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

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

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

You might find yourself circling questions like:

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

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

Ask Yourself These Questions First

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

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

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

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

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

If You Do Choose to Share, Prepare Yourself First

Here are a few things that can help:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final Thoughts

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

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

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

And maybe that’s the bravest choice of all.

Photo by Ioann-Mark Kuznietsov on Unsplash

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

Danica Alison

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

www.DanicaAlison.com

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

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

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

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

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

So, how do we heal grief like this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Danica Alison

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

www.DanicaAlison.com

What people don’t understand is how exhausting healing actually is. We have to face many demons. Often revisiting painful memories and emotions. Tapping into things we have done and are ashamed of. It requires immense courage to confront these aspects of ourselves, and a lot of self-reflection.

It can often be difficult to do because when we have moments of dissociation, it’s as if our brains go offline. For me, I didn’t want to be in my own body. Looking at myself reminded me of the abuse. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, all I saw was a stranger looking back. Someone I couldn’t connect with or understand. Someone I didn’t want to even exist.

There is so much work that goes into the concept of finding it acceptable to exist exactly how we are. To take up space and to make noise. It takes active practice and it is a lot of work.

I wish for so much change

I strive to be a lighthouse and shine my own light. To be the change I wish I saw in the world I grew up in. I try to show as much kindness as possible because growing up I wasn’t shown it by my abuser. I have learned that compassion can heal wounds that seemed impossible to mend. By extending empathy to others, but it’s hard when we aren’t given it in return. It takes a lot to understand that people can only meet you where they are capable of doing so.

It took me a while to realize that focusing on things I can’t control saps my energy to focus on things I can. But I still have moments where I forget and go into full-blown control mode. It’s a survival instinct where being in control prepares me for anything that may harm me. But it’s not sustainable. I have carried the weight of the world on my shoulders due to my trauma for decades, and I am tired of feeling so heavy.

I’ve been learning to let go, to release the burden, and to find peace within myself. But I know it doesn’t go away overnight. I often wish I wasn’t abused. That I had a normal childhood. But I was, and I didn’t. These were the cards that life dealt me, and all I can do is make amends for the things I have done in my past, learn to forgive myself, and continue working on my self-acceptance.

Making peace with ourselves takes time.

Our minds are programmed to pay attention to the problem, and anxiety and trauma make that even more pronounced. I have had a lot of difficulty reconciling that I cannot fix everything, and that’s okay.

On my healing journey, I have learned just how sensitive I am to the world and the people around me. The actions and the words said by others. Removing the barrier I had to protect myself has opened me up to a lot of emotional turmoil. I went through a long period of not feeling anything in particular about my trauma, and now that I have been unpacking and dealing with strong, unresolved issues that have been stuffed very deep down, it often makes me question everything I knew.

While healing, we deal with a form of intense grief, and what helps is strong emotional bonds. But sometimes those bonds are broken, and it makes things more difficult because, in a way, more grief sets in. It’s like being on a merry-go-round, and round and round we go. In some instances, it can even feel like chronic emotional pain.

Having cPTSD means calm environments equal inner chaos and chaotic environments equal inner calmness, or it helps drown out the turmoil we have inside our heads. When we feel calm and safe, it can often feel too much. We have a habit of gravitating towards chaos and stress because it feels like home. It’s unlearning that pattern that requires a lot of patience and understanding.

It’s all a process, and I am learning to make peace with myself. To endure all the darkness so I can find the light and be my own lighthouse. I am deep in healing, and I was never prepared for just how hard it actually is.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

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

Jack Brody

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

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

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

aboutthatjack.com/

A Focus on Need

Program Development

User comments

You’re Not Alone

The GRACE Model

• Tracing the Family Dynamic
• The Necessity of Self-Care
• Exploring Narcissistic Abuse
• Gaslighting
• Trauma-Bonding
• The Loss of a Living Child

Paul Michael Marinello

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

Even now, I miss you with a fierceness that makes me want to jump into the afterlife and beat the crap out of you for leaving

Rational? No.

No, but if there is one thing I’ve learned, grief isn’t rational or delicate. It’s snot-slinging, messy, headache and heartache, forgetting to eat, not caring about anything through a painful moment of years that binds trauma and emotions to… well, everything.

When the cancer was first diagnosed, I felt like it was a big joke; someone would jump out from behind the proverbial curtain and say, “Ha! Just kidding. I won’t take her. She’s too precious to many people. Her light can’t be dimmed. It’s just the way it is. She is so much more than this stupid disease.”

Watching you waste away eight years ago with double pneumonia — as a result of chemo — and on a ventilator made no sense. Four days after you got off the ventilator, my family moved across the country. I will never forget standing in your parents’ driveway, tears streaming down both of us, your Dad and my son, prying our grasping arms apart from each other.

And then you beat it.

After watching the chemo almost take you first, a clean bill of health seemed like a win that could be revoked at any second. We celebrated quietly at first, like oh, don’t get comfortable here, but as time went on, we became more and more set in the space of “it’s gone,” we can relax.

And we did. Little did we realize the clock was still ticking.

We returned to being the best kind of besties: supportive, loving, you-are-my-person besties. We took vacations together, made the trek across the country to visit, talked, and texted all the time, and each time we saw each other, it was as if no time had passed; we knew all was right with our world. When one had a work issue, or a friend issue, or a boy issue, any issue, it was worked through by communicating to that one person who was so completely safe and protective. It was just that way with us from the minute we met decades ago.

The parking lot was pretty full, I’d never eaten here, but meeting friends for a coffee, late 90’s time-frame. Unfolding from the car, stretching after a long drive, the first weekend ever where I left my kids with my mother-in-law, and while I was nervous, I knew I needed a break. Walking in, the bored hostess greeted me, and I waved past her as I saw my group sitting in a cracked booth. I walked up, enveloped in hugs, and saw a woman smiling at me. Something energetic and profound passed between us. I sat across from her, and we introduced ourselves. It was like a cheesy romance novel only on a bestie plane: we instantly connected, and those bonds never faded. I can still see your smile and hear your laughter.

It’s strange as I sift through the thousands of memories of your ready smile, warm hugs, and generous heart that when we met through mutual friends all those years ago, it was like no one else existed. We sat at the table at a coffee and donuts place and felt like we had come home.

You used to say frequently that we would outlive the men in our lives and be little old ladies, cussing up a storm, sitting on the porch in rockers at night, looking out at the mountains, cackling at the stars over inside jokes.

Remember that time when I was heartbroken because my ex cheated, leaving me with two little ones to raise, and you were ready to commit murder and instead opted to concoct a plan to put cranberry juice in the gas tank of his motorcycle? And, when we got to the house where he was living with my ex-friend, we suddenly couldn’t do it, the dictates of your sobriety, decades strong, said “Turn around and think about this.” And you said, “Dammit! I’d have to make amends.” I recovered, of course, from that broken heart with your support, but I love that story because it’s the crux of who you were. Even though you were so angry and protective and watching me barely hold it together, you couldn’t harm him. You held me as I sobbed, and you said, “There is life after him.” Once again, you were right.

When my Mom died by suicide, when your ex also cheated when your Dad passed, when I went back to school in my 40s and started on a new career trajectory, when we lost multiple fur babies, when other friends faded, when when, when… We’ve been together through all the barbed wire, high-tree-sitting, confrontational, horrifying, appalling, bloody, joyous, traumatic, complex moments, years, and lifetimes for and with each other.

When I needed to sober up after my mom died, you told me that I was skating on the edge of the pond and pretty soon I was going to fall through the ice and that if I didn’t stop it, I stood to lose everything I’d worked for. You walked through the insanity of early recovery, helped me, bit your tongue, and never gave up on me. Every year on my dry date, you would blow up my phone, badly sing “Happy Birthday,” and say, “I’m so proud of you.”

You would remember, even when I would forget and judge myself, how hard it was for me as a child growing up in the dysfunction and abuse. When my career turned in this direction to help others, you were my biggest cheerleader and support. When you decided to quit corporate and work with animals, we walked through what that looked like, and I held your hand and sat in fear. You were so freaking strong, and you didn’t always know it. I told you every chance I got.

You had this amazing humility and humor. You were there for and with my kids every birthday, every milestone, and every hug. One Christmas Eve when they were little and my son was worried that Santa wouldn’t be able to get to our Christmas tree because we didn’t have a fireplace, you stood outside their bedroom window and rang bells on a freezing cold night, and when they didn’t wake up to hear them but snored through it, you kept ringing those bells until you were frozen through. We laughed and put baby powder and boot prints on the floor next to the laundry chute to simulate Santa stomping around: “Plan B,” you said.

Our master plan was this: my son finishes college and we move to the mountains, have houses next door to each other, and we live out our days, you helping animals and me helping other developmental trauma survivors. We hike and bike and see live music. Dance with our hearts. “That’s my Bestie!” you would always chime. We were two halves of the same whole.

My heart is heavy with my pain. There are so many layers, complicated, nuanced, HARD pieces, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. All the people you touched in your sobriety and helped on that journey. All the families whose beloved fur babies you helped transition. All the goofy things we did, all the laughter. Your joy when I talked you into kayaking the first time, and you loved it, just like I do, skimming the surface of the water, splashing me, your laughter echoing and racing away. Those moments were the best.

How many times did we hike mountains in Colorado, on vacation from our lives? Standing on the peak, knowing all was right in the world just because we were each other’s foundation. You would always joke and say it was too bad we were heterosexual, as we would have been the most amazing couple. I would respond that we were in love with each other’s souls.

That isn’t to say we didn’t argue; we most certainly did. When you have two stubborn, independent women who may get stuck in an agenda, it happens. The great thing about it, though, was that after a time out, we would come back and talk it out, usually ending up teasing each other and laughing.

In October of last year, when I was super-stressed with work and had taken on too much, you said, “Okay, that’s it. I’m getting on a flight: my Bestie is too stressed.” You came for five days, and it was like it always was. Little did we know it would be the last time you would feel good. You got back and had a scan, and they found a tumor next to your spine. You would never call my phone during the work day, so my heart dropped to my feet when it rang.

It was back. It progressed and raged like a forest fire through your body.

After getting a call from your oncologist nurse on a Wednesday in early December, saying you were having brain surgery on Friday and that your spinal fluid was filled with cancer cells and saturating your brain, I caught a flight on Friday. I walked into the hospital room Saturday morning with my son. You opened your eyes and said “Hi,” like we had just seen you the day before, and then you realized you hadn’t. With a squeak, you held out your hands, gripping my cold ones, and tears rolled from your beautiful brown eyes.

After seeing you in December, after the brain surgery, when the doctors said you couldn’t beat this, after my denial period was over, my inner mantra very quickly became “Please take her sooner rather than later, she’s suffering so much.” It’s beyond painful to watch someone you love, now a shell of their former vibrant self tormented in physical misery.

In January, we went up to see you again.

You were so skinny. Everything hurt and it was hard for you to hold a conversation, you’d fade in and out. I sat by your bed and held your hand, fed you, and brushed your teeth while I talked endlessly about our lives, how entwined we were, and how much love we had.

The powerlessness I felt watching you navigate the cancer, the pain you were in, the harsh drugs, and all of the bi-products of pouring poison into the body will forever be etched on my heart. Holding your head up so you could take a sip of water, you said once, “You didn’t sign up for this,” and I said, “Yes, I did.” Didn’t matter what was needed, whatever light and love I could give you, it was my honor to do it.

Your humor never left. At one point, someone passed gas, and you opened one eye and said, “Ewww… whoever did that needs a toilet.” My son and I cracked up and I heard your laughter one last time.

Leaving to come home from that trip was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, knowing that I wouldn’t be back before you passed.

You slipped away peacefully in your sleep; we weren’t there with you, and I know you wanted that—a beautiful butterfly flitting into the next realm.

When our important people pass, it feels like the world should stop and take a moment, but that doesn’t happen. People get up, go to work, write articles, and live their lives. Part of me just wanted to yell, “STOP! You don’t get it, she’s gone; how does this thing called life even work now?”

My pain comes in waves: it’s tangible, suffocating, and overwhelming. And yet, I would do it all again, knowing the outcome. I wouldn’t give up one second of being your Bestie. I will be immobile in my heart, trying to shake off the concrete shoes of this grief for a long time.

That’s okay. It sucks to feel this way, to miss you so much. I can’t breathe sometimes, and I honor that in myself. It means I’ve loved with my whole heart, and unexpected love is such a rare, true gift.

So! Bestie, if you are listening today, know I’m continuing with our plan, moving to the mountains, and helping others. My son is graduating college this year and is coming with me. I’m fulfilling our dream.

It doesn’t mean it’s easy to go on without you. You imprinted yourself upon me in a way no other relationship ever has. Your unwavering courage in the face of such a horrible disease and treatment is a lesson I will never take for granted. Missing you — missing us — is part of my heartbeat today.

But you’d be the first to say, “You have to keep going, move on, take our dream, and run with it. Keep helping others, staying authentic, bring yourself to the table, no matter whose table you are eating at.”

So I am. Some days are easier than others. Grief has a way of expanding your soul to encompass the intensity and break down any barriers and expectations you think you have as a human being.

I’ll see you on the hikes, Bestie, and around the porch in the evenings.

Jennifer Kindera

As a Certified Trauma Recovery Coach Supervisor and Certified Healing Shame Practitioner, my focus at Jennifer Kindera Coaching is to help clients navigate their potential traumas which may be holding them back from living life to their fullest capacity. Trauma recovery coaching and healing shame takes time, but with an honest, inclusive, and compassionate space for the unfolding of your life journey, you can work to unravel the binds of trauma and shame to promote your capacity for healing and growth.

www.jenniferkindera.com

There was no blood, just a strong gas smell from the lawnmower. A tarp is placed strategically on the concrete floor. Maybe it was covering up the blood? But she was lying on top of it. Where was the blood where?! The gun was next to her stiff form; her fingers curled up grotesquely, sparkly rings flashing merrily in the artificial light, but no blood. I could just see her face, frozen in her last moments; her makeup looked painted on. The magenta fabric bunched up in derisive ruffles. The air was so heavy in the room and oppressive as if it were July instead of October. I could smell the taint of something rancid, and when I realized it was my own vomit on my favorite pair of shoes, I felt surprised, shocked even because I didn’t remember throwing up.

Once upon a time, a little girl tried to be everything her Mama wanted her to be: perfect in her dresses, pristine, and calm. But she could never get it right. She was always making mistakes, climbing a tree and ripping her dress or laughing too loud.

Her Mama said she had to be punished, and so it began…a cycle of emotional, physical, and narcissistic abuse that would last her whole life until her Mama decided she’d had enough of this world and ended it all one rainy night.

After the final act is completed, there are so many questions, so much grief, so much shame, could I have done more, how did I not see it had escalated to this? Did I see it and ignore the signs? What kind of monster am I not to save her? I didn’t know how to feel; she was so abusive, but she was my Mom.

So many unanswered loops played on auto-repeat. The grief when an abuser dies is unlike any other. There is a missing, but not of the person; more of a core knowledge of any chance for repair is completely obliterated. I didn’t know how to feel, and what I felt seemed false and wrong.

For me, my Mom’s suicide was the culmination of years of enduring painful emotional abuse and narcissism. She lived her life like a steamroller, flattening anyone in her path who got in her way, including her children and especially her daughter.

The trauma of her suicide was two-fold: the actual event of the shooting and the subsequent love-hate shame & grief bind, which fractured my hard-earned sense of self.

I wanted to say so many things. Everything was trapped inside, within a voiceless soul. Why wouldn’t you get help? The shame was magnified by the realization that my life was easier with her gone. Then there was the shame of why I hadn’t acted more strongly, forcing her to get evaluated. Was it my fault? Layer upon layer of blame, grief, shame, and hurt.

Breathe. In. Out. Feel your lungs expand and hold. The walls aren’t really closing in. Breathe slowly out as if you are exhaling through a straw. The heavy weight of the stares of the other people in the room watching you fall apart, they don’t matter. It’s okay. At least they aren’t mocking you, right? That’s what she did when someone was suffering. Maybe they think it’s my fault too. I still can’t see any blood, but I do see the gun shot wound, it’s smaller than I think it should be. I mean, if it takes someone from alive one minute to dead the next, shouldn’t it be huge, a monumental hole that took life away?

People act differently with suicide. Plastic pauses and judgment. Human beings want to be able to help someone in heavy grief, and when it’s natural causes, there is nothing that really can be said to comfort them, but they try.

When someone dies by suicide, there are lots of side-eye glances, statements of ‘I don’t know what to say,’ which is actually better than people who say, ‘well at least she’s out of pain now,’ or ‘she’s in a better place.’

Those statements from well-meaning friends and family slew my rawness. How could suicide be better than staying here and dealing with your trauma, shame, and pain? Why are we so afraid to say, ‘I’m messed up?’ We would rather take the most drastic action of suicide, rather than face our own emotional chaos.

As sick and dysfunctional as it was, I realized in a frozen moment of time that I had no one. I began to sleep less, drink more, and work harder not to feel my feelings. I was still a Mom, even though I didn’t have one. I had to work and support and smile through homework questions and teeth-brushing. The tremendous weight of the loss was a dark cloak that shifted my lens of perspective from I’m working to be the better version of me to Nothing matters anymore, my hope was stripped away, and I was, once again, invisible.

It was a total reset, as I had spent two decades finding my voice and working in therapy, several stints of EMDR, and reading books on emotional, physical, and narcissistic abuse, but none of the healing I had worked so hard on seemed evident anymore. Traumas revitalized, and I was on top of the roller coaster again.

Oh god, I woke myself up again screaming and crying; the nightmares are so vivid. Drowning in the sheets, someone is dragging hot pokers across my whimpering skin, I can’t stop shaking, panting. Just a dream, not real. It’s the same one, I’m standing in the garage and she stands up, holding her bright blouse to her chest and saying, it’s your fault, you did this to me. I try to talk, scream, yell, but I can’t. I put my fingers on my lips, except I have no mouth, nothing to open to let the words escape. I sink to my knees and onto the frigid floor as she stands over me laughing…you will never forget now, will you, she says. She is right.

I was at ground zero, everything I had learned didn’t apply because every day the loop was on repeat: I let my Mom die. The sound of my heart breaking was not actually a sonic boom, it was more like a gentle plink of glass splintering, the devastating cracks created gaping holes.

The services were a joke. These people didn’t know her, crying and sobbing about what a beautiful, loving person she was. What a crock. She was mean and foul on a good day. She only acted like she loved you when she wanted something. I held my son on my lap, and my daughter clung to my hand. Never would I do this to them. They didn’t even know her; she hadn’t wanted to spend time with them when she was alive. How could she do it? She wrote my name and number on a Post-it note and left it on the kitchen table before calling 911. I listened to the tape of her call, she sounded so calm, detached. Her decision was final.

During the years of heavy grief and shame, my heart felt awkward in my chest. Its shriveled form sharply didn’t fit anymore. Grief is hard enough to navigate when you love someone who passes. In the death event of your biggest abuser, the grief is so complicated and murky that you can feel like you are literally drowning in emotions.

Fragments of shame, loss, and bleakness filled my heart and mind. I truly felt I was responsible. Her suicide had made the already long struggle of dealing with my abuse into a vast and empty wasteland where nothing ever felt right. I missed her, I didn’t. I hated her for how she had treated me, but I loved her and wanted her love. It was a spiraling quagmire of despair, laden with questioning my worth with no end in sight, and the vision of her lying on the cold concrete was bleached into my mind.

She loved the holidays. Our house always looked like something out of a Christmas card, with carols playing in the background. She wrapped up empty presents and placed them under the tree with care. Once, when my son was little, and we were invited over, he saw them and yelled, ‘Santa came!’ and took off running. She screamed at him to stop and I’ll never forget the look on his face, the beautiful, kissable cheeks as tears welled up in his eyes, I don’t think anyone had ever screamed at him like that before. She said, ‘The presents are empty, they are just for show, get away from them!’ We stared at her, and all I could think was what a metaphor for her life.

I had someone say to me once, almost a year after it happened, you just have to let it go. It happened; how long are you going to hold onto it? I was enraged. How can you judge when you haven’t walked in my shoes? I didn’t have an answer; I just knew that if anything were going to change, it would not be on a timeline I could dictate. I was so tired of feeling like I had the wrong emotions.

People start to steer clear of you when you have grieved for ‘too long.’ Shame surfaced again and again, as I couldn’t just ‘get over it,’ I knew it was more than just her death; it was also the chaos and pain because of a million unresolved splinters of trauma from my childhood, as well as her final act. I kept asking my therapist, how do I not go under with this? How do I survive? Her answer is one foot in front of the other, and when you can’t move anymore, stop for the day. It will take time, but you will survive. You have all along.

It was a joke, I think. Not sure who I was listening to or if I caught part, as I was back to dissociating constantly. It’s one of those not-really-funny moments that just seem so funny. Someone said a play on words, maybe a cheese pun and I felt it in my chest, a little flutter and it was directly connected to my face, it had to have been, because I smiled. I smiled a real smile for the first time in I don’t know how long. Thought rushed in, the shame roared instantly, do I deserve to smile? My inner critic said no. My kind inner coach, who was growing louder all the time due to my therapist, who kept pounding home that this wasn’t my fault, said YES.

Today, as I reflect back, I can’t pinpoint exactly when I laughed again or didn’t end the day in tears. I just know that a little burbling of laughter bubbled up one day. It was unexpected, and I felt like I wanted to turn around and say who did that? Who made that sound?

And it was me.

The healing started to glimmer through the fissures in my heart in fits and starts. I began to heal through other people who cared, held space with me, saw me, and didn’t walk away when I couldn’t ‘just let go.’ My beautiful, shattered heart began to beat again.

Healing after the loss was agonizingly slow. Watching the rest of the world continue on felt unfair. I would look at others talking about their problems and feel angry—what does this matter? Don’t you know how fast it can all go? Why are you worrying about trivial things?

The healing of a grief & shame bind is complicated, there are a million moments when sadness overwhelms and shame rushes to the surface. Navigating the rocky terrain, holding onto hope when you have none, and just going through the motions of daily life feels so futile. It feels wrong somehow, to still be standing, breathing, functioning, in the face of such despair.

As I kept trudging the long road of mending a fragmented heart, regulating my nervous system, which was in a state of constant hypervigilance, and learning to love myself, relief from the pain was incremental. It was minute pieces at a time; my inner critic was loud, demanding, and boisterous.

I would stop when my head was spinning, look at the thoughts, and say, ‘That is a lie and not who I am.’ Little shifts were happening inside of me when I would have success, even if no one else termed it as that. I would smile inwardly and feel my heart expand. Sometimes, I could take a deep breath. I got a taste of empowerment and wanted more. My strength was starting to shiver up through the cracks in my heart, and the darkness was slowly receding.

I planted tulips for years in the fall, around the anniversary of her death. They were a tribute to a life unfulfilled, mental illness, and hope. They were a celebration of mine, and I survived. They are such happy flowers, the bright colors resonating. I hope she is at peace.

I wasn’t to blame for her choices or her undiagnosed mental illness. There was no shame in not being the perfect daughter of a narcissist. The thought is laughable, I could never have lived up to her ever-changing expectations of perfection. I wasn’t alone, even though I felt alone. I mattered, even when it didn’t occur to me to think I should. The grief was overwhelming until it released a little at a time. The shame could tank me, take me down for days.

Today, I think of my Mom and feel sadness for her, the nature of her mental illness, a never-ending whirl of emotions. I feel sadness for myself, too; I couldn’t have done it any differently than I did, coming out of my family with toxic/pervasive shame, addiction, and codependency as the safeguards of protection my brain used. Giving in and going numb was my response to the threat. I don’t live in shame or blame myself as much. The question of whether I miss her in my life is a complicated one. I remember times when she was happy and seemed to like me and her life, but those are limited, surreal memories. Mostly, I know how I could never please her and how often it usually ended in pain.

The transformation from a toxic, pervasive shame bind with grief is tremendously liberating and hard freaking work. The nature of shame is to hide and be invisible, and I believe it saved my life today. Its agenda is to protect, and it doesn’t care if my feelings get hurt in the process. The inner critic is the voice of toxic shame, but it is a process that grows with us.

For me, it mirrored the things my parents and brother said and did to me, especially my Mom, and became internalized quickly, so it felt like who I was as an adult. But because shame is the master emotion, and it binds with other primary emotions, I was an adult with multiple shame binds. The toxicity gave no compassion for the standards the binds demanded, and it was my baseline.

In my case, shame turned toxic because of chronic abuse and emotional neglect. My protection was self-abandonment. If I didn’t talk back, just agreed with what was going on, then maybe it wouldn’t escalate even more. The solution then became the problem, as I believed their version of me. When she died by suicide, of course it was my fault, there was no other explanation. But I couldn’t have done it any differently.

The beautiful differences between toxic/pervasive shame and healthy shame can show us that we are not at fault for everything happening around us. It helps me to accept limitations and know that I’m good at some things and not good at others, and that’s okay. Healthy shame is always going to be a ‘work-in-process’ for me because, with the death of a primary caregiver who was abusive and the tragic way she died, it’s layer upon layer, like the preverbal onion peeling back.

I can have healthy sadness, healthy anger, and healthy grief; we had a complex relationship, but the grief is not bound up in shame, for the most part. The help I received from professionals, the caring, attunement, and understanding without judgment, holding a safe container for me to walk through all my emotions, was intrinsic to the healing I’ve done. Without the help of professionals and the caring tribe of friends I have, I don’t think I would be in the place I am today.

And that is truly one of the finest gifts I’ve ever earned as a human being struggling to do the best I can.

Each day is a place I’ve never been before. The nightmare comes every so often, the thoughts of ‘what if…’ but I don’t stay there as long. I have dedicated myself to helping other trauma survivors deal with the hand they were dealt. Aside from my children, there is nothing more rewarding in my life. We get to look through the lies abuse teaches us, through the blame others project onto us while taking responsibility for ourselves. I am able to look in the mirror today and know I am a worthy human being who survived terrible atrocities and lived to advocate for other invisible ones. There is absolutely no shame in what was done to us. I see you every time I look in that mirror, and your heart is beautiful, too. Please don’t go under like I thought I would. You can do this: survive and thrive, give and receive. I believe in you.

If you are struggling with suicide loss, I encourage reaching out, even when it hurts so much you don’t know if you can breathe one more second. Lean on others who love and support you, and discern who is safe. Find what tools work for you, manage the shame spirals, and hold onto them fiercely.

My heart is heavy for anyone in the place of utter desolate despair. There are no words sometimes. It took me over two years to write and finish this article, the layers are so deep, the grief so keening and the healing so profound. Please know some days are harder than others, but there are others who have been there too, and you aren’t alone. You matter.

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.

Jennifer Kindera

As a Certified Trauma Recovery Coach Supervisor and Certified Healing Shame Practitioner, my focus at Jennifer Kindera Coaching is to help clients navigate their potential traumas which may be holding them back from living life to their fullest capacity. Trauma recovery coaching and healing shame takes time, but with an honest, inclusive, and compassionate space for the unfolding of your life journey, you can work to unravel the binds of trauma and shame to promote your capacity for healing and growth.

www.jenniferkindera.com

Many people think of grief as a reaction to the loss of a person, relationship, pet, or job. Grieving is a whole-body experience; both the body and the mind are involved. People may cry or feel sad, or they may become incredibly angry and moody. They may lose their appetite or eat too much. They may have issues with sleeping, either too much or not enough. They may sigh often and find that they cannot concentrate. They also may begin to cling to other people or animals, fearing that these will be taken away as well. They may lose the will to live.

Complications of Grief Combined with CPTSD:

Living with PTSD and CPTSD is like watching the reality of your life suddenly and unexpectedly tossed up into the air repeatedly. The reality shatters like a puzzle. Then the puzzle pieces fall all around, and you do not know how to put the picture back together again. Life seems like you are trying to navigate a minefield in the dark with the brain constantly screaming “Danger! Danger!”

To repair the picture, you must deal with pain, sometimes pain that feels enormous and even unbearable. When a person has been rejected or is feeling emotional pain from other issues, the same part of the brain that is activated during physical pain becomes triggered. That is why it hurts so much. People who are survivors of severe trauma, especially developmental trauma from childhood may have more intense grief reactions. CPTSD causes people to have trouble regulating their emotions and feelings may seem more intense and unmanageable.

Examples of Triggers to Grief:

Many people do not realize that grief is not only about actual loss but is also about what you did not have a chance to have in your life. The loss of health, for example, a common issue with CPTSD survivors can cause grief. Not being able to do the things you used to do, can feel devastating at times.

Another common concern is betrayal trauma. This happens when a child or adult has been betrayed by someone that they trusted. A frequent occurrence is when a parent does not protect a child or refuses to believe when a child reports abuse or molestation. This form of trauma can happen to an adult when a loved one or another trusted person deceives them and harms them. Lies and deceit by people you care about can destroy confidence. It can cause damaged faith in other people and yourself. This can increase CPTSD symptoms.

The Death of an Abusive Parent:

When you do not have the love and support of a parent(s), or a normal childhood it can be more difficult to cope when an abusive parent dies. Many people do not understand why they may feel sad when an abusive parent dies.

This is caused by the loss of hope, the loss of a dream that the parent(s) will change and love and accept the person or will apologize and make amends. When a person dissociates and is learning not to, the whole situation may feel intolerable. The same thing may occur when a person is learning to cope with life without substances or using other addictions. The temptation to return to old unhealthy coping skills may be almost impossible to resist.

People must listen to their inner voice, the higher, wiser self before acting. This takes practice and confidence in yourself. Everyone grieves differently and for different lengths of time. Tuning into your own needs and permitting yourself to use self-care can help to relieve the hurt and confusion.

Using Grief as a Stepping Stone for Healing:

Any unresolved loss can also trigger a person if a new loss happens. Holistically people heal in layers, top to bottom, inside to out, newer things heal more quickly, and older things take longer to heal. Things can also come back for healing on a deeper level and the person may then have a “relapse” which is just a recycling. Old symptoms may return and present symptoms may grow worse temporarily.

If you visualize healing as a spiral staircase, you may think you have gone back to the beginning again, but you are up a level. No one is ever back at the beginning although it feels that way at times.

It takes enormous courage and discernment to continue to heal old layers and live your present-day life at the same time. Giving yourself credit for how far you have come is essential and helps to repair damaged self-esteem and self-confidence.

It can be helpful to listen to yourself and allow triggers to be a sign that further work is necessary. Many survivors have huge problems with permitting themselves to practice self-care. Being gentle with yourself is healthier than self-medicating with food, substances, relationships, or self-harm. Identifying and labeling feelings is a way of making them more manageable and reducing the need to self-medicate.

A step up on the spiral staircase is learning to be your own best friend and advocate while honoring and respecting yourself. This can assist in healing the layers of scars in the body, mind, and soul.

Resources:

The following are links to my three books. The first two books have tools that can be used for healing. The last one, a novel, is the first in a trilogy. The titles are: Unlocking the Puzzle of PTSD, Restoring the Broken Threads and Cry for the Children.

https://www.amazon.com/Unlocking-Puzzle-PTSD-Holistic-Restoring/dp/B08KYPDL8B

https://www.amazon.com/Religion-Spirituality-Susan-Pollard-MS-Books/s?rh=n%3A22%2Cp_27%3ASusan+Pollard+MS

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=9798377318118&i=stripbooks&linkCode=qs

Thank you for taking the time to read this article.

Susan Pollard, MS

https://www.facebook.com/susanpollardlifecoach susanp113@gmail.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.

Susan Pollard

It is a beautiful spring day, and all I want to do is pray.

In my quirky way, I sat on the couch where the cushions did slouch. I then unzipped my drawing pouch. With my assortment of pencils, markers, and such, I started sketching an image of guess who? It was you!

I didn’t get very far before there was a stillness of thought. It soon covered over my creative mental spot. Quietness surrounded me. Everything seemed blank. At that moment, my intellect sank. It felt universal, like spiritual bliss, but I could have been experiencing a mental slip-and-miss.

Like an endless hole in the ocean floor, it was a feeling that compressed me more and more. I drifted away from my chronicle of life as I knew it to be, and something awaited me. It hailed me as if to say, “Goodbye time, matter, and space.” I wiggled the toes in my shoe, and that’s when I knew it wasn’t a prank from the deep blue. Onward I went with my sketching of you.

I drew your eyes without any strife. I could even see part of me in your life. It was more than a picture, and I wanted something true. I tried to embrace you with each line that I drew. When I finished the neckline and your puffy lips, I had an emotional pause that seemed like a trip. I found myself gazing clueless and still. There was a slight chill. I felt someone coming nearer. I had to stop and look. I examined my space just like reading a book. There was an emotional drift. A calming presence that swallowed me whole.

It was a feeling of loveliness with a warm glow. It was full of spirit and something slow. I hadn’t a clue what to do, so I reached out to find nothing resembling me or you. I felt a connection with everything around me. I glanced at my drawing and wanted to speak, but no words came out, not even a creak. The feelings inside were quieting down. I couldn’t distinguish one energy from the next. It was a moment full of perplex.

I sat on the purple couch like a motionless fawn

I sat on the purple couch like a motionless fawn. There wasn’t anything arising, not even a yawn. I let the feeling overtake me like a wave to the shore. But, soon, there was a knock at the door.

Without realizing where I was or where I had been, I rose out of the mist to be human again. When I got to the door, it was a person, indeed. The visitor sat and told a tale full of loving feed. It was the saga of her boyfriend, who admired her features. She went on and on like he was a mystical creature. Her story’s spirit was joyous, but I didn’t know why she shared it with me. Soon after that, the visitor rose from where she sat. She left with silent steps to the room where her friend was at.

It was then that I returned to the drawing at hand. How nice would it be to show you the drawing before we meet? But before the thought set, another shift came my way. In an instant, it seemed, I heard a scream. “Help me!” the visitor exclaimed with a painful shriek. It was an array of emotions that felt big and bleak. Without hesitation, I leaped from my seat. I ran to the room, where I found an aura of gloom.

When I went to the door, I saw that the visitor’s friend was on the floor. Her friend wasn’t breathing, and something more. I was the only one there that could help with resuscitation. As a medical responder, I knew what to do, but I had no thought at this moment of code blue.

I pressed my mouth with a seal against the partly living person’s face. I funneled my air at a particular pace. After the compressions, I had a brief pause. Soon it became repeat, repeat, and repeat again. There was nothing more to do but dive deeply into the pace. Somehow it felt like a mortal race.

When the ambulance arrived, there was a helping shift. They began triage support. At that phase, I left the room as if in a daze. I walked to the kitchen to place a call. I remember feeling like I was going to fall. I dialed the number, and an answer came on. I said, “Your partner isn’t breathing…” and it was the best I could say. I shared that a dear friend was willing to stay. Over the phone, silence came through, and I then heard a sound that felt full of dread. Next came a question, “Is my love dead?”

I felt the love and sadness over the phone. It was a beginning and an end that I couldn’t explain. My words were jumbling with grief and self-blame. Inside, I felt I had caused all this pain. It became clear that someone’s partner was transitioning to a bodiless state. I felt an unavoidable fate.

Just a week earlier, I spoke over the phone with the person that was entering the ethereal zone. During the call, I heard their relationship was gaslit with abuse. My help was requested in the most direct way. I wish I knew then what to say. I could have diverted this moment for a brighter day.

I write about it because grief of this sort always seems to be near

Somehow, my experiences all strung together. I could view how a person averts stigma or abuse by ending their life. It is a common theme of relationship strife. It is a social taboo that no one wants to hear. I write about it because grief of this sort always seems to be near. I cannot escape it. The pain collectively interferes. Even so, there isn’t sadness for a spirit to be free. It is the direction for you and me. Yet, there is disenfranchisement when vulnerable people are being held down. Especially punitive domesticity, and much is easy to deny. It makes me frown. It is so pervasive that it can be found in every town.

Abuse is more than a perpetrator thing. It is a dominating cycle that squeezes everything. It is permitted by some who get off by harming another with hurt, while some do not, and get jailed like dirt. Whichever the case, it is a festering plot. To be free of abuse is a perplexing thought. I’ve been told the answer is control, but I know it is not.

A mystical path encounters many things. It is a path that often collides with a variety of beings.

There is maturity and immaturity, inside and out. It is like being a bird that wants to sing out. Instead, there isn’t room for a loving tune. Its wings are clipped, and it’s put in a cage. The metal rings all around are to bury its sound. Of course, this is my estimation of the world I see. It is based on experience that is inside of me. No matter how much I cry or ask it to stop, it usually ends in a mystical flop.

To be free from abuse is a conscious state. Call it awareness or wisdom, it is our natural fate. Even in moments of doubt, this stuff can transform into a beautiful bloom. There is infinite healing deeply seeded in everyone I see. I often wonder what life would be like if awareness was set free.

Even if most can’t listen or hear what I say, the loving energy drifts in every which way. From what I have gleaned from abusive stuff, anyone can rise above it. What makes life profound is sound healing. It unfolds into joys that reach beyond earthly bounds. Even as life offers a bumpy ride, I know there is a purposeful guide.

What I want more than anything, is to share my light. It is pure and loving, but I know there is fright. There is also crudeness that I’m refining throughout. It is a purification of consciousness, no doubt. An innate ability that has to come out. Resurfacing from the ashes is what people do, I’m not the first or the last. But then, how about you?

You have some facts to tell and things that have been done. There is purity in you if you give it a run. Of course, there isn’t anything I can do to show you your light. You find it yourself through your wisdom-based sight.

I’m anxious to meet you when you find your pure glow. I’m a bit revved up about it, I’m sure you have sensed. Maybe this is old news, like a worn-out sixpence.

The universe is calling with a spiritual song, and I’m listening heartfully while singing along. It’s a song and a prayer, all bundled in one, that the days of gloom will return to its tomb. Yet, in case my words get too grey, let me put it another way.

There is a glow within that will forever be.

If you want to see me, I’m just beyond my deformity.

Into me, you see, there is purity.

It is a profound remembering that makes forgetting disappear.

This is how you and I become very, very near.

It is glowing so bright it outshines individual light.

Oneness comes when letting go arrives.

So, I’m letting go of everything with all my might.

I pray, in every way, that soon this day will come.

It is an energy that is likely under every thumb.

My words are nothing more than translated feelings. It is an intimacy that I share with you. By the way, you are everything I think isn’t me. With that, all my love to you from me.

“When everything is alive, death no longer exists.”

Life is more about feelings than words.

Special note:

Every discipline has an answer. For psychologists, the answer is in thought. For a spiritualist, the answer is in philosophy. For a pastry chef, the answer is dessert. But, unlike these, the mystical doesn’t need an answer because it is alive everywhere.

I wish I knew something profound, but alas, I have limited knowledge, no power to pursue, and no authority over anything. I’m drifting along this life with as much stride as I can muster. Before birth, and even to this day, love is the only way. I feel it and give it, and it can be intense at moments. Beyond the murkiness of me, there is love, and I hope you can see it. If not in me, at least in everything else, and then it won’t matter. It can be happily hereto and each ever onward. Thanks for reading.

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.

Eric Zuniga

The 3 Principles are evidence-based and used in counseling settings worldwide. Eric provides a variety of 1:1 guidance, such as trauma/poly-survivor support, addiction closure, and relationship counseling. Eric has experienced living beyond traumatic events as a poly-survivor. To share his journey, Eric has created a vlog series called One Spiritual Principle. 

I didn’t know much, but I knew that if this foolish marriage was to have any kind of chance, it was best to be as far away from both sets of our parents as possible.

Toward the end of the summer, Tom suddenly announced that he wanted to move back to Colorado because he missed his best friend there. Tom’s proclamation that we were to return to Greeley was almost more than I could bear. It was unbearable because it was so ludicrous and unnecessary. I ran out of energy trying to make Tom see how much I wanted to stay in Montana. He began making arrangements for our return to Colorado. 

I thought about telling Tom that he could move back to Colorado without me. I loved it in Missoula, and I could just stay here. But those ideas simply died inside of me because, as out of touch as I was, I knew that I had no way to support myself. I knew one couple in town, and that could hardly be counted as a support system. I was dependent on Tom, or more precisely, his parents, to keep a roof over my head. Looking back on it, I wish I had had the courage to stay in Missoula. I honestly think I could have been very happy there. I had not learned to trust myself or my ability to take care of myself. So I swallowed my disappointment and grief and went along with what Tom wanted. Again. 

One day after the pronouncement about our return to Colorado, Tom and I were walking along the river, and as we approached our car on the side of the road, Abraxas dashed out into the road.

No, no, no, no, no!!!!

He was a crazy little animal with his own agenda. He was chasing a rabbit and did not see the car approaching. Tom and I looked on in horror as the car hit the dog and left him there, a soft heap in the middle of the road. Tom dashed to the side of the dog and scooped him up in his muscular arms. Despite the callousness with which he treated my feelings, Tom could be a kind man with a good heart. He loved that dog almost as much as I did.

When we reached the car, Tom wrapped the unconscious Abraxas in a blanket and we drove across town to the veterinary clinic. We had not called ahead. We simply hoped that the vet could help him when we walked in. We got to the clinic, and Tom picked up the dog wrapped in a blanket. Abraxas appeared to be dead, and blood was flowing from his mouth.

Oh no. Please no. Please, please, please, no!

As Tom approached the door of the clinic from the parking lot, suddenly Abraxas came to life and started struggling against the blanket that wrapped him. I watched in horror as his little body fell from the blanket, blood streaming. 

The damned dog then ran off. Although we scoured the neighborhood there on the opposite side of Missoula from our house, Abraxas was nowhere to be found. I was certain that he had crawled into the bushes to die.

We cried all the way home and into the evening. Once again, Abraxas was all I had. I couldn’t imagine living without him and his yipping and garbage stealing. 

I walked around in a haze of grief, giving into frequent fits of weeping. I cried so hard, I thought I might pass out. I did not think I could face life with Tom without my little dog at my side. 

The disappearance and probable death in the bushes of my precious dog gutted me. I had waited my entire life to have a dog of my own.

But only a portion of the deep grieving I did for Abraxas really had to do with him. I mean, it all had to do with him, but so many other layers of grief wrapped around the Abraxas onion, that I couldn’t begin to parse the difference.

Abraxas loved me no matter what.

Abraxas never made fun of me.

Abraxas heard all my troubles while I held his little red body next to mine. I would feel bis body heat and I would breathe in his doggy essence and it calmed my amygdala. Abraxas was my connection with the earth, as dogs always are.

We conveyed the harsh news to our friends, the neighborhood children, about the car, Abraxas, and his disappearance. Cori cried. I cried with her. 

I cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a child. Sobbing from deep in my gut. Racked with grief, I could not stop, I could not breathe. This pain was from a lifetime of pain, especially what had occurred after my mother died.

I didn’t cry when my father told me that he had found my mother dead in her bed.

I didn’t cry when my father married an obviously mentally ill woman.

I didn’t cry when my father and stepmother sent me off to Catholic girls’ boarding school to get rid of me.

I didn’t cry when I was sent to live with a stranger when I was 15. 

I didn’t cry when my foster mother released me from her care when I was 17 and I had nowhere to go.

I didn’t cry when Tom mocked and neglected me.

But I cried over Abraxas. Big, messy, ugly wads of snot sobs. Shaking and trembling and more sobs. Nearly 10 years of extreme grief and trauma came out in those sobs.

I was numb and without joy for three days until I heard a familiar sound outside of our windows.  Yip Yip Yip! High, piercing, loud.

No. It can’t be. Abraxas is dead!

Yip Yip Yip!

Then came the pounding on the door. “Mr. Wise! Mrs. Wise! Come here quick! Mrs. Wise, your dog is back. Abraxas is back!!”

I ran down the stairs and to the front door. And there, right next to Jimmy, the child who had knocked on our door, was my little dog—just as alive as I was. 

“Abraxas! Abraxas! Oh my boy, how is this possible?” 

I picked the mutt up in my arms. 

And Holy Shit! Does he stink.

As I clutched the beloved dog in my arms, my nose was assaulted by the odor of garbage and the worst farts on the planet. And I noticed that my dog was fat and bloated. Abraxas kissed my mouth with his garbage-scented breath.

“Buddy. You found your way back to us from miles away. You found your way back to us having never been in that part of town before.”

Abraxas wriggled, wagged his tail, and farted. 

“Buddy. You ate your way across town! You must have hit every garbage can on the way. That must have been your idea of a terrific vacation.”

I felt Abraxas all over. No broken bones. No visible injuries. The only thing Abraxas had to show for his adventure, other than his fat belly, was a sizable scab on his chin. I think Abraxas had been knocked upside the head—his chin, to be exact. I had mistaken the blood from his chin for blood coming out of his mouth. I had mistaken a knock-out for death.

Here was a piece of Grace amongst my sorrow. My little dog was back. My little dog was resurrected after three days. What a dude. He really was the god of light and dark.

Despite my joy at the return of my little dog, I left Missoula with a broken heart. I knew that moving back to Greeley was a terrible mistake.

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.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

I feel happy that I have moved on and am surrounded by love, support, and friends. I have made a new little family filled with only love. The trauma I suffered as a child, turned into Complex PTSD but I have come a long way in my healing. I share my experiences of overcoming abuse because I think it is important for the truth to be out there. It is not something that should be covered up. There are so many people out there like me and it is up to us to fight for our freedom and get these criminals off the streets and from abusing our younger generation.  I have written quite a few blogs on what it is like to be a survivor of abuse and the methods I have used during my healing journey. The methods that work for one individual may not work for another. We are all unique and our stories albeit similar, are also different. Where and how the abuse happened, who abused you, for how long, and how you felt are all unique events in your life. That doesn’t mean that we cannot share the experiences we have had as survivors. We can take snippets of other people’s recovery methods and make our own healing journeys. Similar to making our very own healing patchwork quilt! Something my great nan would make to keep me warm at night.

My plea for help

In this post, I want to explore how we as survivors overcome the threats that come with the abuse. Threats were a daily necessity for my abuser to shut me up so I did not tell anyone afterward. I still did but my childlike “re-enactment play” of my own abuse was met with contempt and disgust. It was ignored and I was just a precocious girl with a very vivid imagination. Mother laughed at me when I “played sex with my teddies”. When I started school and practiced “stick against the wall” games for all to see, I was physically dragged away by adults into the nurse’s station. In there, several adults restrained me and forced me to listen to “whale music” to relax me! What messages do you think I got from that, other than more fear of adults? I learned very early on in my life that if I just clammed up and became a robot, the threats would not be so bad. Trust me they were still “bad” and repeated but if I even looked up at my abusers they would turn to violence to stop me from talking.

My persistent stubbornness to defy the threats

“If you ever tell, you will get sick and die!

You don’t know how many times those few little words have haunted me throughout my life. That specific threat was ingrained in my mind after being repeated over and over throughout my childhood by my abuser. What happened was secret and not something I could talk about. Yet, I was a “stupid girl” and I kept talking about it over and over, each time falling on deaf ears. The truth was just too unbelievable and I had a vivid imagination. Inevitably, I clammed up, but I still kept trying to get the truth out there in my drawings and writing. Without this outlet, I think I would have gone insane. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me and I needed to process it like the air I breathed. I was resilient and adamant to keep talking and so I kept a journal where I disregarded all the threats. My words poured out of me, my feelings, and my fears. All of it is in detail. I had a second journal in school where I wrote about escaping to a better place. My journal was stolen, read, and ridiculed by my classmates and then lost. I found that difficult to handle for a long time after. How could my friends my own age be that cruel? I never got it back and someone fleetingly told me it had been trashed. What was so wrong with longing to be in a nice place rather than in my hellish reality? What was wrong with wanting freedom? I know it was a childish prank at the time but to me, that journal meant something. It was my escape and my little object of hope in a hopeless lonely world. My faith in humanity was at an all-time low. My writing continued but in secret. I hid away my feelings and learned to just exist like a robot, devoid of any feelings or beliefs. I was in this state from the age of 8 years old. By then I had witnessed more in my young life than anyone would in a normal lifetime. I had lived through two murders and consistent sexual violence in the “sex club”, none of it ever got reported and those responsible never got held accountable. Years later, I found out that the first murderer I witnessed while being raped, had been caught through DNA evidence. He went to prison for life and is now dead. My so-called father is still alive and walking free.

I moved away, cut my old life out, and started again in a safe place. I was free to be myself and do what I wished. I finally had my life and my freedom. Without financial support or help from loved ones, it took me longer to get where I wanted to be. I am however a very stubborn woman and my sheer willpower to carry on living is my revenge for everything that has happened to me. I put myself through college and I lived happily through all its ups and downs. I can now tell my story to anyone who is willing to let the truth be told. I survived the threats.

“If you ever tell, you will get sick and die!

Throughout my life, I have been told many times to write down my stories and publish a book. I don’t just write about my own story but I like fictional storytelling too. Winding forwards 27 years, I decided to write a memoir of my childhood. I decide that enough time has passed and that I am in a good safe place to tell my whole story and publish it. Since publishing my story my health has deteriorated considerably with infections, Covid, and even the Flu with their own nasty side effects. Then suddenly, I have an anaphylactic shock to my new Christmas shampoo and am admitted to the ER. I get treated with adrenaline and steroids but after a day I’m back in the ER with secondary anaphylaxis. Being sick is rough in its own way but being close to death is traumatic. I have come too far and have so much yet to achieve in my life considering I started living it at 18. I don’t feel very old even though I am classed as middle-aged. My own children wonder if I lived in the stone age with the dinosaurs. Yet, I am far too young to die. If I had not been through therapy over the years, my experiences of my sickness in the past few months would have made me believe that my abuser was right. “If you ever tell you will get sick and die”. My memoir was published last year and I always believed that it would kill me if I told my story. I am, however, a long way in my healing from my childhood trauma so I don’t feel that way anymore. I am happy about having published my story. My book is out there now and people will read it when they are ready for the truth. It is not a masterpiece. It will not sell tons of books. It is written in raw detail and some people cannot read that. All I want is for my story to be told so that abuse is exposed. I want people to understand what it feels like to be abused but also to come out of it, get a second chance in life, and create the will to start over.  There is life after abuse and those threats were never going to be my downfall.

My name is Elizabeth and I am a survivor.

My story is available on Amazon.com Amazon.com: The Sex-Offender’s Daughter: A True Story of Survival Against All Odds eBook : Woods, Elizabeth: Kindle Store

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

Elizabeth Woods

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

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

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

www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com/