When CPTSD is Your Real Story

Everyone has a story.  What's yours?

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or CPTSD, is something I knew nothing about until a year ago. Like most people, I was familiar with its counterpart, PTSD, and generally associated it with military men and women who had been in combat. I later learned that PTSD isn't limited to combat, but can manifest from other traumatic events, like the loss of a loved one, a car accident, a natural disaster, or some other impactful event. CPTSD, on the other hand, is a different animal, and results from prolonged trauma, as occurs with child abuse.

I started exploring CPTSD after learning about how it manifests itself in adulthood through such conditions as adult ADHD and OCD. If you deal with these conditions, it may not be you, it may be your trauma, acting out.  The reason I separate you from your trauma is because you are not your trauma.  It's like you are two different individuals. There's your authentic self, who is likely hiding behind your trauma.

Do you struggle with making decisions, procrastinating, forming healthy relationships, reaching out to others, and asking for help? Are you a perfectionist? Do you have trouble focusing, staying engaged with a conversation, or sticking with a task? Maybe you can't even get started from one day to the next, because you feel mentally exhausted. Do you have impulsive or addictive behaviors? These might all be signs of CPTSD. If you are, or have been, a victim of abuse whether verbal, physical, or sexual, you may be experiencing the manifestations of CPTSD in your life.

For most of my adult life, I only discussed my past abuse with a few select individuals.  Most people who have known me have had no idea.  And I can say, with 100% certainty, that those who have known me have never really known "me." That includes my own family. Why do I say that? Because when you have CPTSD, you can't be your authentic self.  In fact, you may not even know who your authentic self is. You spend so much time and energy trying to be the person you "think" others want you to be, that you never get to know your authentic self. So, in effect, you become sort of a robot.  You go through the motions of life, attaching to others and adapting to their ideals, and hiding your own needs, wants, and desires, because you put yourself last, thinking if you don't please others, they won't like you and they will leave you.

Of course, it's irrational, but your subconscious doesn't know that, and that's who's running your life. This is what can happen when Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, otherwise referred to as CPTSD, C-PTSD, or Complex Trauma is your real story.

Peanut Butter and Jelly

It’s the age-old problem. What do you want to eat? You look through the fridge. Milk. Cheese. Dates (those are healthy, right)? Butter. Pickles. Ketchup. Mayonnaise. Mustard. Strawberry preserves (another health food… sort of). Long forgotten, unidentifiable leftovers from another time (Yeah, I should probably throw that away the next time the trash runs)… I should also probably shop for groceries and get some grown-up food. 

The freezer doesn’t yield much better results. 

The pantry is just depressing. 

I spot a jar of peanut butter in the corner on a shelf, reach for it, and hold it up in the air as if it’s some cosmic trophy.

“Alas, all is not lost. We shall feast, and feast we shall.” I said out loud to the universe, as I glanced down at my cat, Lilly, who was neither impressed nor amused. She simply blinked, flicked her tail in the air, and walked away with that dismissive swagger that only a cat owner knows.

I pulled a package of flatbread from the freezer and tossed a piece into the toaster oven. Once warm, I slathered some peanut butter and strawberry preserves on it, and lunch was served with a side of cold milk. Behold, the peanut butter and jelly on warm flatbread sandwich (at least it’s more grown-up than plain old white bread… maybe). 

My tastebuds have never grown up. Breakfast consisted of banana pancakes, with chocolate chips, and a hot cup of coffee that I set down somewhere, and still have yet to find, among the mental chaos that fills my days. It’s long cold by now. Not suitable for a morning brew, but perhaps salvageable for an afternoon icy mocha with a drizzle of chocolate syrup.