Complex Post-traumatic Stress Disorder

I’ve been thinking a lot about where some of my survival responses may have started. One of the earliest memories that still feels incredibly vivid is from 7th grade, when my mom suddenly became critically ill.

My mama had always been one of the strongest women I knew. And I mean strong. 😂 She worked a man’s job, had arms that looked like they belonged on a grown man, and I had literally seen this woman fight grown men.

In my eyes, my mama was pretty much indestructible.

Then one day I found her lying on the bed with her arms and legs stretched straight out, staring at the ceiling like she was looking into outer space.

She was talking about how she thought getting a toilet wax ring in her mouth had made her sick.

I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

I just knew something was very wrong with my mama.

So I called 911.

We eventually found out she had severe chickenpox that had affected her brain. She ended up spending around four months in the hospital and about half of that time in a coma.

I’ll never forget the first time I went to see her.

She was in isolation because she was contagious, but seventh-grade me wasn’t thinking about any of that.

I saw those doors and barged straight through them.

Someone yelled at me because I wasn’t supposed to just run into an isolation room.

Too late. 😂

I ran straight to my mama, wrapped my arms around her, and bawled my eyes out.

I just wanted my mama.

I remember that room being dark and freezing. The white blankets. The beeping machines. The tubes. Her body covered in chickenpox sores.

The woman I thought was indestructible suddenly looked completely helpless.

For months, I went to the hospital after school.

I did my homework beside her bed. I carefully dabbed pink calamine lotion onto her skin because I was scared I would hurt her sores.

Sometimes I was nervous to even touch her.

But I still kissed her.

I couldn’t help myself. She was my mama.

I would sit there, do my homework, put lotion on her, cry, and wish more than anything that she would get better.

Looking back now, I realize how young I really was.

I was still supposed to be a kid, but I was already learning how to be a caregiver.

Eventually, my mama woke up.

The tubes were gone.

She survived.

And I remember how emotional it was seeing her awake again.

But there was something I didn’t understand yet.

My mama had no idea who I was.

❤️‍🩹🌱

#HealingOutLoud #Childhoodtrauma #CPTSD #PTSD #TraumaRecovery #Caregiver #MentalHealth

I’ve been thinking a lot about where some of my survival responses may have started. One of the earliest memories that still feels incredibly vivid is from 7th grade, when my mom suddenly became critically ill.

My mama had always been one of the strongest women I knew. And I mean strong. 😂 She worked a man’s job, had arms that looked like they belonged on a grown man, and I had literally seen this woman fight grown men.

In my eyes, my mama was pretty much indestructible.

Then one day I found her lying on the bed with her arms and legs stretched straight out, staring at the ceiling like she was looking into outer space.

She was talking about how she thought getting a toilet wax ring in her mouth had made her sick.

I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

I just knew something was very wrong with my mama.

So I called 911.

We eventually found out she had severe chickenpox that had affected her brain. She ended up spending around four months in the hospital and about half of that time in a coma.

I’ll never forget the first time I went to see her.

She was in isolation because she was contagious, but seventh-grade me wasn’t thinking about any of that.

I saw those doors and barged straight through them.

Someone yelled at me because I wasn’t supposed to just run into an isolation room.

Too late. 😂

I ran straight to my mama, wrapped my arms around her, and bawled my eyes out.

I just wanted my mama.

I remember that room being dark and freezing. The white blankets. The beeping machines. The tubes. Her body covered in chickenpox sores.

The woman I thought was indestructible suddenly looked completely helpless.

For months, I went to the hospital after school.

I did my homework beside her bed. I carefully dabbed pink calamine lotion onto her skin because I was scared I would hurt her sores.

Sometimes I was nervous to even touch her.

But I still kissed her.

I couldn’t help myself. She was my mama.

I would sit there, do my homework, put lotion on her, cry, and wish more than anything that she would get better.

Looking back now, I realize how young I really was.

I was still supposed to be a kid, but I was already learning how to be a caregiver.

Eventually, my mama woke up.

The tubes were gone.

She survived.

And I remember how emotional it was seeing her awake again.

But there was something I didn’t understand yet.

My mama had no idea who I was.

❤️‍🩹🌱

#HealingOutLoud #Childhoodtrauma #CPTSD #PTSD #TraumaRecovery #Caregiver #MentalHealth

We often talk about this on The Mighty: self-care with a health condition goes far beyond the cliché of bubble baths and spa dates. For us, self-care means challenging our inner critic, holding ourselves accountable, prioritizing our own needs, trying new ways to ease symptoms, advocating for better care, and gently nudging ourselves toward help when we need it.

What does self-care look like for you right now?

For me, it’s making time for therapy homework and practices that help me feel grounded in my body.

#BipolarDepression #BipolarDisorder #PTSD #ComplexPosttraumaticStressDisorder #Schizophrenia #ADHD #Parenting #ChronicIllness #SchizoaffectiveDisorder #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #Anxiety #ObsessiveCompulsiveDisorder #Depression #MentalHealth #Selfcare #EatingDisorders #CheckInWithMe #CheerMeOn

Ever since I was a child, I’ve carried a lingering sense of unease, worry, and discomfort—one I wrote off as just “feeling anxious” sometimes. Something not serious enough to matter. It led me into negative self-talk and harsh self-criticism because I couldn’t simply “snap out of it.”

When I started therapy, I spoke at length about my long-standing depression and the post-traumatic stress tied to trauma I knew all too well. But when it came to that persistent “feeling,” I always downplayed its impact on my functioning: “I was simply anxious.”

It wasn’t until earlier this year, after researching generalized anxiety, that I finally asked my therapist if she thought I was living with an anxiety disorder. She told me diagnoses aren’t as important as managing the symptoms I’d been grappling with—but based on what I’d shared, she agreed that generalized anxiety fit what I’d been experiencing for so long.

In that moment, it felt like a mountain lifted from my shoulders. I took the deepest exhale and thought, “I haven’t been making it up!” While I agree that managing symptoms matters, for me, having language for what I’d been gaslighting myself about for most of my life—giving it a name—changed everything. Now I can finally chart a path forward. One rooted in more kindness and compassion toward myself. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with me.

Based on your experience with a diagnosis and/or symptoms, how would you describe the difference between feeling anxious and living with an anxiety disorder?

Feel free to share below! ✍️

#Anxiety #ObsessiveCompulsiveDisorder #Agoraphobia #SocialAnxiety #PanicDisorder #PanicAttack #PTSD #ComplexPosttraumaticStressDisorder #GeneralizedAnxietyDisorder #MentalHealth #BipolarDisorder #Depression #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #CheckInWithMe