Grief and guilt change a survivor on a cellular level. There is no shame in accepting this change. Recovery and healing are not a straight line and nor is the grief process. Sometimes a memory is triggered that has not been thought of since it happened, decades previously. It is how you deal with and move on from these traumatic memories that is the true test of your healing. I am a survivor of sexual abuse and several horrific events that changed my life completely. I am used to having flashbacks at the worst possible time. I mean, no time is a good time to be reminded of traumatic events but then will just come out.

Today I had a horrific trauma flashback on my way to work. There was no trigger and no warning. It happened suddenly and BAM, I was back in my 8-year-old self, in my hell reality. Somehow my brain decided to go there when I was trying to focus on my day ahead at work. Flashbacks can happen anytime and anywhere. This one really took me by surprise because I had not thought about this time for decades.

“The wooden bridge stood tall and proud like a sentinel watching the murky fast-flowing river below. I watched the water rush under it. My stomach was in knots as we walked towards the bridge. The closer we got, the more frightened and tense I felt. I didn’t want to cross that bridge because it was too close to “that place”. I knew that Mother would force me no matter how many times I whined and yelled and cried to go the long way to the city. I sucked in a deep breath knowing the bridge drew nearer with every footstep I took. Why did we have to cross here and not further up near downtown? This was a shortcut and the way we always went to get to the city. My heart was pounding inside my chest, so loud it was drowning out the traffic around me. I didn’t want to be here! The familiar panic started setting in as my vision started to blur. We crossed the road and Mother’s grip on my little hand tightened further as she almost dragged me towards the bridge.

As soon as we got to the first big floor plank, I froze and looked down at my little white shoes with pink flowers on them. Then my focus looked just in front of my shoes, in the gap between the dark wooden planks at the swirling brown water deep below. She wasn’t down there but she could be further up. My gaze took in the wooden planks lying horizontally in front of me creating a path across the wild river. Mother was shouting at me by this point and I took a tentative step forward as the abusive words rained on me. I tuned her out and kept a steady gaze at the swirling river below through every slit in between the wooden floor. Dark wooden plank, gap, dark plank, gap…. Every step was agony, and I knew she was down there, in that murky water. I couldn’t help her. I didn’t know how to swim yet. Mother tried to drag me but the fear made me stiffen like a robot and I heard a distant noise. It came from me, a deep howl of fear as I was half carried across the bridge to the other side of the river bank. Mother was furious but I could barely hear her over my heart beating so hard it was almost out of my chest. I turned around and saw the bridge behind me. I’m shaking violently and willing my sobs to go away before Mother implodes with anger at my stupidity. Why couldn’t she understand that I was frightened?”

My trauma memory was hitting me a few days after I had witnessed the rape and murder of a young woman. She was killed and drowned in the river that runs through the city I lived in. Every time my mother took me downtown, she made me walk as we lived nearby. There was a shortcut that led across the river directly into the city. The problem was that I had witnessed this life-changing trauma but nobody believed me. At that point in time, the woman had been reported missing but not found murdered yet. I knew where she was and I had been telling everyone in my family that I knew she was in the river but I couldn’t remember how I knew. The memory is from the first day that Mother took me to the city and I had to cross the bridge just a stone’s throw away from the place I witnessed one of the worst things I have ever seen. A few days after that, the woman was found, dead in the river.

I am a writer and I write almost every day for fun. Writing down a trauma memory can help with coming to terms with it. It doesn’t have to be in words. It can be in a code or poetry or even in art form. It can be as long or as short as you like. If you are an artist, you can experiment with colors and shades to interpret your emotions. Once the words are out there, it’s a little like letting them go. I try and expose the trauma memories, leaving no detail out. My therapist told me that using my senses to make sense of a flashback would help me understand what was happening even if it did not make sense immediately. Those memories are after all from my much younger traumatized self. I use my senses a lot and it really does change my grasp on the where, why, who, how, and when the traumatic event happened. This in turn helps me to move on afterwards. By desensitizing that trauma memory,  I know it now makes sense why I felt the way I did. As an adult, I can revisit that time with the knowledge that my reaction to the bridge and the water was normal. The person I was with (my mother) was reacting badly to a situation entirely created by her. I know it was not my fault that a young woman was murdered a few days before that day, but her death will always be with me. I feel the shame and guilt even now decades later and I don’t know if I will ever feel better about it. I have let go of my fear because I am no longer living in that city. The memory still hurts but not as much as before I had therapy.

I make sure I take care of myself after a flashback. Who hasn’t started their day with a headache and seeking coffee? In truth, I don’t drink much coffee, but I frequently use my “caffeine fix” as an excuse to take a mini time- out for me. It is an acceptable excuse to take a break in most workplaces. If you need your “coffee break”, then make sure you take one.

I wrote this article because living with Complex PTSD is not always easy. Triggers are a part of our everyday life. Be good to yourself and remember to take a time-out now and then. You deserve it!

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

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Elizabeth Woods

Elizabeth Woods grew up in a world of brutal sex offenders, murderers, and inconceivably neglectful adults. She suffered sexual abuse throughout her childhood and witnessed unspeakable events. Elizabeth survived in an environment where most people would not. She is now able to help other survivors heal from trauma through her writing and blogs. Elizabeth is passionate about spreading awareness of what it is like to survive after trauma. There is always hope.

Elizabeth 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. https://www.amazon.com/Sex-Offenders-Daughter-Story-Survival-Against-ebook/dp/B0BBSV97VF/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=0pSdX&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=134-9913214-5397651&pd_rd_wg=MPpMc&pd_rd_r=d375a758-2d9b-4c6e-9aee-52c1f5a4e6f7&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk

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” available here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQRNST2B?binding=kindle_edition&qid=1711883073&sr=8-2&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_pc_tkin