Before You Begin

As you read this, I invite you to set a gentle intention—not to fix or force, but to explore with curiosity. This is not a substitute for medical or therapeutic care, but a resource to enhance your healing journey. Remember, you are not meant to live in a state of perpetual urgency.​

Tension: More Than Muscle

A body locked in tension creates a life that feels tight, restricted, and urgent. Every decision becomes heavier, every interaction more serious, and even rest is tainted with an underlying sense of unease. Tension isn’t just a physical experience—it’s a nervous system state that shapes your perception of reality.​

Chronic muscular tension is a signal, not just a symptom. It tells the story of how your nervous system has been responding to life—whether through bracing, guarding, or suppressing emotions. A tense body mirrors a mind that is on high alert, constantly scanning for danger, caught in loops of overthinking, or unable to fully let go.​

The Neurobiology of Tension

Our brains and bodies are in constant conversation. When stress, fear, or unresolved emotions are present, the sympathetic nervous system (our fight-or-flight response) takes the lead, releasing cortisol and adrenaline to prepare for action. This creates a cycle of hyper-vigilance, where even moments of stillness feel like something to be endured rather than embraced.​

The insular cortex, a brain region responsible for interoception (our ability to sense internal sensations and states), becomes hypersensitive under prolonged stress, making us more aware of discomfort yet unable to break free from it. At the same time, the prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for rational thought and decision-making—can become hijacked by limbic system overactivity, making it harder to think clearly, regulate emotions, or feel at ease.​

Tension, in this way, is not just a tight muscle—it’s a reflection of an overburdened nervous system.​

Pain—whether physical or emotional—is not just something we feel, but something the brain interprets. And it’s not always a reflection of tissue damage or injury. In fact, our brains are constantly filtering incoming signals from the body and weighing them against past experiences, emotional states, and perceived threats. Pain is a protective response, not a direct measure of harm.

This is why chronic tension matters so deeply.

The Overlap Between Emotional and Physical Pain

Neuroscience has shown that emotional pain activates many of the same brain regions as physical pain—particularly the anterior cingulate cortex and insula. When someone experiences rejection, loss, shame, or emotional overwhelm, these areas light up as though the body has been physically injured. This overlap explains why emotional wounds can feel so visceral, and why chronic stress and unprocessed emotions often manifest as chronic tension or persistent pain.

“Pain is an opinion on the organism’s state of health rather than a mere reflexive response to injury.”— Dr. Ronald Melzack, co-creator of the Gate Control Theory of Pain

When stress, grief, or trauma is held in the body over time—unfelt, unmet, or unexpressed—it doesn’t simply disappear. It gets stored in the fascia, joints, and muscles as bracing, guarding, and holding patterns. Chronic muscular tension becomes the body’s way of saying, “I’m not safe yet.”

Tension isn’t weakness. It’s the body’s brilliant way of protecting itself. But over time, this chronic guarding creates a kind of neural overfocus on danger, leaving the sensory system out of balance:

• When a joint is immobile, strained, or stuck, surrounding muscles tighten in response.
• This stiffness restricts mechanoreception (the brain’s ability to detect safe, normal sensation).
• The reduced sensory input from healthy movement leaves more “room” for pain signals to dominate.
• The brain, trying to protect us, amplifies the pain response—a process called central sensitization.

This is how pain becomes persistent, even when the original injury has long since healed.

“The body keeps the score. If the memory of trauma is encoded in the viscera, in heartbreaking and gut-wrenching sensations… then words cannot fully access those imprints.”— Bessel van der Kolk, M.D.

Think of chronic tension as frozen energy. It’s a body in pause, waiting for permission to release. It shows up in clenched jaws, lifted shoulders, shallow breath, and the subtle ways we brace against life. Over time, this tension creates fatigue, irritability, reduced mobility, and a sense that even rest isn’t truly restful.

And yet, the answer isn’t just to stretch the muscle or take a painkiller. That may soothe the surface, but it won’t resolve the underlying pattern.

What’s needed is a rebalancing of sensory input through conscious, intentional movement that reawakens safety in the nervous system.

Movement: The Medicine We’re Wired For

To support healing and rewiring our brains, it’s important to remember how we are wired for movement. From birth, movement is not only essential for survival but also for the development of motor control, proprioception, and emotional regulation. As modern neuroscience continues to uncover, conscious, intentional movement is a key pillar in nervous system restoration—particularly for those recovering from chronic tension, trauma, and pain-related conditions.​

One compelling framework that explains how movement influences pain and nervous system regulation is the Gate Control Theory of Pain. Proposed by Ronald Melzack and Patrick Wall in 1965, this theory suggests that non-painful input can close the “gates” to painful input, preventing pain sensation from traveling to the central nervous system. This mechanism helps explain why activities like gentle movement, touch, and pressure can alleviate pain by overriding pain signals.

Engaging in movement—particularly movement that restores normal joint function and mechanoreception—can significantly reduce pain perception, downregulate the sympathetic nervous system, and restore the body’s ability to feel safe in motion.​

Yoga: A Pathway to Restoration, Relief and Regulation

Yoga is one of the most researched movement-based interventions for nervous system regulation, pain relief, and emotional resilience. 

Conscious movement—whether through yoga, somatic practices, or functional mobility—is more than physical exercise. It’s a way to restore the body’s sense of safety and balance the nervous system’s perception of threat.

Research supports this:

• Active movement restores joint function and mechanoreceptive input, sending signals to the brain that say, “This part of me is safe again.”
• Movement activates sensory pathways that compete with and quiet pain pathways, as described by the Gate Control Theory.
• Rhythmic, intentional motion stimulates the vagus nerve, helping the body shift from fight-or-flight into rest-and-digest.
• Movement fosters proprioception and interoception, enhancing emotional regulation and helping us reconnect with ourselves from the inside out.

Neuroimaging studies have shown that yoga can modulate pain perception by increasing grey matter density in brain regions associated with pain regulation.​

Short-term solutions like medications or passive bodywork can ease discomfort temporarily. But long-term healing requires re-education of the nervous system through active, embodied engagement.

Pain is not your enemy. Tension is not a personal failure. They are messengers—reminders that something within you is asking to be acknowledged, met, and moved.

What if, instead of fighting your pain, you asked it: What are you trying to protect? What do you need to feel safe enough to soften?

And then, through conscious breath, gentle motion, and a tender willingness to listen, you offered your body the answer.

“You do not have to be good. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”— Mary Oliver

The Path Forward

A life of tension is not inevitable. It is not your natural state, nor is it your burden to carry indefinitely. The body is meant to oscillate—to move between activity and rest, engagement and relaxation, pain and joy. Through intention, awareness, and small daily choices, you can shift from gripping to a state of flow.​

This is not about erasing tension, but about transforming your relationship with it. The more informed ways you listen, not just to pain but to the finer and more subtle signals of alarm, safety, and ease, the less the body shouts – all voices can be heard and new gateways are slowly invited to open. The more you allow, ease off rather than push past or through, the less the nervous system resists you. And the more you bring intention to your experience, life has the potential to meet you with greater ease.​

Images Created by Author 

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.

Roseanne Reilly

Roseanne Reilly DipNUR, APCST, ERYT500hr CEP specializing in Restoring Safety to the Nervous System

Roseanne comes from a Background of Nursing, She is an Advanced CranioSacral Therapist, Experienced Yoga Teacher and Health Educator and contributor to the Nervous System Economy

Roseanne provides research based tools and resources for nervous systems restoration following chronic and trauma stress

She provides insights from her own healing journey towards recovery, through blogs, weekly resources, work shops, courses, 1 to 1 mentoring and small group sessions

Linkedin:https://www.linkedin.com/in/roseanne-reilly-3014a0200/

website address: https://handsoftimehealing.com/

www.handsoftimehealing.com

I hide so deeply, beyond my ability to see and to understand

I forced myself to write this. I felt it to be an insight that should be noted before it returns to a state of amnesia. A shrunken statue of a once vibrant self seems to lie frozen, mummified, wounded within me, and I have no way of definitively reaching it. It recoils in fear, creating a suffocating anxiety when I am watched or in the presence of another person. I cannot control this. My lungs constrict, my mind races, and becomes cloudy. I feel too vulnerable and must escape. As I gasp for breath to fill my lungs, hypervigilance consumes me, knowing others hear my struggle to breathe. I try to hide the dysfunction I manifest from others’ eyes, knowing they will react to me with reciprocal anxiety. It can be contagious. How do I talk about it with the others in my life in the moment? I hide so deeply, beyond my ability to see and to understand. I feel powerless over the now apparent automatic anxiety reaction.

As I sit and write my novel, envisioning my characters on the page being respected, revered, glorified, and honored, that hidden childhood statue within me weeps beyond my awareness, understanding, and control. All I see is the constant stream of tears consuming me, simply at witnessing the positive regard shown to my book’s heroes. The storybook figures are unconsciously the grandiose desire of that little child within me, desperately needing to be affirmed as lovable and acceptable. Yes, I am hiding! That statue is locked away deep, manifesting in the unexplained flowing of tears, fighting mightily to remain subconscious. I know deep anxiety, depression, and the completely awkward, socially odd crying as I hyper-empathize with others’ tears and emotional pain.

I live in my head, acutely witnessing my numb feelings. That numbness has pushed my wounded inner child so deeply into that place where trauma cannot be found, its secret hiding place. It is too painful to see and witness. I gasp for breath and weep, dissociated from a reason why. I don’t know how to fix this problem. I cannot feel or see that frozen statue of self. I just know it exists. This came to me at one point, reading my novel while drowning in tears at the hero’s and heroine’s deep respect and esteem from others. It is amazing how our subconscious mind works, symbolically creating storybook figures that tell and know of my needs. Those needs of which, generally, I am unaware.

I need to find the core, the inner shrunken statue’s place in my interior reality (an expedition now lived and undertaken in therapy). Though I don’t fully know how, it has been a tremendous struggle to soothe the toxic energy, even with years of therapy. I have tried self-love development and am coming along on that path, but I struggle to love something that hides from my eyes and awareness to the point that so often, I do not recall that it exists. In an emotional flashback, you do not always see the events that amnesia hides from awareness. I think this statue of myself is hidden in that way or in that special place that cannot be seen or easily touched. I don’t know, but that is how it all seems. I feel blocked and stuck because of this, and I sincerely question my ability to conquer this problem, as so many of my journal writings speak. Writings do not mean a thing until I can heal myself or significantly lessen my suffering, proving to myself that therapy does indeed work. Am I different from other sufferers of CPTSD or trauma disorders in this regard? I often wonder. I know that little boy was damaged so badly. Trauma can be a dictator, forcing one’s authentic free-floating being into a petrified wooden statue of blinding and binding inhibitions.

Cover Image Created with AI

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

Jesse Donahue

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

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

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

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

 Jesse B. Donahue

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

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

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

I can see the powerful impact that self-expression makes upon the world of others and, most fundamentally, within myself.

The morning shines with a new day rising, and we don our clothes, our suit adorned, accentuating our desired impression upon the world of others, or simply utilitarian in covering ourselves by social law. It goes mostly unnoticed, superficial in its importance to the day, at least by most. It is routine. To be simplistic, we put on clothes as part of being an animal that wears clothes, but do we really feel the full impact of our attire, or as I have referred to, our suit? There is more than one way to conceive of a suit being worn as an impression spoken to the world and oneself. That is what this essay entails: the multifaceted expressions of being suited up to meet the day. There is a new awakening within me. I can see the powerful impact that self-expression makes upon the world of others and, most fundamentally, within myself.

Shakespeare spoke of the whole world as a stage. We are the actors performing on the stage of human life. The costume’s powerful impressions so often go mostly unnoticed, having been relegated to the subconscious mind. Many of us do not pay attention to the impact our image empowers in ourselves and others. Nor do we realize how impactful a negative self-expression is to our state of mind. I have come to see the image worn and shown to the public as being far more than a fabric creatively shaped and adorned by individuals. Our image is expressed by our appearance and by emotional and physical factors that do not directly relate to clothing but are nonetheless a part of the suit we present to the world. One’s physical beauty and one’s visible attitudes toward experiencing life are all expressions shown as a part of a package presented to our social world.

Studies have shown that people like those with beautiful, desired features and traits. That is not to say those of us who are less attractive are not liked and loved. Beauty is praised and sought after in our culture. We feel the indoctrination by the media’s propaganda, commercial after commercial. I must confess that seeing an extraordinarily beautiful woman can feel like a religious experience. As if fulfilling a poetic masterpiece. Beauty can be captivating, somewhat similar to free entrance into a show that fulfills the senses. Why am I writing my impressions of expressing to the world the suit we wear and show to others? It is because I have witnessed a previously unnoticed phenomenon within myself. In my life, I have experienced, over varying durations of time, a sense of my emotions being numb as though I am deadened to certain emotions of life’s experiences. At other times in my life, those feelings were a bit more vibrant, at least they felt as if they were radiating in a more natural flow.

Interestingly, awareness of all this was blocked from my ability to recall that information.

As I was talking with a friend, I was speaking of my experience of not being as able to feel a sense of sexual energy in my life as I had known in the past. Well, I am getting on into the years, but still, it dawned on me that it may be partly the suit I am presenting to the world that is sapping my free flow of emotions. It is more, far more, than just being improperly or poorly dressed. Of course, we have all heard it said that the suit makes the man or woman. In many ways, that is true, if others think so and if we believe it is so. I am overweight. It was not so long ago that I had lost thirty pounds, and caught myself at that time, several years ago, paying attention to my sexual energy re-awakening. “Now what the hell is this all about?” I asked myself. Since that time, all that weight has returned, and those energies are again turned down. Interestingly, awareness of all this was blocked from my ability to recall that information.

Here again, I’ve noticed that age is a factor that has turned down the burner on energies that once churned in my life. It may be a bit of a normal slowing down, being a part of the aging process… but. Here too, I had seen a psychic picture of myself recalled from a couple of years ago of a man standing in front of the mirror and seeing, deeply, an aging man, Grandpa. That changed my life. It changed my mindset and put up psychological barriers to seeing myself as that younger man I had always known. I’ve come to see that my being emotionally blocked from my free-floating energy from my past is “my projection” onto others as to how they think and feel about me. My internalized experience of myself as being overweight and now being older has shut down my inner energies and left me repressed and blocked. This same phenomenon pertains to other issues in my life where energies, once more present, and where feelings had been experienced, are now absent or turned down, living in a state of numbness.

What is our sense of self?

This acknowledgment awakened my understanding of my ability to project onto others my feelings and attitudes about myself being overweight, “projection.” I fear I will not be as welcomed by others, so I turn myself off and emotionally hide (though not consciously). The same stands true for my age. I project onto others that they will be less interested in me (the “Grandpa Syndrome,” I should call this), so I turn myself off and avoid many interactions. It is my thinking that certain expectations are no longer met for one who is older or overweight. I am no longer that skinny young man. My deep-seated belief about myself is shutting down my energies. I have no real clue of what others are thinking, even though I tell myself they will not be as welcoming to me. I do not like myself as I am. My eyes create the problem. The problem does not emanate from others.
The bottom line: our expression of self to the world outside, adorned with colorful glittery jewelry, and fine expensive fabrics, is all just a self-illusion if we do not love the being that we are. Who would we be in our minds if we did not have the glittering jewels, fancy car, the expensive house, and on and on and on? When you stop and think about it, one is either loved for who they are, or they are not loved at all. Am I being naive here? If the fancy adornments are necessary to be loved within our mind, where does that leave us if we misplace our required artifacts that accentuate our expression to the world? Those who love us: will they really change their feelings toward us if we no longer shine with the image I seem to have always felt is needed? Was that image needed? Have they loved the image of who I present to the world, and not me? Who am I really? Would that leave me unlovable, or show they are capable of only loving an external presentation of who they want me to be? In the end, self-acceptance, self-understanding, and self-love are what I have been trying to grasp. With or without the outer costume to the world, if we do not love ourselves, it creates all sorts of issues in our lives. Some are not so impactful, but others can be critical in their effect on our happiness or lack thereof, upon even our ability to feel and experience the free flow of our own emotions. Where is our true identity? What is our sense of self?

Photo by Mohamed Jamil Latrach on Unsplash

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

Jesse Donahue

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

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

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

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

 Jesse B. Donahue

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

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

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

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.

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

Despite entering the mental health system over ten years ago, I didn’t learn about “complex trauma” or “Complex PTSD” until about three years ago. At 18, I received a PTSD diagnosis from a psychiatrist, five years after my prolonged trauma during high school had begun. This diagnosis came amid a confusing mix of various other diagnoses from different providers over the years, which further obscured an effective healing plan. Even when I worked with multiple providers who intended to collaborate, they often disagreed about my “mental illness” and the best approach to “fix” it. With all these conflicting and dehumanizing labels, I felt like a hopeless outcast in a society of “normal” people. Being burdened with nearly every possible diagnosis in the DSM resulted in a bewildering array of treatments for my “mental illness,” none of which actually addressed my root issue: trauma. There was never a need to complicate anything about it.

For years, I underwent tests, treatments, and psych meds in an attempt to alleviate my symptoms. Many times, the side effects from these treatments – especially the psych meds – were worse than the “condition” these providers were trying to cure. Unfortunately, it took me years to realize that psych medications were never the solution for my trauma-related struggles.

During most of my time in the mental health system, my mind felt very foggy. I was a disoriented, dissociated, and overmedicated young girl trying to navigate the challenges of my teenage years and young adulthood, which already come with their own drama. My experiences with misdiagnosis and overmedication will be the subject of extensive writing in the future, but for now, I’m providing context regarding the journey I’ve embarked to find answers. I have been subjected to nearly every possible treatment, all promising me peace and all ultimately failing me.

Putting the world on pause

Something had to change, and I realized that I had to spearhead that change. I embarked on a quest to understand the complexities of CPTSD. Inspired by Thoreau’s Walden, I put everything in my life on pause, moved to the countryside, and spent time in solitude. With this refreshed mindset, I immersed myself in the research and data surrounding CPTSD.

Moving to the countryside and eliminating stress naturally alleviated many of my symptoms. I had more time on my hands than I had ever had before. I focused on simple approaches to caring for my health, such as improving my nutrition, making lifestyle adjustments, exercising, and practicing breathwork and meditation. With this solid foundation in place, I felt ready to fully dedicate myself to unraveling the mystery of CPTSD while keeping my self-care as my top priority.

Stepping out into the world again

I bravely stepped out to do things I never thought I would do. Things that terrified me. I wanted to do these things, though, believing that they might bring me closer to understanding CPTSD, both for myself and for other survivors. Stepping out of my comfort zone greatly boosted my confidence. I became a guest contributor for the Complex PTSD Foundation, which gave me a voice after years of feeling unheard.

Being vulnerable in writing about my experiences has been incredibly liberating. While my pen flies, the rest of the world fades away. I allow myself to feel my emotions and let the seeds in my mind blossom into a beautiful garden on paper. I don’t have any professional writing experience beyond my school education, and I had never considered myself a “writer” before. When I write about my experiences, my thoughts can extend to about 8,000 words on just one topic – far beyond the suggested word count! This is all part of the healing process for me. I enjoy revisiting my writing, making it concise, and preparing it to present publicly. I don’t worry too much about achieving perfection; I believe that other survivors just want to hear a voice that is relatable and authentic. By the feedback I receive on my writings, I’ve come to realize that many CPTSD survivors are suffering in silence. I see that my words have offered them comfort and encouragement, letting them know that healing is possible.

Both online and in person, I’ve connected with survivor communities and engaged in one-on-one conversations with some truly extraordinary people. I have also started volunteering with local PTSD-related organizations to broaden my understanding of trauma and empathize with others whose experiences differ from mine, yet who have shared similar feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, and despair.

Through this journey, I’ve learned so much about my fellow survivors and continue to discover more daily. 

What I’ve learned about complex trauma survivors

What I’ve learned about us is that we never give up. Despite the limited and often misleading information available, we go to great lengths to find answers that help us understand why our minds, bodies, and psyches endure so much pain and how we can find relief. Unfortunately, we often find no real guidance, leaving us feeling like outsiders in this world, as if we are the only ones carrying this level of suffering.

What I’ve learned about us is that our pain can be so excruciating that we sometimes feel the only way to escape it is to end our lives. Yet somehow, we continue to hold on by a thin thread, refusing to give up hope in our search for answers.

What I’ve learned about us is that even a brief 10-second break from our suffering – just one moment of peace – can feel like a taste of heaven. However, these moments are so unfamiliar to us that when we experience them, we often feel uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and terrified. As a result, we quickly revert back to our comfort zone of constant anguish. This isn’t our fault; it is simply what we have known for far too long. 

What I’ve learned about us is that many of us entered the mental health system with good intentions and a desperate need for help, only to encounter further trauma from the very professionals who promised to protect us.

What I’ve learned about us is that many people around us – both within the medical system and outside of the system – often misunderstand our experiences due to ignorance and lack of awareness about trauma. As a result, they tend to label us as troubled, crazy, mentally ill, or disturbed, without taking the time to listen to our struggles beyond their preconceived judgments. This lack of understanding often leads us to isolate ourselves even further.

What I’ve learned about us is that many of us have always felt like we never belonged in society. We see ourselves as black sheep, lost in the crowd, never truly fitting in. This feeling stems from our uniqueness; we were never meant to conform to the masses.

What I’ve learned about us is that we look beyond the superficial aspects of life. We prioritize self-actualization and care deeply about the experiences and suffering of those around us. This profound introspection often overshadows our interest in the trivialities that others get caught up in, which is another reason we struggle to fit in. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we are detail-oriented. We notice the small things in life – the beauty of a rainbow after a storm, a lone dandelion in a vast field, or a gentle breeze brushing against our cheeks, reminding us of the freedom we once had before encountering the harsh realities of the world. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we often carry a deep sense of self-guilt, viewing ourselves as some of the most despicable people on the planet. In truth, we possess some of the purest hearts, and there was never a reason to feel guilty in the first place; we were always doing our best with the knowledge we had at the time. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we believe we’re “not normal,” but it is actually those who have harmed us who are abnormal.

What I’ve learned about us is that, regardless of how we were treated, we choose not to repeat that cycle of abuse. We don’t seek revenge for what has been done to us. Instead, we heal our pain privately and face our experiences with love and kindness when interacting with the world.

What I’ve learned about us is that we go about our daily lives – working, raising children, and managing the stressors of everyday life – while masking intense pain and pretending that nothing is wrong. We care more about the people around us than we do about ourselves. Out of this deep compassion, we neglect self-care in order to take care of others.

What I’ve learned about us is that we’re incredibly strong. In fact, the word “strong” doesn’t even begin to capture our resilience. We are impenetrable fortresses built from the mightiest oak.

As of today, I am nearing the end of my quest to understand my own suffering after more than a decade of seeking external solutions. I now live a peaceful and content life in my happy place. I have resolved most of what my body held onto for so long and am focused on rebuilding my confidence and creating the life I’ve always dreamed of.

Over the past year, I have dedicated myself entirely to healing – an endeavor that, unfortunately, has not resulted in financial compensation, but whose results are worth more than any amount of money in the entire world. I am excited to continue writing about my experiences, hoping that sharing them will help other survivors. 

If my words resonate with you, keep on fighting. I see you. I hear you. I believe you, and I believe you will conquer. If you keep working to rediscover who you are at your core and reject the lies from your past, you will achieve your beautiful dream of freedom and a peaceful life.

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.

Photo by Marina Leonova: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-woman-s-hand-over-a-map-7634232/

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

What’s the tightrope I walk of being a woman in the society I live in? 

When a woman knows her worth, some men feel threatened by her.

When a woman knows her worth, some women feel threatened by her. 

If a woman is confident, knows what she wants, is assertive, and keeps her head held high, she’s arrogant, she’s a braggart, she’s another word that also starts with the letter “B,” and she needs to shut up.

If a woman is soft-spoken in her mannerisms and voice, she’s weak, she’s a pushover, and she’s not a team player.

If she falls in the middle, she’s lost in the background and has nothing to offer.

If her dresses are too short, she’s promiscuous and was asking for it.

If her dresses are long, she’s a prude and has no sex appeal.

If her dresses fall somewhere in the middle, she’ll get catcalled regardless, and it’s still her fault for being a temptress.

If a woman gets married and has children in her early 20s, she’s “rushing her life,” and she’ll be divorced in 10 years anyway.

If a woman doesn’t get married until her late 30s, she’s “an old maid,” and it’s such a shame that no one wanted her while she was in her prime.

If a woman never marries or has children, she’s not carrying out what she’s “supposed” to according to societal expectations. 

As a woman, I’ve gotten criticism from every angle throughout my life.

I began my undergraduate studies in computer science and learned on the first day of class that wearing a bright yellow sundress to class probably wasn’t the best idea; the stares that the guys in the class gave me showed what they were really thinking: “She’s lost.”

I would stand in line at the career fair for internships at technology companies and get comments from my male peers in the line like, “This booth is for Software Engineering roles only” and “Well… you don’t look like a computer scientist.” I thought to myself: Then, what’s a computer scientist supposed to look like? 

Even churches weren’t immune. Although I had just turned twenty, I was always asked, “Where’s your husband?” When they found out I was still single, they’d say with great fervor, “Well, don’t you worry, we’ll find you your knight in shining armor!” Am I really some sort of damsel in distress who needs a knight in shining armor to come to save me? 

In high school, I was the only female on the robotics team with about 25 other boys, and many of them were so uncomfortable with my presence that they couldn’t even look me in the eyes or call me by name. I never felt uncomfortable around them, but the fact that they felt uncomfortable around me made me feel uncomfortable.

I tinkered with robots and Arduinos at school; then after school, I threw on my leotard and tights to go practice my pirouettes at the dance studio. This was my norm. I was never ashamed of embracing my femininity and holding my own while pursuing what I was genuinely passionate about, no matter what kind of environment I was in.

When I reflect on the conflicting standards of womanhood our society holds, they don’t make sense to me. I’ve come to realize that I’ll never please everyone, nor should I have to. The closed-minded opinions people hold about a woman’s role only result in confusion and judgment when they encounter someone who breaks their static view of what is “normal” in our society. And I’m finally okay with that.

What’s my personal definition of womanhood?

I lose track of time for six hours designing a website, and then I’ll go dance my heart out at dance class so I can get a break from the laptop. The clothes in my closet range from bright, flowery, frilly dresses to sweatpants and ginormous T-shirts, as well as my Jiu-Jitsu training gear. (It’s great for self-defense!)

Although I’ve struggled with acne and rosacea for many years, I don’t wear any makeup like I did when I was a teenager. I embrace the imperfections on my skin and no longer feel the need to cover up those blemishes. I love my natural hair color, so I don’t get it colored at the salon. In the mornings, I don’t flat iron or curl my hair either; I just let it hang loose the way it is or throw it into a messy bun and get about my day. It’s a rarity that I get my nails done anymore—in the past, I only kept up with that expensive hobby to fit in with the other women in the environments I was in. Over time, I decided that money could be spent on more productive things such as online courses and other opportunities for personal growth.

Although it seems that many women my age are already married and on their first baby, I am confident in my singleness and the time I’ve had to embrace my journey of healing and self-discovery. Establishing fierce independence at this age has given me the confidence to know that if I ever do get married, I will know who I am at my core and will not need to depend on another person to take care of me.

I’ve regained the ambition and creativity I had during childhood, and I’m putting in the time and effort to decide how I want to live the rest of my life and achieve my personal goals. I forgive easily, am not afraid to listen to someone who has a different opinion than my own, and have a “live and let live” philosophy. I own my actions and don’t shy away from hard conversations.

Regardless of my ability to be social when needed, I’m not one to hang out in large crowds, go to concerts or sports games, or revel in gossip circles or petty drama. My idea of weekend fun is cozying up at home alone with my fuzzy socks and blanket, lighting my favorite cranberry apple-scented candle, and losing myself in a good book.

This is my personal definition of womanhood. 

I love embracing what makes me unique in my womanhood and not letting anyone define my femininity. Although I second-guessed myself in the past, I no longer feel guilty when I don’t submit to any standards of who a woman “should” be according to the world I live in. I choose my own path the way that I want to walk it, without fear of admonishment or punishment from others. In a society that profits off of women’s insecurities and fears, this can be a lonely path, but I no longer feel threatened by other people’s closed-minded opinions.

I am proud that I have finally gotten to the point on my journey where I no longer feel the need to change who I am to make anyone — whether a man or a woman — approve of me.

I am Natalie Rose, and I am proud to be me.

Photo by Brian Mann 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.

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 wouldn’t inflict the extreme torture of Complex PTSD on anyone. No one deserves to feel like this – perpetually hating, punishing, and castigating myself – all while pretending like nothing is wrong with the rest of society. Even in sleep, there is no solace – the insomnia, night terrors, and sleep paralysis are often worse than my pain during the daytime. 

What does Complex PTSD feel like to me? 

It is a daily solitary confinement sentence in a shrinking prison cell of my own mind and body. The tiny walls close in on me, and the claustrophobia sets in. 

It is daily reruns of excruciatingly painful traumatic flashbacks, unable to exorcise them from my psyche. 

It is my family and friends who love me and just want to see me happy. They know my worth, but I can’t see it.

It is seeing the goodness in everyone else but being blind to anything good in me. 

It is never forgiving myself and consistently punishing myself while being wracked with constant anger and rage at both everything and nothing at the same time. 

It is never having hatred for another human being but hating myself with a fiery, burning passion. 

It is not allowing myself to believe I have trauma because, on the outside, I live a blessed life and should have no reason to feel so miserable and afraid. 

It is seeing a neurologist because I’m confused as to why my body is experiencing such unusual symptoms, and I need to rule out disease. 

It is not knowing who I am anymore and wanting to return to the light I had before it was almost completely blown out. 

It is protecting myself in isolation but enduring further anxiety and depression from the isolation. 

It is throwing away the clothes that remind me of my trauma because I can’t bear to look at them. 

It is looking in the mirror and not being able to recognize myself or believe that I am real. 

It is constantly reliving the past, unable to focus on the present or the future. 

It is losing the academic ambition and creativity I had growing up and not knowing how to get it back. 

It is having involuntary face and body tics while violently yelling things to shake off the flashbacks that are infiltrating my mind. 

It is trying every form of treatment without results, only to have even worse side effects. 

It is compulsively repenting to God and reciting Bible passages I memorized so I can be forgiven for how awful I am. 

It is desperately trying to hold onto the hope that there is a loving God out there, even after the years of spiritual abuse that shook my faith to the core. 

It is waiting to die so I can finally be at peace. 

It is vomiting randomly because my body can’t take the pain. 

It is developing random bruises on my body for no reason other than the extreme stress and hypervigilance I am under. 

It is receiving 25 different diagnoses over many years from professionals ignorant about trauma, being degraded, dehumanized, and feeling like a disgrace to society because I am “mentally ill.”

It is putting my trust in medical providers and them taking advantage of my vulnerability. 

It is seeking help to understand my symptoms, being laughed at and told, “That’s not normal.”

It is trying so many different medications, nothing working, and experiencing even deeper side effects, like increased suicidal ideation, weight gain, akathisia, and medication-induced psychosis. 

It is going out of my way to be kind and loving to everyone I meet, no matter how much torture I am in on the inside. 

It is not offering that same kindness to myself. 

It is walking down the street and seeing the faces of my past tormentors on strangers’ faces. 

It is not being able to say “no” even when I am uncomfortable because I want to please everyone and get their approval. 

It is being terrified of everyone and everything and feeling inferior, even to the water bottle sitting on my desk. 

It is experiencing constant panic attacks at random times, even in public. 

It is being drawn to abusive personalities because I think that’s the way I deserve to be treated. 

It is turning my camera off during Zoom meetings so my coworkers don’t notice that I’m dissociating or experiencing trauma responses. 

It is experiencing sleep paralysis that is so painful I’m terrified to go back to sleep. 

It is setting 15-minute alarms when I sleep to wake me up from the night terrors, taking a few minutes to catch my breath, and then setting another 15-minute alarm for the next set of night terrors. 

It is being raped by demons in my sleep, slammed against the walls of my apartment by evil entities, and being given CPR by four police officers, feeling all this physically but not being able to distinguish reality from fiction. 

It is experiencing narcolepsy, falling asleep involuntarily in the middle of my daily tasks. 

It is believing that those who relentlessly criticized, controlled, mocked, and hated me were right about me. It is seeking their approval and working to “fix” the things about me that anger them so much. 

It is internalizing others’ negative emotions about me and making them my own. 

It is hating hearing my own name being said out loud. 

It is walking into a room where people are laughing, and I think that they’re laughing at me. 

It is masking my pain so well that people are shocked to learn the depth of my suffering. 

It is regularly typing things into search engines like, “What is the percentage success rate of jumping in front of a train?”

It is wishing someone would just stab me in the side so the blood would be visible, and I could be taken away to heal the wounds that I have no idea how to heal. 

It is not allowing myself to pursue the hobbies I enjoy that allow me a moment of freedom and peace. 

It is being terrified of social situations. 

It is thinking that everything is my fault and blaming myself for everything, even when I am the victim. 

It is forcing myself to get out of bed when I just can’t. 

It stops me when I laugh or smile and prevents me from experiencing it because I don’t think I deserve it. 

It is throwing away my TVs and not allowing myself to listen to music because I feel guilty experiencing joy. 

It is believing that the top three most evil human beings to ever exist were Hitler, Stalin, and me. 

It is believing every compliment is given with an ulterior motive. 

It is being angry at myself because my brain and body are stuck at a younger age in their survival mechanisms from when I was first targeted. 

It is wishing that someone – anyone – would empathize with the level of pain I’m in. 

It is trying desperately to explain it to them, but not being able to put it into words. 

It is constantly dissociating in the middle of conversations or work, not understanding why I can’t focus. 

It is believing that people are out to get me, that I’m constantly being watched, analyzed, and criticized. 

It is wanting to live in hiding and isolation so that no one notices my flaws or even thinks about me. 

It is physically and emotionally punishing myself with self-harm. 

There’s so much more I could say, but there really is no other way to describe the pain of Complex PTSD besides absolute psychological torture. I really want to believe that the symptoms I am experiencing are not problems that are wrong with me but a result of what happened to me, but it has been difficult to find someone who can help me and understand me. I think it is time I take this into my own hands. 

I have fought so hard for so long, and I’m lucky to be still alive and fighting. It’s so difficult to heal from this, but I’m making the decision now to begin trusting in my innate ability to heal myself, no matter how long it takes or how painful it is. Healing is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I refuse to believe the lies that it isn’t possible to heal from complex trauma symptoms. I was told I would have to manage these symptoms for the rest of my life, but I will 100% heal from this. I will never land in the hospital again. I refuse to give up and let the pain overtake me. 

I’m not weak. I can do this. I’ve spent years bending over backwards to offer forgiveness, love, and kindness to others regardless of the extreme torture I was in on the inside. I have so much love to give to everyone except for myself. There’s no reason why I can’t give that to myself. There is no reason I can’t overcome this. Everyone else is walking free and living their lives. Why shouldn’t I be able to do the same? I will never again allow another human being or institution to have control over my life, my thoughts, my belief systems, or who I am. No one but me knows and understands my full story. 

I am going to figure this out. There will be a day when life will be easier. I will live with peace, joy, and freedom without even trying. It will be effortless. I will find my confidence again. I will rekindle the light I had. It’s what every human being deserves, and that includes me. I have to first believe this myself – that I am worthy, that I am capable, that I deserve to exist. Then, I will share how I did it with others. I will encourage them to believe the same things about themselves. 

You were always good enough, Natalie. It was all lies. Keep fighting. 

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

My Grandmother is one of my best friends and biggest role models. 

Even when separated by distance, she’s always been by my side. She has shared my joy and shed tears with me and knows my secrets.  She’s always given me a space to talk, and she listens with open ears. 

She reminds me how brave I was for going to a new school during my freshman year of high school to study performing arts, which was something so different from what I was used to and what anyone else in our family did.  In college, I struggled with extreme emotional stress and health issues, oftentimes wondering if I could graduate. She was my biggest cheerleader, pushing me to keep going and believing that I could do it.  To this day, she reminds me of the accomplishment of graduating. 

She reminds me of my beauty when I don’t think that I’m beautiful. 

Each year, she made an effort to attend my school’s “Grandparents and Grandfriends Day,” always flashing a smile and making friends with all who met her. 

When we would go on walks around her neighborhood, she’d charge ahead at twice my pace, even though she used a walking stick to support herself, bounding ahead of me as I panted, “Hold your horses, Grandmother!” 

While I know she’s in some pain, she’s the healthiest 90-year-old I know. Never once have I heard her complain about her health, and from her bright smile, you’d never guess she had anything wrong. 

When I was growing up, she’d bring her boombox to my family’s house when she visited. She listened to audiobooks while my sisters and I ran around like little maniacs, screaming and playing. All the while, she wouldn’t even bat an eye but just listened intently to her book.

For hours, she would drive me through Oklahoma to my cousins’ house, playing intense classical music while she twirled her fingers to the sounds of the flutes and clarinets. At the time, I couldn’t stand classical music because I was a teenager and wanted to fit in with the music everyone else was listening to, but through my grandmother, I grew to love classical music. 

She gave me the confidence to study engineering and not fear the stereotype of not fitting in. She earned her doctorate in math when it was a completely male-dominated field. I knew that I could do it, too, because she did it. 

At family reunions, she tells the same funny stories from her life and her kids’ lives that I’ve already heard ten times, but I laugh along genuinely because I love hearing them again and again. 

I spent many of my spring breaks in Oklahoma with her. I couldn’t have cared less about soaking up the sun on the beach and partying with the other college students; I just wanted to soak up every ounce of wisdom from this incredible woman. 

Oklahoma was never my favorite place in the world because I thought it was boring, but there is never a dull moment with her. When I did complain about being bored, she came back with a sarcastic, “If you’re bored, then you’re boring.” Her biting wit rings true to this day. 

If I took a nap on her couch, she would wake me up like a boot camp drill sergeant after 30 minutes and tell me I needed to get on with my day, that there was so much I needed to accomplish. No moss ever grows under her feet.

When I struggled emotionally, I would often call her five or six times a day, and she would pick up the phone every single time, even though it always took a bit for her to adjust her hearing aids. She would break a complex problem down into smaller steps, helping me set goals, and say, “Go accomplish this task first. Go unpack one box. Then, call me again, and we’ll set the next goal.” 

She is busier than I am — constantly on the go, meeting with friends, playing bridge, and attending church. Regardless, she always picked up the phone to be sure I was okay and told me she’d call me after the game. She’s never not picked up the phone or returned my call almost immediately. Her only caveat was, “Don’t disrupt my sleep because that would be rude.”

She has taught me much about love. She says if we dare to love, we will be hurt, and vice versa. The human experience is full of love and hurt, but she has always chosen to love.  

Whenever I had a calculus question, she would answer it for me, even if she had to dust off old textbooks and spend hours refreshing her memory on the intricacies of derivatives and integrals.

She has a heart for helping others, tutoring students for free, and offering her home to those in need.  

She knew that I stopped dancing after growing up with it as my favorite passion.  She took me aside and said, ”Natalie, dance around your apartment without a care in the world; no one’s watching you.”

She gave me the courage to stop caring so much about how others perceive me and said, “If someone doesn’t like me, that’s their problem.” 

She helped me stop worrying about being criticized: “The only way to not get any criticism is to do nothing at all.”

She suggested I keep a notebook of the names of all the people I meet at work, along with some positive identifying qualities about them. She told me to wear a big smile and call people by their names; it makes them feel seen and loved. 

So many times, I’ve found myself at home crying, terrified of my grandmother’s impending death. It’s so scary imagining her being gone. I wonder how I will handle it. I know it will be like a piece of my heart has been ripped from me. I’ve saved all her voicemails, knowing that at least hearing her voice will be a connection when she’s gone. Sometimes, I’ll even intentionally let her calls go to voicemail just so I can have one more little memento of her. 

I know we will make many more memories together while she’s here. She is my best friend. I love you, Grandmother. Happy 90th birthday! 

Photo by CadoMaestro on Pexels

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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