On Denial, the Ethics of Public Disclosure, and the Considerations of writing “A Blog on Recovery.”

Denial has played an extensive role in my family of origin, and so writing a blog has been an essential way for me to build anew the psychic and emotional foundations that such denial has inflicted.

Writing a blog on recovery has been something of a multi-edged sword. It publicizes the horrors that I was subjected to as a child, and the resulting feedback from both known and unknown readers has helped me to challenge many of the longstanding notions I’ve remained irrationally loyal to. Among these notions, the toxic, underlying belief that “What happens in the family, stays in the family”; the idea that being slapped, hit, or otherwise physically assaulted as a child by your parent is commonplace, or permissible, or that ignorance is a justifiable defense against such abuse; the idea that if there is an absence of overt or ongoing physical violence, then no domestic violence is being perpetrated, and; the ‘umbrella’ belief that my experiences growing up were in no way causally related to the “mental illness” I was consequently and unfairly labeled with. The latter is perhaps the biggest lie fed to people like me by family members and “upstanding” institutions purportedly existing to aid in my recovery. I suppose in this way, I can identify with an anti-psychiatry sentimentality.

As an aside, and for those considering undertaking a similar project, it’s worth noting that this blog helps me to challenge these longstanding notions in only a very minute way. For me at least, the real meat of my recovery has not been found through the validation of “Likes”, “Followers” or misguided – albeit well-intended – commentaries offering advice, pity, or some strange combination of the two. No. If recovery is a battle, then the gains I’ve made have been in the trenches and on the front line, as is the case with most traditional “overnight success stories.” The inches I’ve gained on Recovery’s battlefield have thus far been won by my courage to undertake projects such as this, and with the support of others, rather than due to the apparent fruits such a project may or may not bear at an uncertain, undisclosed date.

Further to this, my ongoing recovery has been gained by forming alliances with those courageous enough to get real about their traumas, and with those who choose to deal with them in spite of their fears. There’s courage in this, and I aspire to be courageous in a world filled with powerful people top-heavy in cowardice. I haven’t gained recovery by remaining obedient to those who instruct me to be or act a certain way. Nor has it been found through their judgments, or through the unsolicited advice from codependent others. Such people are usually kidding themselves, and need to take a good, long hard look at why they feel it necessary to impose their views on those seeking to establish their own. Finally, I continue to reap the benefits of recovery through independent research, which informs the evidence-based therapies I then choose to invest my money in. But to be clear: a blog on recovery has not been enough for me to sustain my ongoing recovery.

Though the blog is essentially anonymous, it has in many ways exposed certain family members’ histories, as well as their actions (and inactions) without their consent. When I created the blog, I made the conscious decision for the blog to automatically appear in my Facebook feed. The blog’s purpose has evolved in parallel with my own recovery, and so the content has perhaps become more objectionable to some without any apparent consideration to the level of publicity it continues to receive. Fact is, I have considered changing the blog’s level of visibility, and as you might have guessed, my decision has been to keep it public. So long as the blog’s purpose continues to serve my recovery, it will remain a fixture on my Facebook feed, and I don’t apologise for that. Let me be clear about this: If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Nobody’s put a gun to your head.

In any case, I’m aware of the ethical dilemmas that publicly identifying (or at least alluding to) perpetrators in my narrative entails. Any decent (or self-aware) person would be. But it should be noted that no names have ever been used that would identify family members, or even friends whom I’ve confided in and consequently written about. All names are pseudonyms. It should also be noted that I’m not interested in publishing stories for the sake of vengeance, as some people have suggested. As a rational and intelligent human being, I know that to expend positive energy to achieve a negative end is to still expend energy – my energy – which I would much rather exert to further my own spiritual, emotional, psychological and emotional causes. So long as the writing of this blog remains congruent with the broader aims of my recovery, then I will continue to speak of the hurt that my family has caused me.

This is because my abusive past has exacted a heavy toll, one that my body and mind have suffered in total silence through, and continue to pay dearly for. This blog is therefore just an elementary vehicle for my voice, which has long been stifled by my family’s, and the broader system’s, crippling denial. I hope its message transcends the small, incestuous world of Facebook. Additionally, the blog is just writing practice until I get the wider audience my talents were intended for. And to the naysayers who are never in short supply: Hard work and a lot of hope are the only beacons I look to for guidance and affirmation in achieving this conviction.

It feels important for me to mention that the purpose of this blog is not to demonise or otherwise shame my caregivers, or any other of my family members for that matter. Admittedly, doing so might offer me with a temporary, albeit misguided sense that justice has been served to some of the people who continue to live in their own denial. But, no. That’s their stuff, not mine, and I suspect striving for this outcome would be akin to seeking the fool’s gold spiritualists speak of. Nor would such a destination be worthy of the journey I have fought so hard to travel through.

An additional purpose of this blog, if it were to be so explicitly identified, is to ‘speak out’ the effect that such abuse continues to have on me, and on my efforts to ‘get ahead’; Notably, I continue to make decisions based on the effect such decisions will have on my ability to cope – an ability that was prematurely developed, and eventually exhausted – in a dysfunctional family. My history is such that I now carry a self-identified diagnosis of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and this is obviously to my detriment – I’ve mentioned before the crippling effect that traumatic flashbacks continue to have on me when I start a new job. So I write. Unashamedly. It is an almost tangible problem for those labeled with a “mental illness” to feel worthwhile, and to be able to identify areas in their life in which they actually are competent. I can say with staunch confidence that I am a good writer, a competent writer. By writing about things that are true to my experience and my core, I honour the voice of my inner child that once was quashed.

Perhaps another blunt edge of this multifaceted blog-sword is the truth that in writing about my experiences, I’ve lost one or two friends, embarrassed more than a couple, and probably (and unintentionally) alienated a few more. Perhaps they found the candid reports of my childhood offensive, or unpalatable, or perhaps “too much information”. Maybe some even think my style is arrogant, and my willingness to disclose so openly is abhorrent. I don’t know. In any case, I subscribe to the advice that ‘other people’s opinions about me are none of my business.’ Whereas before I pruned my God-given spontaneity to fit the mould of others’ oftentimes-warped standards, now I own my experiences and draw on them as a source of identity and strength. That’s my right.

I’ve thus far enjoyed the challenges of maintaining a bl0g. I am usually proud of my creative efforts, and rarely when I read over my thoughts do I feel the need to internally  criticise, pull apart, or re-write what’s already been written. That I am for the most part a fan of my own writing truly is a gift of my recovery, and of trusting in the creative process. Though I do at times wonder whether being so blunt in my posts is unintentionally blunting the prospect of finding gainful employment with a “respectable” employer, whatever that means. I was always told, verbally or otherwise, that the image we choose to project to the world is unequivocally the most important thing. But an image is just an image, and a projected one at that. It speaks nothing of the rich inner world each of us has been gifted with. By getting honest about my past, my present, and the future I a hope to create for myself, I’m playing an active role in my recovery. In any case, I will ideally find an employer who celebrates and accepts my honest self-expression. This would truly be a positive step in the direction of good recovery; it’s said that we seek out employers that mimic our family of origin, for better or worse.


Luck, Unluckiness, and What’s Old is Now New Again.

Perhaps one of the hardest things about being unemployed and living with complex PTSD is how quickly the old patterns of thinking can re-enter my consciousness. It’s impeccable – and frightening. If it can be said that our thoughts are a precursor to our actions, then the negative thinking that I’ve reluctantly embraced is leading to some evidently low level, self-destructive behaviour.

It’s tough. Everyone wants to feel like they’re needed, like they’re useful. It’s no different for me, either. The trauma I want so desperately to be rid of seems lately to be robbing me of the belief that I have something worthwhile to contribute, more now that I am unemployed than before. And it’s stifling. I find myself going in to fantasy, getting to bed later, eating junk foods that are consumed at a cost to both my hip pocket and my health. I’m talking to friends less too, and feeling frightened at the prospect of leaving the house. I’m bunkering down for a storm, and I’m going in to survival mode. Notably, none of it is helping me to deal with my adult problems.

And if I do leave my house, I leave my body too. I dissociate. Maybe this is the hardest part about C-PTSD. The disconnection that accompanies any circumstance that is merely perceived as threatening or overwhelming. I catch myself becoming adamant that I can’t cope, that I won’t, and that I refuse to, too. Every situation becomes evidence for my hyper-vigilant, outspoken Inner Critic that I’m not faring so well. The “See? I told you that you couldn’t cope!” storyline plays on repeat. God, it’s irritating.

Such toxic thinking. The world of a trauma survivor is apt to get claustrophobic quickly without the necessary tools to manage this feeling of collapsing and shrinking in to oblivion. And even then, it ain’t easy. Intellectually, I understand that I am simply feeling overwhelmed, and that if I just bring myself back to the present moment and do the next best thing to take care of myself, I’ll probably be OK. The path to recovery is at times a nightmarish paradox: do the thing that feels most frightening and you’ll thrive; stay present at all costs, and it’ll pass. So this is what I’m doing, to the best of my ability.

Numbing out is a fantastic strategy when you’re small, helpless, and reliant on giants to provide your safety and your broader needs for touch, emotional nurturing and physical safety. But what happens when they’re not met? What happens when such caretakers are narcissistic? Or abusive? Emotionally volatile or manipulative, and physically violent? I won’t speak for all people who grew up in domestic violence family systems, but I know that for me, I became an exquisite ‘dissociater’ at the slightest hint of confrontation or perceived threat. I jumped ship, so to speak, and abandoned myself with record-breaking rapidity. The reality back then was too painful because, as it turned out, the giants entrusted with ensuring my basic survival needs were the very ones threatening them. Thus, numbing my senses seemed like an entirely sensible thing to do!

It’s tough, and a little bit tragic, too. Because I know that the degree to which I felt unsafe as a child directly correlates with the amount of energy I now unconsciously put in to numbing out to survive. That’s the tragedy: that I must have been thoroughly terrified, and consistently so, throughout my formative years. The tough part is that a very dominant part of me still sees these strategies as totally viable and effective ways for dealing with all types of threat, be they proximal or distant, physical or abstract. It makes being gentle on myself hard, and creates in me a sense of incongruence which is unnerving and uncomfortable. And while outwardly I’m looking for paid work, I know I’m already holding down the full-time job of re-wiring my hyper-aroused brain with self-soothing techniques. You might say I’m doin’ double-overtime, and the penalty rates ain’t payin’ dividends just yet.

Changing these patterns is a lifelong process that requires support, hard work, and a lot of good luck. Threats to where I live and the prospect of working yet another stressful, underpaying job that underutilises my intellect and my potential make it hard to feel safe, and hopeful. This is where I’m at right now: finding and creating zones of safety in which to heal. Even starting a job that draws on my strengths is stressful because it brings up traumatic feelings and self-defeating thinking patterns from eons ago which, if not managed well, lead to overwhelm all over again, to quitting, and to the despair of being right back where I started.

So you see, it’s a really tough gig. I see it as an exercise in being broken down and re-created each time I fall and have to pick myself up again.  A stable place to live, as well as a regular income from a job that affirms my personal philosophy and draws on my experience, is a by-product of recovery from trauma that protects me from relapses. Such things, though, are also pre-requisites for recovery. Herein lies the frustrating injustice of a person suffering under the sticky label of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress disorder. I’m fortunate enough to be able to articulate this, though as yet such eloquence hasn’t eased my burden or magically secured me a stable dwelling and a vocation that makes my heart sing.

There’s hope, though, because I’m a stubborn mother. In spite of growing up in a traumatic and unforgiving family system, in spite of the empty promises of a broken mental health system and in spite of the ill-offered advice from psychiatrists, with their over-emphasis on medicating feelings and ignoring the body’s wisdom, I’m still here, still being broken and still being reconstructed; the best is surely still to come!

Unemployment, The Universe, and Feelin’ the Feelings

So, I’m unemployed now. Prior to becoming unemployed, I’d experienced in my body panic at the prospect of not having an income. “What will I do?!” I thought to myself obsessively in the wee hours of the mornings leading up to my termination. It felt as though I would die. My heart would pound and my back would ache in silent protest; I couldn’t sleep and I was agitated at the people around me more than usual. “Fucking people,” I thought. People weren’t the problem, though.

Funny then when the date came and passed and I did not, in fact, die. What a relief. Life goes on after one job finishes, soon to be replaced by another. Probably the biggest difference between this latest transition in to unemployment (unemployment is a common aspect of recovery when you have PTSD) and other previous events is my steadfast commitment to staying present to my internal self. My Body.

Some of you will dismiss the feeling of feelings as some new age wank-off crap. That’s OK. Others of you who are familiar with the numbing effect that trauma has on feelings and connection to one’s own body will appreciate just how big it is to have stuck with experiencing my emotions in a time of considerable stress. It’s a win, and I’ll take it. I didn’t act out with most of the socially acceptable drugs – caffeine, booze, begging my parents for financial or emotional support. No. I recognise now that all these forms of ‘acting out’ don’t help me. All they do is numb what needs to be felt: Panic, anger, rage, resentment, sorrow, and grief. I didn’t hide from these feelings, and as a result, a gift of self-realisation has been forwarded on to me; more insights as to where I’ve come from, what I’ve endured and triumphed over, where I’m heading and what my preferences are for living a full and abundant life. The pain from my past and the hope for my future are both being fused in to a comprehensible and consistent story of whom I am. This is good news for me. Prior, I had little notion of who I was due to the stop-start effect of dissociation.

By staying present to myself and by allowing myself to feel what needs to be felt, certain inescapable truths have slowly risen to the surface of my conscious mind. Namely, I like to write. I’m good at it, and using this skill for paid employment would give me great satisfaction. I’m working on that. In the past I dismissed my talent. My sister is the writer and the reader. ‘We can’t both be writers,’ I used to think. But who made that rule? It’s a belief, I’ve learned, that is a result of the neglect and emotional abuse I endured in my childhood. It’s one I’m thankfully letting go of. Also, the subject of psychology interests me. I have a Psychology degree that I’m not doing justice to by answering calls in call centers. This will change eventually.

Maybe I need to return to study to realise these inclinations more fully. This might mean share housing again, or moving further out in to ‘the sticks’ if I wish to continue to live on my own whilst I study. But living on my own has transformed my recovery from PTSD. It’s provided a safety that I hadn’t previously known while share housing. And it’s so much easier living on my own. You know all the usual annoyances. Big black hairs clogging the bathroom sink, loud and offensive music playing at 9 a.m. on a saturday morning, and taking a bite out of the block of cheese and putting it back in the fridge – and those are just my quirks.

I have to find a way to make it work. Unemployment, flashbacks, returning to study, stress. These are all factors that I have to learn to mitigate in the recovery process. I complained to my friend, Sam, the other day about how slow the recovery process seems to be of late (not true, but you know when it feels like progress is slow?). He said, “You know, you sound exactly like someone who is on the verge of change. Maybe you’re exactly where you need to be right now.” Thank God for friends who say these things during times like this. One day at a time. Just for today. These are the maxims I stick to in my recovery. I stick to routine and hand it over to the universe. After all, if it’s meant to be, surely the universe will intervene and offer encouragement?


Thinkin’ Thoughts rather than Feelin’ Feelings

When I get agitated, I get stuck in my head. Oh, you do too? Not like me, I bet. I ruminate. In fact, so good am I at not feeling my feelings, and so competent am I at launching in to my head to avoid said feelings, I’ve literally been diagnosed with OCD by a psychiatrist in the past. Not recently, but, you know, in the past. (So I win.)

Crazy, huh? I coined a phrase that aptly describes this inner phenomenon: I’d rather think my thoughts than feel my feelings. Pretty good, ay? Catchy. I mean I’m pretty sure it’s my phrase. I haven’t heard anybody else use it before. Can I get that copyrighted? Thanks. It’s officially mine.

“I’d rather think my thoughts than feelings my feelings”
– Daniel, from Me, you and the critics in my head

james dean crying
What might happen if I feel my feelings, dramatised by notorious weeper, James Dean.

Naturally, I like this saying because it rings very true; it’s very me. Quintessentially Daniel. I get so caught up in how I am going to manage my circumstances, whatever they happen to be at the time, that I forget (or make an unconscious decision) not to feel my feelings. It doesn’t work very well for me, truth be told.

As you might have guessed, my knowledgeable, omnipotent, and few-and-far-between Readers, herein lays the unmanageability. I don’t like my unpleasant feelings. Fear. Resentment towards self. Resentment towards others. Uncertainty – which, by the way, manifests at times as liquefied shit, a feeling of nausea in my stomach, or just plain old irritability and agitation, felt everywhere from my neck to my face to my back to groin. It’s enough to make you crazy. These sensations are my feelings, and goddammit they don’t feel good. And I want to feel good all the time. I want certainty and clarity and I want prosperity without any of the hard work those idiot successful people talk about. I want a no-risk, win-win situation. Is that too much to ask?

All delusions aside, I do find myself coming back to some pertinent and seemingly urgent questions. When the fuck’s it going to be my turn to get ahead in this shitty life? When’s it my turn to be prosperous? Such are the anxious and frustrated ramblings of my at-times incoherent head. Such are the thoughts, too, that cleverly mask the funky feelings in my body. They’re not pleasant feelings, so why feel them? To my unwell-at-times mind, it makes perfect sense not to go near my feelings. It’s airtight logic – how could it be wrong? Don’t like it? Don’t touch it! Easy.

The only problem with this logic is that it’s the same goddamn logic that’s kept me very, very unwell these last 29-odd years. If I don’t feel my feelings, then I don’t have an accurate gauge of who I am. Without feelings, I have no compass to navigate my internal world – or my external world. Without my feelings, I’m lost. And without my feelings, I’m only a few clicks away from turning in to Dexter Morgan, ridiculously fit, good-looking in an understated, nerdy-kind-of-way serial killer. Except he seems more well-adjusted than me…
OK, not really. Although sometimes I just don’t know. What’s wrong with not feeling your feelings?! Says my Sicker Self. Well, a lot, Mr. Daniel, if I may. It’s important for me to know what I’m feeling. They keep me safe from danger and they let me know when shit ain’t right. My feelings, when expressed appropriately and in a healthy way to my loved-and-liked ones, help me stay connected to other people. And staying connected is crucial to my recovery. I would say it’s one of my values. Yeah, it’s one of my values. Let’s go with that.

Enter, though, my fear of intimacy with others. That flaming queen, Oscar Wilde, once said that he could resist anything but temptation. Likewise, I have a tendency to proclaim that I value intimacy and connectedness to others – but just so long as you don’t take another fucking step closer to me. That’s my version of intimacy, I say proudly and while smiling.

“I can resist anything but temptation” – Oscar Wilde, Irish dramatist, poet, and flaming queen.

But it doesn’t really work well, this approach, when it comes to friends and relationships. Demanding intimacy while at the same time dialing triple zero as others approach me makes for a very awkward, confusing dance. I’m sure it’s comical to watch…. But, no. It is a great thing, then, that I’ve developed some good friendships with people who can relate to this predicament. Or as Oprah might call it, fear of intimacy. In 12 step programs it’s called emotional anorexia. I can identify with that.

Anyway, what were we discussing? Pizza? No – wait. Emotions? Ergh. Emotions. OK. I’ve been doing it tough with emotions lately. On the one hand my recovery hinges on my practicing feeling my emotions. On the other hand my recovery also hinges on recognizing when my emotions are becoming overpowering, and when it’s appropriate for me to self-soothe appropriately. You know, make phone calls, meditate, pray, do tapping, do havening, do body scans, etc. (Not booze or sex it up, or ruminate or numb out with pizza or any other mood-altering drugs, like ice-cream or binge-watching Game of Thrones, which is a very effective way to numb out, I’ve discovered).

Feelings. Let’s talk about them, then. With my contract ending in February, I’m feeling threatened. I feel like my recovery is being threatened. And my sanity. And it feels as though where I live is also under attack, too, because how in hell will I afford this lovely apartment without a job? Am I well enough to apply for and work a job that is more mentally challenging without the fear of another terrifying flashback?

I don’t know. I’m sick and tired of not knowing. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. It’s draining, and it’s not fair. But what can I do but keep working at it? Language is important here, too. The words I use to evaluate my circumstances are important. So I’m writing this post today not to preach about recovery, although that can be very fun. I’m reminding myself to take little steps. Teeny, weeny, itty bitty baby steps.

And I’m reminding myself to have faith. And courage. And to stay connected to myself and to others through writing about it, and talking about it, and complaining (in moderation) to others about how unfair it all is. These are the pillars of my recovery, the tools for success, that will see me through to the other side of this unpleasant shit-storm.

Mindfulness amidst the Storm.

I suspect my computer is slowly dying. It has these weird spasms in the form of a glitchy white line across the top of the screen. Great. Just fucking great, I think to myself. A part of me believes that it’s all coming to a head. Job’s drying up; lease ends in February (which means I have to inform my landlord of my decision to renew or get the fuck outta there); I’ve been grinding my teeth mercilessly in my sleep (and even with the support of a splint, my teeth are starting to wear) … and now my fucking computer could be dying.

Just. Fucking. Great. What does a wiser soul do in these situations? Someone tell me. Please. Because every fiber of my being wants me to panic. Let loose, cut sick and go nuts – give up on recovery and pack up shop here in Melbourne and travel again. But not in some romantic, Jack Kerouac adventurist kind of way. More like a compulsive escape from reality and escape from adult responsibility kinda way. You know, put my life and the pursuit of meaningful work on hold? Go in to fantasy? Be anonymous and do anonymous things with anonymous people? Yeah… It feels relaxing just thinking about it. Be a vagabond just to forget the pain of my apparent transience.

But I know I can’t do that. I know that the best thing for me right now is to just…. Fucking sit with it. I say it with a sigh as I write it, and the word shit escapes my mouth. Fuck, too. Back stooped and irritated with this uncomfortable life juncture, I feel pissed awf. Because sitting with uncertainty is hard, don’t you know? And nobody ever fucking taught me to sit with feelings.

Feel-scared-get-yelled-at. Feel-angry-get-smacked. Feel-sad-what-are-you-crying-for. I’d say I got an ‘F’ in Emotional Literacy 101 when I was a wee lad, but that would imply that my parents actually enrolled me in the fucking class, which they didn’t. My father would have denied the relevance of learning about feelings with the same fervor as some dopey deep-South parent who refuses to let their goofy kid attend classes on the Theory of Evolution.

So now adrenaline pumps in to my stomach at the prospect of having to work another crappy job and live in another shitty share house as I lie in bed. My brain is scattered, but I can make out the message it’s sending to my body clearly: “Fucking run, you fool!”

But instead I just lie here. I try to focus on where I am and how I am experiencing this message in my body. Actually, my neck’s kinda tight. My stomach is in knots, which probably has something to do with the fact that I’m tensing it, huh? I consciously un-tense, and the pain of uncertainty slowly starts to fill the space instead. My back hurts. And my jaw feels locked. I oscillate between allowing myself to feel the physical discomfort of insecurity, and tightening. Meanwhile, my faithful fantasy-riddled mind schemes ways to avoid, avoid, avoid, damn you!

Instead, I notice the creamy white walls of my bedroom and the cracks in the ceiling. My wardrobe door is open, so I explore the contours and contrasts of black shadows and yellowy-white wooden doors that house the clothing of a 20-something drifter with a penchant for collecting books and not reading them in their entirety. I tell myself loving sweet nothings, tell myself it will be OK, no matter what happens.

And this is a hard act to swallow when you’re in a state of panic and when you believe, truly, that nothing is OK and that things might turn out like “last time” – some vague mish mash period of time half-remembered and half dreamed up, and that’s not been properly integrated in to my story of myself. Hard as it is, though, my current act is a more tiring one to maintain: running and avoiding and denying my feelings and myself. I’m done with that. So today I say “Fuck you, Fear!” and I make the decision to do nothing. In bed, between the rock and the hard place, I find that this takes up most of my energy, and for today I’m cool with that.

Constipated Hanks and the Mini-Breakthrough

I’ve had a mild breakthrough in the last few days. Or maybe it’s a big breakthrough? I’ve been feeling the lows, don’t get me wrong. And the anxiety-induced highs that come with the acceptance of an uncertain future, too. But something in me has changed. I felt it shortly after an EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization Reprocessing) session with my psychologist. At the time I was watching Spielberg’s delightfully intriguing and naturally well-done Bridge of Spies – you know, the one where Tom Hanks looks constipated about 86% of the time? (I love you, Tom Hanks. Sorry for the dig).


I came in to the movie late because I insisted on purchasing lunch beforehand. And so immediately prior to my mild awakening I sat in a darkened theatre room, munching on dim sims and a sausage roll simultaneously – much to the dismay of my fellow moviegoers. If they could have seen the apologetic look on my soy-and-tomato-sauce stained face, I’m sure they’d have been forgiving. Or disdainful. But alas, I digress.
Something in me changed. I felt it. I couldn’t be sure what it was, but it was something. Something clicked over. Quick and subtle and barely perceivable, but it happened. Am I cured of my complex PTSD? Ha! The thought of a rookie in recovery. No, not cured. I know I’m not, because I continue to be triggered in to flashbacks, experiencing the same thoughts as before this mild awakening.
But the feelings that accompany the distressing thoughts…they’ve changed. Or maybe it’s my evaluation of them. The feelings are still felt as an intense energy, a force. But they’re not life-threatening. “But they never were! Feelings can’t kill you! I hear you say with mild amusement. Well, no, feelings can’t kill you. But the traumatic circumstances that led to the intense feelings for the C-PTSD sufferer could have, perhaps. So the feelings were a memory of a more life-threatning chapter in a very old book.

But now, something has changed. I find myself waking up in the morning, my Fear Brain kicking wildly at the ghosts of trauma past. Though now, my rational, heaven-sent higher consciousness takes over shortly after, scanning the room calmly to remind me that I’m safe. “It’s Here and Now, and you’re free from the past,” it whispers to me as I fall back down to earth from the dizzying heights of anxiety.

One of the many gifts of hard work in recovery, I suppose. My advice if you’re still struggling with mental illness? Keep going. Perhaps there’s no foreseeable cure, but it is a universal law that if you work hard, you’ll reap the rewards. Maybe not right away, but you will. Winston Churchill was right when he said, “If you’re going though hell, keep going.”

Onwards and upwards!


Hope is a four-letter word.

Hope, they say, is a four-letter word. Or maybe they don’t say that, I’m not sure. It is a fact, though. H-O-P-E . 1, 2, 3… Yep. I spoke to a mate yesterday and he applauded me for the hard work I have been pouring in to my own recovery over the last year.

“I hope it pays off,” I said with some trepidation. Visits with a trauma specialist (that ain’t cheap), daily yoga in the morning along with a quick read from my meditation book, catching up with and calling friends regularly to check in with my emotions, running my own mental health support group, exercise, maintaining a part-time job.

This stuff isn’t easy for people who live with complex PTSD. And it requires a great deal of faith, too. Faith that you’re putting in enough time and hard work to see results that you want to see. But there’s a fine line between faith and expectation. I gotta keep a close eye on my expectations; they’re not always rooted in reality.

Doing something just because I want a result, you know? Not an uncommon phenomenon. The abovementioned routines I engage in are worthwhile simply because they’re good for me in the moment. Regardless of circumstance, I need to keep doing them. My old life can be characterised by inaction and self-destructive habits. But not my new life of recovery.

It may take time to reap the long-term benefits of these routines – such as maintaining a sense of calm when starting a new job rather than being flooded by flashbacks that result in my compulsion to quit. Or pursuing a job that genuinely taps in to my passion and feeds my curiosity and creativity – and that pays butt-loads.

But I know that I need to love myself, with all my faults and all my ailments, now. Not some magical time in the future when things are all better – that’s my fantasy rearing its head – but now. So my hope for today is that I can be gentle with myself in spite of the approaching uncertainty in my life (because life will be always be uncertain).

Here’s to hope and positive action in recovery!