boom, your body’s gone tight, your stomach drops, and your thoughts scatter.

Suddenly, you’re back in a memory you never meant to revisit.
Not fully reliving it, but emotionally hijacked by it.
The fear, the shame, the worthlessness.
All of it, flooding in as if it never left.

Ruminating in the Ruins

Your brain starts looping.
Was it me?
Did I mess up again?
Are they mad?
Am I too much? Not enough?
What did I do?

You start ruminating.
You replay the conversation.
You pick apart every word, every silence.
You fill in blanks with worst-case scenarios.

And you don’t even want to be doing it; it just happens.

You know it’s happening. You see it happening.
But knowing doesn’t stop it.

It’s as though your own inner monologue is unraveling you in real time.
And you’re powerless to stop the unraveling.

This Is What CPTSD Can Look Like

Not always flashbacks.
Sometimes, it’s a slow, invisible spiral that pulls you under with nothing dramatic on the surface.
Just a brain quietly trying to protect you… in all the wrong ways.

The Whispered Lies in the Dark

And sometimes, yeah, the thoughts get dark. Not always suicidal. But heavy. Bone-deep exhausted. The kind of dark where you lie in bed and feel like a failure for simply existing.
The kind where your brain whispers:

“You’ll never get better.”
“This is just who you are.”
“People only tolerate you.”
“You’re too much.”
“You’re alone in this.”

And if you’re tired or overwhelmed–or just raw that day–you believe it.

Even though you know it’s the trauma talking.
Even though you’ve done the therapy.
Even though you’ve read the books, taken the meds, and journaled your guts out.
You still believe the lie your brain is screaming at you.

The Hardest Fight: Your Own Mind

That’s what makes healing so hard.
You don’t just fight symptoms.
You fight your own mind.

And it’s not because you’re weak.
It’s because your brain adapted perfectly to survive what happened to you.
It just doesn’t know you’re safe now.
It doesn’t know the war ended years ago.

What I’m Holding Onto

But here’s the part I’m learning, what I try to hold onto when it all feels too much: This brain, this chaotic, overworked, trauma-stamped brain of mine… It’s still trying and still showing up and still learning.

It laughs.
It makes art.
It remembers weird 90s trivia.
It falls in love.
It gets back up, even when it swears it’s done.

It is, somehow, still mine, and still beautiful.
Not because it’s perfect.
But because it keeps going.

Tender. Tired. Trying.

Beautifully magnificent. And also:

Tender.
Tired.
Trying.

Maybe that’s the point. Healing doesn’t erase the trauma. It means we learn how to live with a brain that’s been through hell, and that we choose, every day, to love it anyway.

Photo by Camila Quintero Franco on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Jack Brody

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

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

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

aboutthatjack.com/

Consider the fireflies shining into the darkness in the picture above. Let their lights shine the way throughout this reading.

In today’s post, I’m going to tackle depression.

Yeah, it’s a heavy word, with not such great connotations… You sigh and attempt to click away. Your finger hovers over the button because you want to avoid this topic. No one likes this word.

Hang on a minute. Give me a moment to explain my take on this word.

Depression.

When depression rears its ugly head, it’s hard to see anything positive. When we are stuck in the middle of a bad day, we see everything negatively. It’s a downward spiral that pulls us down like a vacuum, sucking us into darkness.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

Let me explain…

My name is Lizzy, and I have been where you are. I have had many bad days, weeks, months, and even years. I’ve got the BAD T-shirt and I don’t ever want to go back there. My childhood was full of pain and suffering, but I left that world and started again.

In my new world, I have worked to build a life away from trauma and abuse. I’ve created a world of positive influences, and I am surrounded by people who share my vision.

Depression still grabs me from time to time, and triggers drag me back to my horrific childhood. Some of these experiences draw me into days of lasting depression, including foggy brain and sluggishness. Yeah, I’ve been there.

Therapy has helped me understand why I feel the way I do after a trigger. I was hurt, but that’s in the past. Things that are difficult today are nothing compared to where I have been.

In the great scheme of things, I recognize that life is not inherently bad. I see glimmers of hope everywhere I go.

Here is the kicker: we don’t have to stay in “bad day” mode. There are tools we can use to feel better.

This is what I do when I’m having a bad day:

• Breathe — A few deep breaths will help detox our system and replenish the air in our lungs.
• Mindfulness–Think about the moment you are in, the here and now. What do you need right now? Clarity helps when we are feeling down.
• Take a comfort break–If you cannot get away from your busy schedule, do something to calm yourself down. Splash some water on your face, or grab a coffee. The change of temperature will help you reset for a minute.
• Go for a walk–If it’s the end of the day, don’t go straight home. Go for a walk in the park and notice the leaves in the trees. Hear the birds exchanging avian gossip and notice the crickets playing their serenades. Feel your surroundings and let your heartbeat match. Nature does wonders to help us feel calm.

When you get home, don’t focus your mind on what has happened; instead, look at the next moments with open eyes.

Look for the glimmers of hope. When we open our minds beyond the pain of the moment, we see that those glimmers exist and are within reach.

When I am having a rough day, a glimmer might appear as any of the following:

• The sun stretches its rays over our driveway. A bumblebee settles inside one of the pink flower buds of a bush.
• My youngest is coming to greet me at the door and show me his latest model made by Legos. His beaming face says it all.
• My oldest has tidied his bedroom and found his long-lost favorite toy. Excited, he wants to share with me his newfound treasure.
• My husband is in the kitchen stirring the cheese sauce for a mac & cheese dinner. He turns around to smile at me, and I see that he has flour smeared on his cheek.

Life is not perfect, nor is it easy. But when we stop to notice beauty and simplicity, we feel better.

Maybe you had a bad day today. Can you find some glimmers of hope that reassure you that life is actually pretty good?

In the dark of the night, we suddenly see glowing fireflies!

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

If you enjoyed reading this post, I invite you to follow me:

www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support your fellow writer:

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484

Photo by Renaud Confavreux 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.

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

An Existential Identity Crisis

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

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

Becoming a Social Outcast

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

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

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

The Birth of the Fear of Abandonment

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

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

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

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

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

Walking Away From Abuse

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

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

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

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

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

Rising from the Ashes

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

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

Final Thoughts: Know Thyself and Thou Shall Know Thy God

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

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

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Jenney Clark

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

jenneyclark.com/

Research has shown that excessive exposure to social media can contribute to mental health issues and dissatisfaction with body image, which each fuel one another. 

With billions of social media users worldwide, the effects of these platforms and technology on our mental health can be felt on a global scale. 

The positives we can take from social media

First, the positives—social media can positively impact our body image, with millions of fitness, food, and wellness accounts providing inspiration and aspirational content. Through these lenses, users can maintain their healthy lifestyles and take a positive view of their bodies. 

With an increasing number of body-positive accounts to follow who will advocate for a healthier perspective on how we look, social media users can benefit from a different perspective on their body image. 

Platforms such as Instagram and TikTok have the potential to empower people to stay healthy. Since most platforms have made eating-disorder-specific keywords such as “anorexia”, “bulimia”, and “thinspiration” unsearchable, helping to provide a healthier representation. 

By their very design, social channels are online communities where people can engage with other like-minded people and share ideas or opinions, fostering a diverse conversation on topics such as mental health and body image. 

How social media can influence poor mental health

Unfortunately, excessive consumption of seemingly perfect bodies and unfaltering diets can take its toll on our mental health and even lead to disordered eating. 

Social media can impact our emotions in various ways, making us feel anxious or depressed, angry or frustrated at the lives of people we see on social media channels. 

Over time, this can lead to unrealistic expectations of how our bodies should look and this can cause unhealthy eating habits. “You might have obsessive thoughts about food or reach for a certain type of meal when you’re feeling sad or unsure of something. For some, unhealthy eating behaviors are focused more on weight and body image than the feelings associated with eating”, says Olivia Marcellino, VP of Research at Recovery.com. 

It’s important to remember that social media is filled with people presenting a highlight reel of their lives, and this includes the way they present images of themselves. 

Photoshop, filters, and editing tools make it possible to completely reinvent ourselves into perfect images, which can make for impossible standards to reach and feel as though we’re in a constant state of comparison. 

Social media can make us feel as though we have a personal connection to the people we follow, and it can make it much easier to be influenced by the content we view every day.

This continual state of dissatisfaction can impact our mental health in other ways, too, lowering our self-esteem and increasing the likelihood of depression. 

Studies have even shown that increased use of social media can influence poor sleep quality and higher levels of anxiety and depression in young adults, as well as feelings of loneliness and isolation. The price paid for access to social media, in many cases, is our mental health and an unhealthy view of our own body image. 

Combatting the effects of social media on mental health

By taking a proactive approach to how we use social media, it is possible to counteract the negative effects it can have on our body image and mental health. As with anything in life, balance is key. 

Take a break from social media for a while so you can refocus and rid your mind of the negative feelings scrolling through accounts can have. This might be for a few hours when you notice your emotions are dipping, or it might be stepping back for a few weeks to gain perspective and regroup. 

It’s also important to regularly assess who you’re following and why. Do you notice that after viewing content from a certain account, you feel angry, upset, or envious? It could be that these types of accounts aren’t having a positive effect, and it’s time to unfollow them. 

Social media should be fun and uplifting, so make a habit of going through your accounts every so often to ensure that the people you’re following are producing content that’s inspiring you and putting you in a better mood, not bringing you down. 

We’re social beings and we want to forge connections with others, so use social media for the purpose it was intended and find a community that supports you. 

Follow body-positive accounts, get involved with conversations online that promote positive mental health and join groups that support one another and lift people up. It can help to shift your mindset of what an ‘ideal’ body type can look like and do wonders for making you feel good about yourself and those around you.

Sometimes, it’s not possible to alleviate the impact social media can have without professional help, particularly if the outcome of negative social media usage has resulted in disordered eating. When our mental health has been poor for some time, getting out of that mindset can be tough. But there are options, from counselling and therapy sessions to prescription medication and more, which can help us get back to a healthier perspective. 

Final thoughts

Social media certainly has its plus points – it can help us foster connections with people from all over the world and view issues and topics from different perspectives. But it has a dark side, and we need to be cautious of how we use social media channels and how often in order to protect our mental health and stave off issues. 

Whether it’s being careful who we follow, paying attention to how long we’re scrolling every day, or seeking help and support when we can feel our mental health slipping, there are ways to combat the negative impact that social media can have and focus on the positives instead.

Photo via Unsplash: Becca Tapert

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.

Sophie Bishop

I always knew I wasn’t wanted. From as far back as I can remember, my mother told me that she had gotten pregnant with me a month after my brother was born and how she felt about that.

“Morrene, when I found out I was pregnant with you, I cried and cried. I was so depressed! I didn’t want another baby!” were the words I heard often throughout my childhood. And those same cruel words followed me into my adulthood with my mom’s frequent reminders. It never occurred to me to be hurt by those words, probably because I had heard them so often throughout my life.

It wasn’t the fact that I knew I wasn’t wanted that hurt me but the abusive way that my mom treated me during my childhood. From sexual abuse to verbal abuse to physical abuse, I suffered it all at the hands of my dysfunctional mother and the various sick men she brought into our lives.

It has taken me years to realize that I had a target on my back from the moment my mother found out she was going to have another baby.  And to make matters worse, the fact that I am a female really stacked the odds against me in my mother’s eyes.

My mother was a very beautiful woman. With high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and beautiful brown eyes, she was absolutely stunning. But that beauty was only on the outside. Inside of her was a cesspool of black, murky sludge, churning and bubbling with toxic hatred and venom. My mom was a very jealous and highly competitive woman, especially to others of her own sex. I don’t think my mom ever saw the beautiful woman reflected in the mirror when she looked at herself. 

In addition to the verbal, physical, and sexual abuse I suffered, my mother did everything in her power to make me feel and look ugly when I was a child. My mother was a kitchen shop barber who had no training other than cutting her own hair over the years, and whoever was brave enough to sit on the kitchen chair let her start snipping away. She also used to cut my hair and my brother’s. I got the same haircut as my brother: hair clipped close to the scalp, short bangs, and hair high above the ears. Due to the fact that my brother and I were so close in age, we were often mistaken for twins. And to make matters worse, I often had to wear my brother’s hand-me-down clothes when I outgrew mine so that made me look even more like a boy.

“Oh, look at the twin boys!” people would often say when they saw us side by side. Every time I heard those words, I hung my head in embarrassment. I didn’t want to look like a boy. But sometimes, after a closer inspection, I would hear, “Oh, wait, is that a girl?” But it didn’t matter. At that point, the damage had already been done. Every time I heard those hurtful words, shame, and humiliation flooded my body. I felt as if somehow I were to blame for my appearance. Often, I was bullied by the mean kids in school who laughed in my face.

“Is it that a boy or a girl?  It’s a Shim!  Shim!  Yeah, that’s you, ugly girl!”

“Oh, my God, look at that haircut!”

“Damn, she’s ugly!”

Those words hurt me to my very core. And the few times I told my mother about the bullying, she had no compassion.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Morrene, you will fill it out someday, so stop your Goddam complaining!” was my mom’s response.

I envied the girls in my class who had long hair. I was desperate to look like a girl, but I had no idea how to make that happen. The few times I asked my mom if I could grow my hair out, she refused.

I felt ugly in every way possible, a piece of garbage not worthy of love or kindness. But that is the lie of child abuse, that it’s all our fault, and I bought into it hook, line, and sinker. Every bad thing that was done to me I absorbed like a sponge and turned it onto myself with humiliation and anger. By the time I was nine years old, I had learned to hate myself.

When I started to develop and turn into a young woman, that’s when Mom’s hatred of me really showed its true colors. Now she had competition, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit. Slowly, I was turning from an ugly ducking into a young woman, and that started a whole new level of abuse, both from my mother and the mean girls at school.  

“You’re not as pretty as you think you are!” were words I heard often from Mom during that time as she looked me up and down in pure hatred. I never understood why my mom would say such mean things to me. I never felt pretty during my teenage years. Every time I looked in the mirror, not once did I see the attractive young woman that I was becoming staring back at me. All I saw was pure ugliness, inside and out.

I never talked about my childhood with my mom when I became an adult. It was just too painful for me to face. But one question I asked her was, why did you cut my hair so short when I was a kid? Her response? “It was easier for me to manage.” I thought that was curious because my mom didn’t bathe me or wash my hair; I did. But I didn’t say anything to her. Deep down inside of me was still that little girl terrified of her mother’s cruelty.

I kept my mother in my life for many years, long into my adulthood. Unfortunately, my mother never got over her hatred of me, her jealousy, and her competition. But I tried. I so desperately wanted a loving mother in my life, but that was not to be.

In my early 50s, I finally was strong enough to confront the abuse I suffered from my childhood. At that time, my relationship with my mom ended. My mother took absolutely no ownership of the trauma she inflicted on me during my childhood. Although I still yearn for a loving and supportive mother, I have finally come to terms with the fact that it was never meant to be for me in this lifetime.

Photo by Saif71.com 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.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

Recently, it was nearing the decade mark since I made the decision to leave social media.  I jumped off all platforms at a prime, formative age when these apps were at their height, and it was “weird” for a person my age not to have any social media accounts. 

My Struggles Growing Up in the Digital Generation

Growing up, I struggled with social media and had personal trauma associated with it after being a victim of cyberbullying.  Once I realized how much my participation in these platforms was affecting my mental health, I made the decision to jump off.  It was definitely isolating in some ways, and when people I met in real life tried to ask for my Instagram handle or Facebook name to connect with me online, I had to respond, saying that I didn’t use any social media at the moment.  I would awkwardly respond with something like, “I could give you my number or maybe my email?”  Their eyes glazed over like I was some stranger from a distant planet, and some even reacted in ways that suggested they were frustrated they wouldn’t have an easy avenue into information about me or my life.  During these years without any social media presence, there were times I tried rejoining so that I could interact with my family and friends, but I ended up jumping off again when I realized I still wasn’t ready for it.  

After being on social media during my childhood, I found that I was projecting a façade of my life online as if it was an exhausting life of perfection and bliss. I felt like I had to do it to be accepted socially in my environment.  Everyone around me was doing it, so I had to as well.  The era and society my generation grew up in have been so pressured to project perfect versions of our lives online to prove to people that we are worthy of love and validation.  We’ve missed the opportunity to actually go out, live a real life, and not seek external validation through a screen.  I’m sure others who consume social media feel these annoyances and are guilty of similar feelings.  We were all copying each other’s posts, we all had to follow the trends, and we had to make sure that everyone else knew the things we were doing and achieving.  How important it was to make sure all our followers knew that we had the most amazing sandwich at brunch on Sunday! 

My Real Life Became an Online Life

Even when I hung out with my friends in real life, many of the conversations and actions (including taking bunches of pictures) centered around our online lives.  My friends inspected my Instagram page in front of me and critiqued the things I was sharing, telling me I looked a little too big in that photo, and, oh, here’s an app you can use to photoshop your body.  When I told a friend how excited I was for my upcoming family vacation, her initial reaction was, “Oh my gosh, I can’t imagine how amazing the photos for your Instagram are going to be.”  I overheard a conversation between girls talking about another girl and how she wasn’t worthy of their time because she had “only” 700 followers (which is quite a bunch in my book?!).  I had someone tell me that they would never post some of the things I posted because they were “cringe.”  I wanted to post the things that I wanted to post, not the things that anyone else wanted me to post, but there was constant judgment and pushback from people who had to conform to the “standards” of online life for fear of the exact same criticism they were giving to me.  I ultimately concluded for myself that the very act of posting our personal lives on social media is “cringe” because never before in human history had it been a requirement to lay bare your entire existence to the World Wide Web.  I concluded that the people there, including myself, were taking it way too seriously.  And I wanted to hang out with people who were enjoying living real life, not in a virtual, dystopian world.  It was difficult to find these people, though.

Going Dark and Deleting My Accounts

Living an online life was exhausting.  I was putting so much brain space into the pettiest things that could have been spent on more productive things.  When I entered new environments, it made it more difficult to heal and move on from my past with constant online reminders of my trauma.  And I no longer felt the need to participate in it and try to seek the approval of others.  I wanted to inspire others with my healing story one day, but I needed to actually start working on my own healing. 

So, I permanently deleted all my social media accounts, stopped looking at what everyone else was doing, and went through a deep, soul-searching process, asking myself what I really wanted.  Did I want a simpler life?  Yes.  Did I want everything to stop being a life-or-death situation when these things really didn’t matter?  Yes.  Should I start saving up for 100 acres and a tiny home?  Maybe.  Should I move to Europe?  Sounds nice.  Should I go back home? Not yet.  Should I become a Buddhist?  They seem genuinely content.  Should I set off on a pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago in Spain that I heard about on that one podcast, where the guest speaker reported that her life did a complete 180 after she walked it and returned to America?  Should I do that thing that Aaron Rogers did where he locked himself in a dark cabin for a few days, forcing himself to sit with his own thoughts?  What did I want?

My fulfillment and consistent contentment are found within me

This process and the questions they produced spanned many years.  It was actually really amazing giving myself the time and space to ponder these things without the temptation to compare my life to the carefully fabricated highlight reels of others.  As much as I tried to tell myself I could handle social media, I couldn’t, and I knew that for myself, so I finally pulled the plug and got off everything.  I was off for almost 8 years, giving myself years to discover who I was and take all the time I needed to find myself.  I can’t say I’ve fully found myself yet (has anyone?), but I am now able to participate in online communities as long as I set limits for myself, not think about it too hard, and remind myself each time I enter the app that nothing on there is real life. 

My True Fulfillment Does Not Come from a Screen

I finally recognized that my true fulfillment does not come from anything external or materialistic.  It especially does not come from the temporary validation of others.  My fulfillment and consistent contentment are found within me.  Regardless of the external things in my life, I can be content where I am while still having ambition for the future.  There is no need to put an insane amount of pressure on myself.  I do not need to think that I have to do what everyone else is doing to be worthy because that isn’t the case.  Most of the things I thought I had to do growing up were only because I saw that everyone else was doing them and they were shoved into my face all the time through social media, but I knew deep down these things wouldn’t bring me fulfillment.  I didn’t know at the time that there were other options for personal fulfillment besides what I was seeing online, but when I started seeing bits and pieces of a wide world out there of endless possibilities that more closely aligned with who I wanted to be, I no longer was even tempted to think about what everyone else was doing on social media as I started exploring those options for myself.

Understanding that nothing online necessarily equates with reality

Healing is on my own timeline.  And I like the little life I’ve built without the pressure to achieve any societal milestones imposed by others.  I would stand beside others and celebrate theirs when they had them, but I knew that I was not ready to jump into things for myself just because I felt like I had to.  I was able to reenter online communities almost a decade later with a new mindset based on a foundation of contentment with myself and an understanding that nothing online necessarily equates with reality, so there’s no need for me to feel like I’m not doing enough or that I’m not good enough.  I will share the things that I want to share, the things that are meaningful to me, and the things about my story that may lend a helping hand to others struggling. 

Everyone has a choice.

Everyone has a choice with social media.  Everyone has a choice with what they share. Everyone has a choice with what they consume.  It is a choice if we look at what people share and allow ourselves to feel negatively in response.  Although I made the choice to rejoin one platform, I have very strict limits for myself, and I prioritize my contentment first.  True contentment, for me, comes from embracing the imperfections and messiness of real life while not taking anything too seriously. 

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.

Natalie Rose

My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently sick and broken beyond repair. I spent over a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it.

♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡

Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Trauma can damage the brain and shrink the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.

♡ My Story ♡

I endured multiple types of traumas starting at around age thirteen, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty. Some of these situations forced me to switch environments. My body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did. The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in—religion and the medical system itself—caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.

♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡

What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain.

♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡

I am excited to share tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome things like dissociation, flashbacks, sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable. I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. I hope to encourage other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.

♡ Personal Blog ♡

To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com

“I’m lonely. And I’m lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic.”― Augusten Burroughs, “Dry”

All of us feel lonely from time to time. Whether it comes from a change of circumstances (moving, new job, kids leaving home) or is entirely innate, dealing with loneliness is a delicate yet arduous task. 

Acknowledging Loneliness

One of the hardest life lessons is examining your subconscious behaviors. While acknowledging your level of loneliness can be daunting, it remains the key to finding meaningful connections in life. 

Dr. Ramon Diaz, a practicing clinician and guest CPTSD Foundation author, explains:

“Loneliness is generally seen as a mood, not a trait. Moods have physiological and psychological features and properties. According to the Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM-5-TR), loneliness is generally associated with other symptoms that make up the symptomology for clinical depression.” 

“A dopamine imbalance influences loneliness,” states Dr. Diaz who usually employs some of the following treatments:

• Cognitive Behavioral Therapy: Traditional talk therapy can be beneficial as it can focus on the generalized feeling of loneliness and its root cause. Finding mental health can be burdensome, however, with a recent mirage of therapists executing appointments online, it is as easy as ever to secure therapy.
• Identify an “emotional support person/group: Loneliness is influenced by symptoms of depression like hopelessness, low self-worth, and isolated-related behaviors. Allowing yourself the support of this person/group provides a real-world outlet and can be beneficial in understanding subconscious thoughts. 
• Create Mindfulness: A beginner yoga class and meditation can help enhance your calm. 
• Limit Screen Time: 30 minutes per day or less.

There are other ways to stave off loneliness, here are 15 tips supplied by the Mental Health Foundation: https://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/our-work/public-engagement/unlock-loneliness/15-things-do-if-youre-feeling-lonely

Bridge Meaningful Connections

You may have to step out of your “comfort zone” to combat loneliness successfully to create meaningful connections. Some people don’t feel comfortable in social settings, but that is okay. Consider one small step; forget about going from zero to sixty in moments. Being apprehensive is normal and healthy, as some folks have had negative social experiences in the past that linger. Consider these tips to bridge authentic and meaningful connections. 

• Be you: if you are going to take a chance, leave the facade behind
• Make eye contact, present relaxed body language 
• Practice gratitude and empathy: build around these transformative behaviors in earnest when you connect
• Listen intently to help understand, ask questions, and realize sometimes silence is better than a reply
• Volunteer: Helping others is a great way to meet like-minded people, and provides an invaluable public service 

Has loneliness affected your life? Any recommendations on how you have dealt with loneliness? Join the conversation by commenting.

(Photos from Unsplash)

Paul Michael Marinello

Paul Michael Marinello serves as Chief Staff Writer and Blog Manager for CPTSD Foundation. Previous to this role he managed North American Corporate Communications at MSL, a top ten public relations firm where he also served on the board for Diversity & Inclusion for a staff of 80,000. Paul Michael grew up in New York and attended SUNY Farmingdale before starting a ten-year career at Columbia University. He also served as Secretary and Records Management Officer for the Millwood Fire District, appointed annually by an elected board of fire commissioners from 2008 – 2017.

– This a longer article than usual, I wanted to describe my experience as thoroughly as possible –

In 2014, after a traumatic breakup, my daughter moved in with her Dad, with very little money and being officially homeless, I was referred, by Lewisham Council, to Certitude, specifically to their “Shared Lives Scheme”: “Shared Lives is a quality alternative to residential care settings where people live as part of a family.” The page reads as follows: Shared Lives Carers support people within their own homes, either in a long-term arrangement, day support, or on a respite basis, which may be a day, weekend, or a few weeks at a time. People benefit from consistent support from people who know them well and build positive relationships and friendships.”

To be fair, looking at their website now, things have changed, since 2014. The scheme, back then, entailed me being paired up with a “Living Carer.” I was to stay with her for up to two years, depending on my progress. It was a time for me to recuperate and to live independently again, with all the support I needed.

Unfortunately, this isn’t what happened. The day I moved in, I was broken, I didn’t stop crying. I had just lost my home. I wanted to die, every single day. One of the first things M (my” career”) asked me was if “I’d like to join them, on Sunday.” I didn’t understand, what she meant. So, she added: “To church?” I politely declined the offer. At the time I was a practicing Buddhist. 

The next day, as I couldn’t stop crying, I poured my heart out to her. She got talking about her Faith, and, as the curious being I am, I asked her some questions, informing her I had a different faith. Her passion inspired me to go back to my own practice. The next day, we had another chat. She got the Bible out and cited some passages. I felt uncomfortable. I felt she was trying to convince me to join her. I felt it was inappropriate for her – as a carer, to open her Bible. My past training in the homelessness sector taught me not to talk about religion or not to indoctrinate patients. As a support worker, of any kind, you keep your beliefs to yourself. It is called being professional.

This was confirmed to me when they invited me to have dinner with them, Earthquakes just shook Nepal and I was glad someone I knew just come back to the UK, a few days before. When M’s husband, A screamed: “This happened because THEY don’t believe in THE ONE TRUE GOD!!” I left, disgusted the living room.

 “In a few words: she didn’t want me there.”

The other thing M was insisting on was that I save money to get my own TV so I could watch in the privacy of my bedroom. Once, I settled with them to watch TV. She made me feel very uncomfortable. So uncomfortable, I left quickly. In the bedroom I was offered, there was a broken computer desk that I had to get rid of, myself. I asked for a replacement or a small shelf. I never got a replacement. There was a big wardrobe, with a door off its hinges. This was fixed when I was out, without any notice. There seemed to be a few excuses to get into my room when I wasn’t there. They had a living room, with a big dining table but they put stools for me to eat at the kitchen top. The kitchen was small and there was barely any space for 2 people to be in there. I was given one tiny cupboard, for my own food and kitchen ware. I wasn’t allowed to leave a few essentials in the bathroom, such as my soap and toothbrush. In a few words: she didn’t want me there.

I noticed she kept letters inviting me, and herself to attend monthly residents’ groups. She watched everything I did. I was given a few chores but, it was never done properly. The house was cluttered and messy but, I was the problem.

She would forget my laundry days and had to ask her husband if I could do my laundry. She was supposed to cook healthy meals when I first arrived but only bought me microwave meals. 

On a regular basis, she would let the electricity meter run out, and she would be out all day. Turned out, she had a full time job and, adding all her church activities, she was barely in the house. Her full time job was supposed to care for me, to take me out, to provide a safe environment for my recovery. It was evident, I was extra money for her.

She told me to “think positive.” When I replied I didn’t like this piece of advice, she retorted: “What else am I supposed to say?” This was after spending the afternoon in A&E, felling suicidal and being given Valium to calm me down.

Once, as I was swiping the floor, I found a £10 note in a shoe. I was puzzled. What was it doing in one of her shoes? My intuition told me she was testing me: will I take the £10 note? I decided to leave it there, so it was visible. After a couple of days, it was still there, so I told her: “There is £10 in your shoe? isn’t that weird?” The way she feigned her surprise showed me everything I needed to know. It had been a trap.

Another lady arrived a month or so after me. The small cupboard in the kitchen was divided between us. Same thing in the fridge. We had on tiny shelf each. She too had to squeeze in the kitchen to eat. She had a smaller room than I had. She wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. She later was moved to another property within the scheme.

I had complained about things feeling off to S, the manager since I had first moved in. I was told it is always difficult to live in someone’s home and having to adhere to certain rules. It wasn’t the point I was making. The manager was appalled M left us with no electricity, on a regular basis. M was warned but, it still happened. There was talk about moving me to another property. It didn’t happen. I discovered my “flatmate” was moved to the same property I was offered within my first months of living with M and A, but never got to move into. I was unhappy about this.

I kept a record of all the occasions I was called to clean the mess that wasn’t mine. My every move was monitored. I felt persecuted. I WAS persecuted. It escalated until I started to seriously battle with thoughts of self-harm. I acted upon them too. Soon after, I wrote to the manager, again, informing her of my struggles. A meeting with M, herself, and myself was scheduled. I added if they didn’t move me as soon as possible I will fill in a formal complaint. Why wasn’t I moved in the property my flatmate was offered?

“S told me M wanted to punish me, she wanted to harm me with this comment. “

During this meeting, M feigned to be choked at my anger (Didn’t you know individuals diagnosed with BPD are angry monsters?) I never seemed happy and willing to fit in. S brought up the time she read the Bible to me; M challenged me “Which passage of the Bible?” “I don’t know”, I replied, “it is a big book”. “We are a family!” She exclaimed. I flinched! “No, we aren’t.”

 M brushed off the incident of her husband shouting passionately “Those people deserved to die in earthquakes because they didn’t believe in the ONE TRUE GOD.” “I cannot talk for A.” Same as the time A told me off for not picking up THEIR soap off the shower floor.

At the end of the meeting, M declared haughtily: “Well, I didn’t want to bring it up but, your bedroom is very smelly!” She made it sound as if I was one of the most disgusting people in the world. I felt as if I had just been slapped.

I was left alone with the manager, once M left. S told me M wanted to punish me, she wanted to harm me with this comment. She had been in my bedroom, to check if I was comfortable: “It didn’t smell and it was clean and orderly.” S finally through M. She also worked out M was working full time when she wasn’t supposed to.

“How many people, such as M, are using these care schemes, offered full training, to indoctrinated vulnerable individuals into their places of worship? Or just to make themselves feel good and powerful? Or just to get extra money? “

Thankfully, I was moved into my own supported accommodation, soon after. M and A gave me a hard time until the end: “Make sure you leave things as you found them!!” They repeated and again. On the last day, I just shouted at A: “I am leaving!!! Let me be!!” Maybe I should have brought back the broken desk and gotten the wardrobe door off its hinges.

Waiting for my friend to help me move my things, I took a walk. I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t breathe. When the last box was in the car, M asked if I was coming back to clean the bedroom floor and give her my last weekly payment of £20. The money was on the table. I said: “Sure, I’ll come back.” I left the key and never came back.

S sent me a review/ feedback a few weeks after I departed from the scheme. “Your concerns have been taken seriously. M will no longer work for us.” I never sent this feedback letter: I wanted to put all of this behind me.

10 years later, I still have nightmares of becoming homeless and moving into an awful place. I still see M, in my dreams (Nightmares) regularly. I saw her a couple of times in the neighborhood. I still feel anger at the abuse I endured in her “care.” And I am till mad at the way it was mishandled. This is the reason why I am writing about this now.

Even though, I spoke out, loud and clear, it took too long for my warnings to be taken seriously. It shouldn’t have happened. S was a lovely woman, but I wished she had listened to my concerns much earlier.

How many people, such as M, are using these care schemes, offered full training, to then indoctrinate vulnerable individuals into their places of worship? Or just to make themselves feel good and powerful? Or just to get extra money?

I know for a fact that M was sacked from Certitude but, before I left, I saw files on the living room table to join Bromley’s ( South East London – UK) own scheme. I wonder if she is working still, in this capacity? Is she still abusing vulnerable people, in the community? Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was.

I am also sharing this to let others know: that if you are mistreated, talk to someone. I hope and pray someone listens to you and protects you. I know too well we can speak up but, unfortunately, it doesn’t mean we will be listened to and protected. We all deserve a safe place to land, so we can recover from whatever hardships we’ve experienced.

Take gentle care of yourselves.

Sylvie

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Sylvie Rouhani

Writer – Blogger – Poet – Mental Health and Child Abuse Activist

Deputy Editor and Journalist for Taxpayers Against Poverty

Author of The Blossoming Lotus”

https://www.austinmacauley.com/book/blossoming-lotus

New Website: Breaking The Cycles

https://breakingthecycles.co.uk/

breakingthecycles.co.uk