What actually gets passed down

Trauma can alter the expression of genes. That is epigenetics. Stress, famine, displacement, and chronic fear can leave biochemical markers on DNA packaging that change gene function without changing the genetic code. What parents and grandparents endured not only shapes family habits. It can shape how a nervous system responds to threat, attachment, and safety many decades later. In a landmark study of Holocaust families, researchers documented shifts in methylation of FKBP5, a regulator of the cortisol system, in survivors and in their children who did not live through the original events. Comparable patterns show up in other contexts as well, including families affected by war, genocide, severe discrimination, natural disasters, and refugee flight. The point is simple. When people say trauma runs in a family, it is not just a figure of speech.

Inherited trauma rarely looks like a story

What passes forward is not always a narrative or a flashback. It often looks like a survival strategy that does not match the current environment. A child grows up in a safe home, yet cannot sleep unless every curtain is closed and every door is checked. A teenager treats disagreement like a death sentence, even in a respectful household. An adult keeps pushing away secure partners because the body has learned that calm usually comes before danger. These are not quirks. They are trained reflexes. They stay invisible until someone starts asking the right questions.

You do not inherit a diagnosis. You inherit the coping

CPTSD is not handed down like eye color. Defense patterns are. Silence is. Emotional constriction is. When trauma is not processed, it leaks into parenting through control, through chaos, or through inconsistency that leaves a child sensing danger without language to name it. Children repeat what works, even if it only worked in the old house. They pass it on not because they are broken, but because they were trained by example.

When pain gets ritualized

Trauma does not always announce itself. Sometimes it hides inside rules that are treated as virtues. Do not talk about feelings. Stay productive no matter what. Outsiders cannot be trusted. Keep the family’s business inside the house. Loyalty above all. The same mechanism hides domestic violence that nobody names. It hides animal abuse that neighbors avoid reporting. It hides generational child abuse that gets rebranded as strict parenting. In some families, stints in jail become a rite of passage rather than a warning sign. From the inside, these patterns sound like culture or tradition. Trace them backward and you usually find war, forced moves, addiction, shame, betrayal, or plain neglect. When trauma is not processed, it gets ritualized. It is repackaged as rules, reinforced as identity, and handed down as survival even when the danger is long gone. Dysfunction is often inherited pain on autopilot.

Breaking a pattern requires recognition, not avoidance

Moving on without naming the pattern does not change the pattern. It extends it. Real change starts with accurate labels. Name what happened in the family line, even if it was not your direct experience. Notice the default settings that make no sense in your current life. Choose deliberate counter-moves. Rest when the old rule says grind. Set a boundary where the old rule says keep secrets. Speak where the old rule says stay quiet. This is demanding work because you are not only adjusting your mood. You are rerouting generations of survival programming. That is heavy labor, not a slogan. It is also where the leverage sits. You are not obligated to carry the pain forward because it was handed to you. The future of the pattern is not fixed.

Final thoughts

If you feel like you were born carrying grief that did not start with you, or fear that does not match your lived history, you are not defective. You may be the first one who chose to hold up the mirror. You get to decide what continues and what ends.

References

Yehuda R, Daskalakis NP, et al. Holocaust exposure induced intergenerational effects on FKBP5 methylation. Biological Psychiatry. 2016;80(5):372-380.
Dias BG, Ressler KJ. Parental olfactory experience influences behavior and neural structure in subsequent generations. Nature Neuroscience. 2014;17(1):89-96.
Serpeloni F, Radtke KM, et al. Does prenatal stress shape postnatal resilience? Epigenetics and behavior in war-exposed Syrian refugees. Translational Psychiatry. 2017;7(7):e1185.

Photo by Sangharsh Lohakare 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.

Dr. Mozelle Martin

Dr. Mozelle Martin is a retired trauma therapist and former Clinical Director of a trauma center, with extensive experience in forensic psychology, criminology, and applied ethics. A survivor of childhood and young adulthood trauma, Dr. Martin has dedicated decades to understanding the psychological and ethical complexities of trauma, crime, and accountability. Her career began as a volunteer in a women’s domestic violence shelter, then as a SA hospital advocate, later becoming a Crisis Therapist working alongside law enforcement on the streets of Phoenix. She went on to earn an AS in Psychology, a BS in Forensic Psychology, an MA in Criminology, and a PhD in Applied Ethics, ultimately working extensively in forensic mental health—providing psychological assessments, intervention, and rehabilitative support with inmates and in the community. A published author and lifelong student of life, she continues to explore the relationship and crossovers of forensic science, mental health, and ethical accountability in both historical and modern contexts.

www.InkProfiler.com

Having grown up in Texas, Christianity was the only belief system I knew, so I found the dusty Bible in the back of my closet and opened it. I was soon filled with a deep love for my faith and started researching more and more about my God. I found a profound sense of hope in believing that there was more to life than the suffering I knew and that there was a better world awaiting me. 

I went to college in a state that was far from my hometown and where I had no family. Finding that adjustment hard, I found a ministry on campus to meet new people. Everyone was welcoming, and we played all sorts of fun games each week and went on camping retreats every semester.

Without even realizing that what was happening wasn’t a healthy way of worship

With time, I desired a deeper understanding of the Bible, so I branched out of the ministry and started church-hopping around the city with my friends from the ministry. Seasons changed, and my friends started getting married and going their own ways out of state until I ended up on my own. Ultimately, my desire to find a strong faith led me to end up at a few different churches that were abusive and controlling, and I ended up enduring about six years of religious abuse at different churches without even realizing that what was happening wasn’t a healthy way of worship. At the time, I didn’t realize that even in religious communities, we must exercise caution with the people we put our hearts out to. When I was fed up with the bad experiences at one church, I didn’t give up on my search for meaning and continued to another church, putting my heart out there repeatedly. In retrospect, my vulnerability was too easy to spot, and people took advantage of that. I trusted that the leaders and other church members “knew more” than I did due to their credentials (many of them had doctorates in theology) and had the answers to life that I was so desperately seeking. So, I blindly followed them, never questioning their motives. (However, their doctrines and denominations all disagreed with each other and argued with each other, believing that their doctrines and congregation members were “superior” to the others, even though they were all Christians, which only heightened my confusion.) 

Developing Religious OCD and Living in Fear

Looking back, my experiences at those churches were very intense. What I endured was so extreme that I started to have religious OCD, where I compulsively began to recite Bible verses I memorized and prayers of repentance, continuously asking God to forgive me for how “awful” I was. My mind was constantly racing, believing that almost everything I did, said, and thought was sinful and that any ounce of joy I experienced from God was “grace” since I was such a horrible person. My apartment counter was filled with stacks of notebook paper with all the verses I repetitively wrote out to memorize so that I could recite them in my head whenever I felt the need to repent throughout my day. I had numerous chapters of the Bible memorized, mostly ones on forgiveness and sin, because I thought that to appease God and avoid eternal damnation, I had to be completely forgiven for how awful I was, and I thought the people in my life who thought negatively of me had to forgive me for the “sins” I committed against them (I use “sins” in quotes because, in all these situations that I thought I was the one in the wrong, I was actually the victim). Being involved in these places also made me adopt even more self-guilt and blame than was already present from all the trauma I had endured, and I started to believe that the things I experienced in these religious communities were some form of punishment for who I was and that I deserved to be punished by God. I started to believe that maybe God didn’t really love me and that I needed to spend my time “working off” my sins and changing all the things about me that were “wrong.” All these thoughts were swirling in my head at a hundred miles per hour each day as I dealt with full-time work and school, making life and focusing on my personal goals even more difficult. 

After years of believing that these religious people were there to help me heal, I realized that was the last thing they wanted to do. They didn’t actually love me or care about my well-being. They were trying to control and manipulate me. They were trying to strip away my true essence, tell me I was never good enough, and “save my soul.” They just wanted to believe that they “saved” (who they thought) was a horrible, wretched person from her sinful ways and force her into the person that their God truly desired her to be. They told me I had to memorize this, read that, pray this way, give away my hard-earned money, throw out my closet, and buy the clothes they wanted me to wear. They even told me that, because I was a woman, I had to shut up and couldn’t open my mouth to ask my pastor any questions I had about the Bible.

I cried for over a week after a 60-year-old married man told me I was “temptation” for him, believing that was my fault and that I still wasn’t “covered up” enough. In these environments, my duty was to sit in the back of the building, look pretty, shut my mouth, and donate my money. Otherwise, I wasn’t good enough for God, and I wouldn’t make it into heaven. These things I mention are just the tip of a traumatic iceberg that I still hold tightly within me, among other traumas that have not left my lips.  

They did a fantastic job at convincing me of how awful I was and that I needed to change literally everything about myself. I needed to find my voice again. I needed to find God’s voice, too. I’m not even sure if there is a God anymore. If there is a God, I can’t picture that God as a kind, loving God. I can only picture the vengeful God of the Old Testament, ready to smite down an entire people for the smallest sin. The God these people taught me about is not a God I can worship. 

Not All Religious People Are Safe People

It’s a common myth that only weak people fall victim to religious abuse. Many doctors, lawyers, and well-educated people in the world congregated next to me and did the same things we were all told to do to gain admission to heaven. The psychological tactics are designed to terrify and control people. It’s unfortunate that some people in religious power prey on people desperately seeking answers and purpose. Looking back, I was convinced that they had the answers and the true path to heaven. I can’t believe how many years I spent terrified that God would throw me into hell because I wasn’t meeting these people’s man-made standards. 

I doubt I would have ended up in these situations if I hadn’t been a severe trauma victim. It was difficult for me to see the red flags at the time because I was desperately seeking a deeper meaning to life and an understanding of God. I don’t understand the motivation they had to control their vulnerable victims, but we were probably the only things in their lives that they could control, and they took the opportunity to do so. While their followers groveled at their feet for God’s forgiveness, they lived in a bubble, reminding themselves that they were above everyone else, immune to the very things they criticized. Through all of this, all the old wounds from my past trauma were wrenched wide open again, and I was living in a dystopian world, thinking that the big man in the sky hated my guts.

My heart hurts for other survivors of religious abuse. My heart hurts for those who think that they’re completely awful because of what “religious” people have said or done to them. 

It Only Made Me Stronger

I am slowly returning to my core self, and I will be stronger once I fully discard those old belief patterns. I’ve completely dissociated from many of those years and have no recollection of so many memories due to that dissociation. I no longer feel the need to try and change myself to please people who will never be pleased, and if people are hateful or make me uncomfortable, then they don’t belong in my life. If they want to judge me as a sinner, think I’m going to hell, or believe that their God smiles more favorably on them, then so be it. Their arrogance no longer intimidates me, it just saddens me. As if anyone has the right to decide who is worthy of God’s love and who isn’t. That’s not the kind of religious life that I want to live. And I know that’s not how the Jesus they claim to love lived either. I believe the stories of Christ found in the Bible are very beautiful and powerful, but it’s unfortunate that so many that claim to represent the love of Christ are incredibly hateful and spend their time trying to indoctrinate other people into adopting their same arrogance while being financially compensated to do so. I do not believe all Christians are bad people; I surround myself with many Christians who are the most loving people I have ever met. But what I realized for myself was that the Christians I was around all those years only loved me when I was conforming to their standards, donating my money, and submitting to their ruthless control.

I still believe spirituality can heal many people, and it is up to them to believe in what they choose. I do not judge another person for what they choose as long as they are a good person and do not use their religious beliefs to hurt or control others. My faith looks very different from what it previously did and is much healthier. From now on, I will pursue a spiritual life that works for me and does not keep me terrified, anxious, and judgmental of others. I will pursue a personal spirituality that does not take away from my core self, which enriches those who love me. I enjoy having conversations with people of all faiths to learn more about the world and understand how their faith helps them. I admire people who have a strong spirituality for themselves and do not allow the opinions, actions, or beliefs of others to affect their own beliefs. I also don’t judge others who choose not to believe in any higher power and find other ways to manage life in this tough world. Everyone is on their own timetable, and it’s unfortunate that many people judge others through the prism of their unbending sense of belief. While everyone has biases, we need to remember that everyone has a story and reasons as to why they have certain beliefs, and there is no way for one human being to understand another human being’s full story.

“Live and let live” is a philosophy that makes life much easier. It took me so long to adopt that philosophy and stop being so hard on myself, to stop believing all the dogmatic lies planted in my head, and start examining the abusive things that were done to me in the name of religion. It was hard, but I can finally say I’ve escaped those dystopian worlds I was in all those years and am no longer threatened by the people I once thought were so powerful.

And those people who stripped away my true essence during that time? They pose to the public as the representatives, leaders, and mouthpieces of a “loving God” and invite people into their houses of worship to do these things. However, all I hear are the words of Jesus when he admonished the Pharisees that they are like whitewashed tombs – beautiful on the outside, yet on the inside are “full of dead men’s bones and everything unclean.” 

Photo by Susan Wilkinson 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

At the beginning of  July, I received a package: copies of my book and promotional material.  I danced around my flat, my heart racing with excitement and butterflies in my stomach. I met a dear friend and we celebrated. As the week went on, I started to be overwhelmed by a sense of doom, futility, and fear. Hello, old friends.

I had it all planned, in my head and I had already approached my local bookshop for a possible book launch there. All week, it seemed impossible to get the ball rolling on that. I felt a sense of urgency. The panic to get things done and quickly. I didn’t want to miss out on any opportunity. I needed to accomplish things so as not to become a failure. I felt as if I’d done something terribly wrong or that something terribly wrong was just around the corner, in the shape of my cruel mother, mocking me, and punishing me for not succeeding at anything, before I even started anything. I was experiencing strong emotional flashbacks, from distraught inner parts.

For a few days, I kept a copy of my book, by my side. ” I created this! ME!” It seemed unreal. I slowly shared to great news with my closest and dearest. I received a lot of congratulatory texts and voice messages; “Wow, you are amazing.” or “Well done!” I wasn’t able to fully welcome those sweet words. I felt so anxious, I experienced stomach and chest pains for a few days. I felt low. It was quite similar to what I described in my previous article “The Pleasures of Life” But, this time, even more intense. A part of me was rejecting the praises. “All they see is the result but, they don’t know how I truly feel.”   Some might think of the book as a TOTAL victory over my past, but it isn’t.

Because it has been a while since I felt overwhelmed by emotional flashbacks, it reminded me, that, although I have been going through deep emotional and spiritual healing for the last few months, I carry parts of me that are afraid, terribly afraid. There are things I carry that might never go away. I still have days when I need to rest. The world outside is full of love and joy, yes, but, at the moment the darkness seems to take more space. I hate going out in busy places, using public transport is very stressful. I need my routine, to keep calm. 

So I eased myself into this by slowly reaching out to a wider audience on Social Media. “Here is The Blossoming Lotus” I reached out to my friends who, as always, understood my emotional experience. I meditated and used the New Moon’s energy to sever all cords still shakling me to my mother. (The new moon is always a great time to release and invite something new.) I saw Mother in her own bubble of light and me, in my own. I saw her floating away… away and disappearing. I then welcomed the energy and the Love of the Divine Mother. It occurred to me, I no longer needed my “human mother” who brought me so much pain, it nearly killed me a few times. All the Love I need is here and now, within me all around me.

” After years of feeling heartbroken and orphaned, I feel now I can leave the past in the past – more than ever before anyway.”

I went away for a few days. It was a welcomed break. It was still an emotional time, being back in France in an area I avoided for decades, meeting a half-brother and his family. I even met a long-lost half-sister. I never had a father but I have found a loving and caring family. After years of feeling heartbroken and orphaned, I feel now I can leave the past in the past – more than ever before anyway. I have experienced acceptance and the freedom to be myself as I have never experienced with family.

One evening, after my mini break, before sleeping and focusing on the Divine Mother, I felt Her cuddling me, soothing me as I saw “Baby Sylvie”, this new-born inner part who was never wanted nor loved. I felt this inner baby feeling loved, comforted, and soothed for the 1st time. As the days passed, I had a strong inner knowing I was no longer in a space filled with and ruled by abuse, neglect, and emotional pounding reducing me to a miniature size. I now occupy a bigger energy space, filled with Love, Compassion, joy, and goodness that I readily share, first of all, with my daughter and friends and, then with the wider world.

“Of course, we need to celebrate achievements and lives, but space is also needed for tender loving care and support, through emotions, even if they seem contradictory to the joyful events occurring in the present time.”

We live in a society that solely focuses on external results and success. People hear of victims and survivors of child abuse stories and it makes great movies, books, great TED Talks. Of course, it gives hope and inspiration. We certainly NEED hope and inspiration. However, It seems to be so easy to forget someone’s pain and challenges: “Oh, look, She has a job/ opened an exhibit (…) , she is fine!” or “Wow, he has been through so much, it is amazing!” Of course, we need to celebrate achievements and lives, but space is also needed for tender loving care and support, through emotions, even if they seem contradictory to the joyful events occurring in the present time.

Let’s celebrate our achievement, yes, but, let’s not forget that, for some victims and survivors of child abuse, “victories” might be a time of confusion and stress. All the love and all the praises, from the Universe/ the Divine Mother (or God/ Goddess) and from people around me, can be very overwhelming to some of my inner parts. This recent energic shift I experienced, and now occupy, is new territory so, of course, it is going to feel uncomfortable. During difficult times and even during times of celebration, I now know I need to take gentle care of myself and ease into things.

I believe we are all beings of light, living a complex human life, in a complex human world. Gently does it.

Sylvie

You can also read: “Child Sexual Abuse: when healing is painful” on Winter Turns into Spring.

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.

Sylvie Rouhani

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

Deputy Editor and Journalist for Taxpayers Against Poverty

Author of The Blossoming Lotus”

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

New Website: Breaking The Cycles

https://breakingthecycles.co.uk/

breakingthecycles.co.uk

There I was stuck on a boat on the river Thames in a far western area of London. I flew from Denmark with only a couple hundred Euro in my pocket and the opportunity to work with a youth organization. I had arranged a volunteering position on this houseboat where I could trade a few hours of work a day for food and a place to sleep from a questionable website I typically didn’t use. I had known it was a sketchy decision but out of fear of losing more money I chose to not pay for a subscription from one of the more popular life and work internet platforms as this one was free.

The man sensed right off the bat from our phone conversation that I was in a pinch and told me to book an exit flight out of England just in case I got screened at the airport, something not uncommon to do if you’re backpacking Europe with no particular destination. Landing, I made my way to Kingston Upon Thames where we met at a bar for a drink and discussion about the boat and a chance to size each other up. I knew he was an alcoholic after glaring at his picture a second time before leaving Denmark. His face flushed red and sagging with hints of perspiration told a story.

There at the bar, the man ordered three pints for himself offering me one with no expectation. I politely refused having already had one before he arrived. After spending some time talking, I was ready to leave and head back to the boat while he stayed back at the bar to do some computer work. Despite his heavy drinking he seemed put together, little did I know the boat would tell quite a different story. Arriving at the boat along the riverbank in the dark the city gleamed across the water with its old brick buildings, restaurants, and church spires. It was a beautiful and then I saw it. The floating home looked more like a squat house.

Navigating my way from the shore up a step ladder lashed to its side I hoisted myself onto the front deck with my hiking pack and laptop bag. Maneuvering around a dolly and giant water cistern I found the front door. Peering in I was disappointed but more than that I was exhausted and ready to call it a night. Rapping on the door finally someone answered. Following him inside the man was much taller and weighed a considerable amount more. The doors and windows of the boat were plexiglass with cheap ragged black carpeting on the floor. Inside the main area of the boat lay the kitchen with half-eaten food and crumbs amidst random jars of minced meat on the counter. Dirty dishes sat in the sink as though they had lived there for ages. The cupboards and furniture were mismatched and dirty with oil residue from the stove.

Finding my way down a pair of clunky homemade wooden stairs I entered a narrow hallway with white-painted plywood walls just wide enough for one person. The room I had been given sat at the front of the boat directly below where I had entered. Opening the door to my room I found Sai. He was an Indian student living on the boat and now my bunkmate. With little more than a greeting, I set my bags down and made my way back up the hallway towards the staircase and up to the kitchen where I cleaned several of the dishes so I could have something to cook with. The boat had no refrigerator, and its electricity ran from solar power and a generator at the back of the boat.

There were no toilets, just a sink to pee in and coolers for number 2 that were eventually emptied into two sealed barrels at the back of the boat. The bathrooms wreaked of piss. It was a dump, to say the least and after finding the meat I had been instructed to cook for myself that had been left to stay cold in the grill outside I found myself at odds with a foul inedible dinner. Luckily one of the other housemates arrived on the boat and as we talked, we began to find common ground discussing mental health as he was in recovery for addiction. Warming up to each other he saw my plight. Offering me a few pieces of his pizza I gratefully retired to bed in the hull of the ship.

Waking up the next few mornings I would soon begin to acclimate myself to the fact that this was an unlivable situation. As I sat with my feelings and observations there was no way of flipping this situation around. I knew I needed to leave. Arriving in the bedroom I was staying in one evening I found Sai. Looking at him I told him in casual frustration, “I need to get the hell out of here.” Looking at me concerned he asked why. I told him, as if it were not obvious, the decrepit state of the boat had me concerned for my safety let alone having to deal with a manipulative alcoholic. I could feel the way the boat owner talked to me as though he were searching and trying to confirm my buy-in on the ship. One second he would be dominating and demanding and when he would feel me begin to set boundaries he would ease up and try to be accommodating to reel me back in. I could feel the situation was toxic but played along until I could get my head straight about what to do.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. One morning after waking up early I packed my bags. This was it I had to make a decision and now with only 150 Euro I walked upstairs with my gear and set it on the couch. This was it. I would leave and figure something out. Why? Because I loved myself enough to not stay stuck in the fear of the what if and I knew that when you make a change you show the world what you are willing to accept and what you will not put up with. You affirm your worth. This was me choosing love.

Finding my way over the course of the next few days I checked into a hostel near London tower the first night. Trodding through London’s rainy streets I followed my intuition from one hostel to the next as I planned to stop into meditation centers, and whatever other live and work situations I could think of. Making my way to Kensington Chelsea as the sun set the next evening I strolled past the Kadampa Meditation Center towards a cheap hostel I planned to check in at. A stroke of intuition hit me, “go back,” it told me. Turning around I entered the storefront of the building. Walking inside I met a man cleaning the toilets. Slowly as we began talking we realized we had conversed on the phone back when I was in Denmark as I had called asking about volunteering opportunities previously. He invited me to come with him by bus to a meditation center north of London that night. With all my gear there I sat debating. Maybe the meditation center would let me stay the night, maybe I would meet someone? It was around 7 pm, I thought to myself, the worst that could happen was that I catch the bus back to the hostel I was originally going to. The piece of me that wanted to dig its heels in was the piece of me, I was learning, that wanted to resist change, an old identity afraid to die even though nothing was at stake except something new.

That night I found myself in the silent presence of myself and others. It wasn’t just a change or something I begrudgingly decided to check out it was just what I needed. The atmosphere felt so relaxing, and I felt so present with my thoughts, truly grateful to be among other people who cared about their own well-being. My body relaxed. Afterward we all gathered in the lounge area of the center drinking tea and talking. The man I had come with introduced me to some of his friends as we talked, and I told them about my mental health project I had come to London for. A larger fellow with tattoos up his neck and arm several years older looked at my bag. “You need a place to sleep tonight?” he asked me. Looking back at him I told him, “Hey If you’re offering, I won’t say no.” Surprisingly he was on a date but neither of them minded. My friend and the couple now walked out of the center to the tube station, and I laughed out loud to myself at how seamless and easy life felt. It was such a gift.

The next day I would head out of my new mates’ apartment with a full belly from breakfast and a truckload of great conversations and serendipity I truly felt blessed. Making my way that night, back to where I had run into my friend cleaning the toilets, I decided to check back in on a hostel job where I eventually crossed paths with the manager and agreed upon a working position.

Love is a powerful emotion, often it elicits images of joy, ecstasy, intimacy, and ideas of perfection. In an ideal world, love reigns supreme but in all our dreams and fancy we tend to forget the cost which it takes to truly love. Love is not just a simple emotion but a commitment and a choice. It requires responsibility for ourselves first.

In life we are often faced with many decisions, so often we operate on autopilot running away from pain or tough choices and don’t realize just what we are actually saying no and yes to.

When we look at the world from the eyes of love, we become its student. Every situation is an opportunity to learn, every situation is an opportunity to choose ourselves and choose wholeness. So often this means seeing our own humanity in the reflection of someone else or in a life circumstance. When we turn to face the pain or discomfort, we begin to stop identifying with the fear that keeps us separate from those uncomfortable parts of ourselves. This allows us to address and integrate whatever social or personal judgments, stigmas, triggers, and or traumas we may have that keep us running from the acceptance of the parts of ourselves we’d rather not face. When we take full responsibility for ourselves, we make the conscious choice to not just see and feel the discomfort but be curious about it.

Only then can we learn the lessons of our pain and use it as a compass. This is where the real healing happens because only in our acceptance of a situation can we find forgiveness and consciously create the appropriate steps in our lives to transform and employ what we have learned toward a new way of relating to the world from a more whole experience. This is where patterns and choices and our life trajectories can change in powerful ways. When we choose to love we say yes to all of ourself.

So next time you’re faced with a tough decision, you’re triggered or emotional. Take a step back and get curious. Ask yourself where the discomfort is coming from. What lesson are can you lear and where can you take responsibility for your life in this situation Ask yourself, am I reacting out of fear or love and then make the adjustment and move forward.

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.

Jeff Spiteri

Jeff Spiteri is an author of the unpublished book ‘The Bridge Within’ a memoir chronicling his experiences as a homeless young adult riding freight trains around the United States and the childhood trauma he uncovered along the way. Jeff is proud to use his voice as an instrument of influence, guidance and impact with young adults and educators sharing his experiences and tools for resilience and healing.

www.thebridgewithin.com

The soul is the wellspring where personality, knowledge, and understanding meet. It is also the place of deepest damage. I’m going to call this point of suffering, soul damage. When verbal and emotional abuse is punctuated with sexual and physical abuse, the damage is written across the soul, and enters a different territory from the normal conflicts of life. Many survivors of soul damage have never had a relationship with anyone who was not also damaged. What is the difference between the two?

Soul damage beliefs

1. does not trust trusts
2. assumes the worst
3. driven by fear
4. driven by anxiety
5. feels powerless

Undamaged beliefs

1. trusts
2. assumes the best
3. believes the world is basically good
4. believes the world is basically safe
5. believes they have the power to exact change

This damage makes friendships difficult. Many of us find ourselves repeating the same patterns and continuing the same behaviors. I once had a close friend show up at my house at one in the morning. Thinking something was wrong, I answered the door. 

“I feel like God has given me this song for you. I had to share it right away.” She kept me standing on the stoop of my house for over an hour.

This friend and I were both survivors. The problem was that very little of our soul damage had been healed. I didn’t know how to say no, and she had no idea how to be appropriate.

So how do we choose the right kind of friends? There are three qualities that I think help survivors find healing in stable, lasting, secure attachments with friends. 

1. Judge a person by their actions not their words

Soul-damaged people are always running the agenda. They are often trying to use you to fill the hole in their own soul. Words can be a cover. Soul-damaged people hide. If you step back and watch, they will reveal who they truly are and what they really believe by the way they behave. 

2. Look for humility – low conflict

Humble people are low conflict people. They assume the best about you. If you have a friend who is always embroiled in conflict and anger, they are running an agenda and will not be a healing relationship for you.

3. Look for a person of character

A person of character is someone who holds themselves to a higher standard. They do not seek things for their own selfish gain but look to the good of other people. They live according to a higher moral law of love, peace, and kindness. They do not cross boundaries, nor do they wish to. 

When we begin making intentional choices for healing friendships, it will catapult us toward the life we hope for and deserve. Let us break the old patterns and use our trauma experience to recognize people who appear righteous, knowledgeable, and in charge but are really looking for ways to use us for their own ends. 

Defy trauma! Embrace Joy!

You may contact the author at: https://authorrebekahbrown.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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Rebekah Brown

Rebekah Brown, a native of the south, now resides in the Great American West. Surviving a complicated and abusive family system makes her unique writing style insightful as well as uplifting. Rebekah is the proud mother of two and grandmother of four.

The definition of the Impostor Syndrome, on Wikipedia: “Impostor syndrome (also known as impostor phenomenon or impostorism) is a psychological occurrence in which an individual doubts their skills, talents, or accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud. Despite external evidence of their competence, those experiencing this phenomenon do not believe they deserve their success or luck (…)”

There is also a long list of reasons why, some of us feel like we were never good enough, no matter how well we are doing, in work, in our relationships, in pursuing our dreams and goals.

• Family expectations
• Overprotective parent(s) or legal guardian(s)
• Graduate-level coursework
• Racial identities
• Attribution style
• Anxiety
• Depression
• Low trait self-esteem
• Perfectionism
• Excessive self-monitoring, with an emphasis on self-worth

Although it isn’t classified as a mental illness, there are strong links to depression, anxiety, and such. It is a painful “condition” that can easily slip into a feeling of futility, depression, and suicidal thoughts.

Some of us never had a chance growing up, with parents watching us like hawks, looking at, or even creating, opportunities to criticize our every move, which were always labeled as rubbish, worthless, no matter how we tried to appease our carers’ anger and abuse. Others might have over-protective parents: they might have wanted you to be safe and successful in life but, the results were suffocating or you felt you had to push yourself to please them. Whatever the case, it is soul-crushing. It is too much responsibility for children to meet adults’ high expectations – very often dictated by Society’s high standards.

I remember, in my last volunteer role at the helpline (for Mosac) I received high praises from my supervisor. I really couldn’t see how well I was doing in supporting callers and clients. It isn’t just in working situations I felt like an impostor, but also in my relationships, especially as a mother. It didn’t matter how many times friends were telling me what a great mother I was/ am, I didn’t believe them. This was because I was certain I was hurting my child. I can now see clearly: indeed I am a good mum, not a perfect one (it doesn’t exist) but a good one!

While listening to some friends talking about their struggles with Impostor’s Syndrome, recently, it occurred to me that this is how I felt last year: an impostor in my own life. “What am I doing here? I am rubbish at this! Where is the point of my existence?” I was in such a dark place I couldn’t see who I was anymore. That rapidly declined to feel suicidal. With the help of a trauma-informed therapist – Karen Isbister at Becoming Whole – I realised how I have been feeling like this my whole life, starting with my unwelcomed arrival into this world.

So, how can we face our difficulties with the Imposter Syndrome, and however it impacts u? The popular “Faking it till you make it.” isn’t the solution! It is about being “real”, by going within ourselves and acknowledging our pain – ideally, with a therapist you feel safe with and trust. Awareness/ mindfulness is the first step toward change: if we can’t be present in our body, we can’t feel its discomfort. So we sit, for a few minutes and we pay attention: where does it hurt? where do you hold your tension?  Is your breathing relaxed?

The second step is acceptance. Acceptance is one of the elements of the practice of Mindful Self-Compassion. It naturally arises as we tend to our inner world with self-compassion and kindness. When we turn towards ourselves/ our feelings with acceptance, then, paradoxically, change naturally occurs. we might say to ourselves: “I feel sad/ upset/ angry/ despair, etc. We learn that there are no such things as “good” or “bad” feelings/ emotions/ inner experiences. We can say to ourselves: “Ok, this is how you feel. I am sorry this is so difficult. I am here.”  This can include a comforting gesture, such as placing our hands on our hearts or wherever we feel the tension in our body.

Another element of self-compassion is “humanity”: during our most difficult times, we tend to think we are alone in this world. This is the very nature of Depression and other mental illnesses. With “humanity”, we gently remind ourselves that, other human beings are experiencing some degree of pain, at some point in their lives. This is in no way to minimize our experiences (“Other people have it worse than you do. Stop complaining”) rather, it is to remind ourselves we aren’t alone. I often think of friends whom I know struggle too with anxiety, for instance.

Then, comes kindness: what would you say to your closest friend when s/he is going through a rough patch? “What do you need? I am here. It is understandable for you to react like this, it is tough. Gently does it.” It feels weird to start with but, taking time to say caring and kind words to ourselves, in time, will soothe us. It will become natural to do so.

This process of change happens in many ways for many people, therefore, we can’t really compare someone else’s life with our own. Sadly, we do! The Impostor’s Syndrome comes with what we call an “Inner Critic!” (See “Shrinking the inner critic, Pete Walker, MA Psychology). If we listen to our inner critic, instead of telling us to shut up, most of the time, we will find it is trying to push for us not to feel certain emotions. There are instances when this Inner critic is a reflection of an outer critic, we grew up with. Pre-empting criticism is another protective skill. Sometimes it is necessary to get angry at this inner part, if it feels like a recording tape from an abusive parent, it is healthy to do so.

There are no 123 or ABC steps to recovery. This process can’t be rushed either. I know too well when we experience deep emotional pain/ emotional flashbacks, we are advised to distract ourselves, to look on the bright side, or whatever else people come up with. We then tell ourselves to heal or recover quicker and better. We are programmed to stop the pain or avoid it. It is instinctive. Very often, it is even beyond our control (See “The four Fs,” Pete Walker). With self-compassion, we learn to slow down, to notice. We learn to go through our times of discomfort with loving kindness. We learn to love ourselves in the difficult times.

– For more info on Self-Compassion, follow Dr. Kristin Neff, Ph.D. –

Love, compassion, and Kindness,

Sylvie

(Also published on Winter Turns into Spring)

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.

[contact-form][contact-field label=”Name” type=”name” required=”true” /][contact-field label=”Email” type=”email” required=”true” /][contact-field label=”Website” type=”url” /][contact-field label=”Message” type=”textarea” /][/contact-form]

Sylvie Rouhani

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

Deputy Editor and Journalist for Taxpayers Against Poverty

Author of The Blossoming Lotus”

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

New Website: Breaking The Cycles

https://breakingthecycles.co.uk/

breakingthecycles.co.uk

Henry Lee Lucas and Otis Toole ultimately admitted to hundreds of murders, one of them being my step-sister, but most notably Adam Walsh.  Both men were friends with my stepfather and so we saw them often. We were responsible for feeding ourselves, so my sister and I worked odd jobs.  One of my jobs was cleaning the serial killers’ house. I was seven years old and have vivid memories of washing dishes standing on a step stool. I often feel fortunate to be alive.  There really isn’t a logical explanation that either one of them did not add us to their murder roster.  Even though I didn’t know it at the time, this was a time God showed up. His will trumped the unspeakable evil in those men and as a result, I am alive to tell you about the faithfulness of God.  He is, indeed, faithful and so good regardless of how it looks.

Otis Toole was arrested for the murder of Adam Walsh and Henry Lee Lucas disappeared after he killed my step-sister.  Eventually, they both ended up on death row where they died of natural causes. But, their arrest did not protect me from other men abusing me. My mom continued to send us to unsafe places with unsafe people.  Ultimately, because of her neglect, there would be 7 different men who decided I was their property.  At about age 7, I decided to pick where I was going to hang out, but even I picked unsafe places.  And it was at that age abuser number one stole my innocence along with the innocence of several other kids in the same room.  For years, I could not remember who the man in the room was. There were so many nights I fell asleep talking to the air, hoping somebody was listening.

About 3 years later, I was at my friend’s house when we opened the door to a man and a woman offering free candy if we wanted to go to church.  To be honest, I viewed going to church as another place I could be that wasn’t home.  I was all about jumping on that yellow bus and going to church.  What I found there changed the course of my life forever.  That “Air” I had been talking to had a name and it was Jesus, and He had a plan for my life. The people at church told me I was important and valuable.  I’d never felt so loved.  Every time the doors were open, I was at church.  As it would turn out many years later, God used that church and those people for a season of my life when I had nobody but them.  God continued to remain faithful and I know that knocking on the door changed everything for me.  However, it was difficult to reconcile how a “good” God could allow all that happened to me up until that point.  I wanted to know this Jesus and as I sought to know Him, I clung to His promise to never leave me because everyone else had.

My mom continued to bring danger into our home. Ultimately, the state got involved and removed me from her care.  They told her if she would make her pedophile boyfriend leave that they would bring me back home. She agreed, and I was elated that she’d chosen me over the man that would have been the 8th person to abuse me.  The social workers drove me to our house and from the car, I could see a yellow sticky note on the glass front door.  The note had 5 words on it: “Gone to get married, Mom.” Those five simple words made me an orphan, alone and abandoned by the one who gave me life and should have loved me.  The social workers walked me back to the car, their tears matching mine.

They drove straight to the courthouse where I watched the judge sign off on paperwork terminating my mom’s parental rights. I literally belonged to nobody, except the state of Florida.  I stayed with my pastor and his family for 18 months before being placed in a children’s home in Tampa, Florida.

I often tell people that the years I spent at the children’s home were some of the best years of my life.  However, when my foster parents dropped me off there, it felt like another abandonment.  My already fragile heart shattered into a million pieces as I watched them drive away from the children’s home. The first weeks were brutal, but my faithful God provided for me from the first day.  I was immediately loved and cherished by the people there, and that was a time when the Air I’d been praying to felt palatable to me; it felt like He just picked me up and carried me.  By the time I got to the children’s home, it felt like I’d lived 3 lifetimes.  But the truth is I’d only traveled around the sun 14 times. I’d survived more trauma than most people would see in a lifetime.  But He was still there, He changed the narrative and got me out of situations where abusive people would be added to my roster.  Even at that young age, I understood that I would not survive all that happened without Him, and I was and am confused as to how people live their lives without Him.

While at the children’s home, I had many opportunities to tell my story, and I did.  We traveled to churches around the country and I would stand in front of hundreds of people and tell the story of the serial killers. I testified that neither one of them hurt me because that is what my memory told me.

But memory is a weird thing and once I was safe at the home, I began to remember other things that I’d buried in a memory bank that I wished was permanently closed.  Even so, I thrived there and after graduating from college, I moved back to Jacksonville where I met and married the next name to be added to my roster.

By the time Henry Lee Lucas died in 2001, I had all but forgotten about him, but remained fearful of the things that would withdraw themselves from my memory bank.  By that time, I was in the throes of an abusive marriage. There were times I wished the serial killers would have chosen me for one of their victims. I’d survived 7 different abusers as a child and now was living with, being hit by, and controlled by a monster.

The prison room of my childhood was merely replaced by a prison house where I was isolated from friends and got very good at hiding bruises for when I was allowed to leave the house. He’d crowned himself both judge and jury and his game was isolation. He craved power and knew that controlling me was controlling the narrative of our crazy lives.  I no longer trusted the faithfulness of God. The pain was too much and I began to believe that I was alive for the sole purpose of being the prey of others.  I stopped going to church, stopped reading my Bible, and I definitely stopped talking to the Air. I survived by self-medicating which, in turn, became a full-blown addiction to pain pills. Remembering things I’d forgotten coupled with the war waging in my own home was too much for me.  I didn’t want to be alive. I took a handful of pain pills, washed it down with a bottle of wine, and was shocked when I woke up the next morning.  I knew something had to change and I needed help for the pervasive sexual and physical abuse that had firmly placed itself in the forefront of my memory. When I woke up that morning, grateful I didn’t die of an overdose, I started talking to the Air again.  I wanted to end my decade-long standoff with God.  I found a Bible and begged God to change the story in my home, but also thanked Him for His faithfulness.   Jesus met me at the intersection of hope & despair. It turns out that Jesus was exactly where He was when I decided to ignore Him and I craved a relationship with Him—even if He didn’t change the narrative at home. I was very close to leaving my husband, but could not see my way clear to that since he had effectively taken all access to money away from me.  The tipping point was the night I woke up to a massive headache as a result of being hit with a .45 caliber gun.  I knew then that one of two things were going to happen.  He was going to either pull that trigger and it would all be over, or I would find a way to leave him.  So, with less than $1,000 I left him, spending some time in Canada first because of how dangerous he continued to be.  Ultimately, I moved back to Clearwater where I went to college. Even though only a few of my friends lived there, it was important for me to get as far away from him as possible.

If I doubted the faithfulness of God at all, what happened next could not be scripted by the best of storytellers.

Signatures on divorce papers didn’t make the danger go away and I was constantly looking over my shoulder as my abusive, now ex-husband continued to threaten my life. Even though I left him, it felt like abandonment, again. I spent much of my time trying to understand God and when He would decide that I’d had enough.  So, I stopped talking to the Air again; but Jesus was not going to let go. I remembered a big church on the corner not far from my apartment.  So, I decided that I would give it a try.  While that decision felt like my own, I can see now that this was another place where Jesus met me in that painful place. He picked me up and carried me.  Again.  I met friends at that church that stood in huge gaps for me and are still part of my healing today.  While I was trying to figure out God, they were talking to him on my behalf, a lot.

Attempting to figure out God is exhausting.  As it turned out, that big church on a corner had a school and I’d landed a teaching job.  Both the church and work became a refuge for me. As long as I was at either of those places I was ok, but the real war came at night.  And I was simply tired of fighting monsters that I could not see.  I didn’t see it then, but I do now. God had handpicked that church, that school, and more importantly those friends for the sole purpose of holding me up, because I couldn’t do it alone, no matter how hard I tried.  And believe me, I tried.

I’d been in Clearwater about a year when all of the trauma caught up with me, and my body rebelled in grand fashion.  Every day felt like adrenaline was running through my veins, sleep was rare, and eating was even rarer.  One night I laid in bed staring at the ceiling and every time the clock indicated another hour had passed without sleep, I took a Klonopin.  By the time morning came, I’d taken 9 pills.  I still went to work and about my day.  For reasons that I can’t explain I told one of my bosses what I had taken the night before.  As I spoke to him I felt like I was looking into the eyes of Jesus, because his compassion and kindness lead to a decision that probably saved my life.  An hour later, one of my friends was driving me to the hospital.  I signed myself into the psych ward, where I spent the next 5 days.  The doctors began throwing around words like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and nervous breakdown.  While I was there I felt free for the first time in my life to just breathe.  Nobody wanted anything from me there, my only job was to eat, rest and breathe.

After getting out of the hospital the real work began.  Memories were still stealing sleep and therefore my health was rapidly declining.  Most of the PTSD flashbacks didn’t make sense, but I continued to have one very strong flashback and that was the first abuser and that hot dark, room when I became the world’s youngest adult.  I had several years of these flashbacks and I survived them because of my commitment to and participation in solid counseling.  I knew there were things I simply could not remember, except in parts.  As I got healthier both physically and emotionally, new layers of memories would present themselves.  Most of them were benign in nature and I was able to use some of the skills I learned in counseling to mitigate the terror.

However, I had a true crisis of faith when my worst fear came true, remembering something I’d forgotten. Henry Lee Lucas was one of those things I’d forgotten. It was him, he was the one in the room. The realization of this crashed down on me in many ways.  I ebb from grateful he did not kill me too guilty for the same reason. This has been a difficult realization because I understand that I easily could have been a victim of more than sexual abuse from Henry Lee Lucas.  Remembering things like this that my brain has “forgotten” has driven me to my knees more than once in recent years. I would be lying if I didn’t say I am still fearful of the things I don’t remember. But, again, Jesus won’t let go, and so I find myself begging Him for grace to trust Him more if I do remember more things I have forgotten.

I realize that I cannot breathe without my Air.  While my life is defined by abandonment, there is One who has never left, and who never will.  I understand that He knows my pain as He himself was abandoned on the cross.

Because He is, in fact, good–even when the reality isn’t.

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.

Amy Watson

I am a Florida girl who loves a simple life, Jesus, family, friends, football and the beach (usually in that order). I am a native of Jacksonville, Florida, but have spent most of my adult life on Florida’s west coast.

While being introduced for a speaking opportunity a few years ago, the pastor asked me “who are you?”. The words that followed shocked even me: “I am the precious daughter of the most high God”. There were many years when I would not have answered that question as I did that day.