Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
ruminations on mental health
Most people tend to associate me with violence. Not because I go around punching people, but probably more because I’m the type of scrappy that will do anything to survive. I’m not above a whole lot of kicking and screaming to make it out alive. And, let’s be honest for a second, people often confuse assertive for aggressive when it comes to confident women.
Truthfully, I’m more of a pacifist. Well, the kind of pacifist that would finish a fight someone else started and is against the death penalty. I call it the Grew Up In A Violent Home special. But while growing up under the threat of violence made me a more empathetic human being, it also left me with scars and wounds that I still have to care for to this day.
When my therapist first started suggesting that I may have cPTSD, I laughed it off and refused to think about it. War vets get PTSD. Kidnapping victims get PTSD. Middle children in narcissistic and violently abusive households… don’t? We get funny instead. Right?
I had my first PTSD “episode” in a long time this week.
And I froze.
For what seemed like an eternity (but was really probably only an hour), I was paralyzed and mute. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t freeze. I don’t run out of words to say. Resilience is my most celebrated personally trait, but resilience can’t save you from being a kid again. It can’t control the flashbacks or the uncontrollable shaking of every muscle in your body. There is no controlling anything when you’re back in your own personal hell again. And unfortunately, there’s no more denying this part of my brain to myself anymore. It’s not the first time, it’s not the last time. Worst of all, there’s no seeing it coming.
I’m the type of obstinate young lady that loves to control everything around her. I pick the art on the walls. I decide how many rescue dogs are enough. But mostly, I spent a lot of years with a child psychologist learning how to control my thought patterns. I’ve enjoyed those benefits ever since, but all that goes out the window when PSTD comes barreling through your front door. Never ever ever have I been the type to freeze, but it’s hard to know who you’ll be when you’re propelled back into the trauma you escaped. Most of us never want to go back.
I don’t really know how to process what’s going on with my brain. The effects are lingering for much longer than I expected and my body is still recovering from the shock.
My brain on the other hand, I’m not used to her being so fragile. I’m not used to fear anymore. Which I suppose could be the silver lining.
But what I do know is that I’m supposed to feel it. I’m supposed to give my brain the room and energy it needs to patch up the wounds that were ripped open again. Continuing to ignore this part of me because I just don’t want another diagnosis, god dammit, is not going to help me recover. Refusing to have empathy for myself is not going to help me have more empathy in the long run. There’s nothing wrong with being a little fucked up in the brain, but there’s a whole lot wrong with not taking care of yourself out of the fear of… whatever.
Fear gave me cPTSD, but fear won’t cure it.