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What Healing From C-PTSD Looks Like
Imagine you’ve been in a car accident and broken your leg. Some days, the mountain in front of you is too steep, your wounds too fresh, so you don’t even try the climb. Other days, you start, only to realize you haven’t healed enough and have to stop. And then, on some days, you do it. Now imagine this is not a linear progression. This is the nature of healing.
In my case, I didn’t break a leg—I endured severe childhood trauma. Some days I can climb the mountain, and other times I can’t. So, what does climbing the mountain mean? What does healing mean? I like this quote: “To heal is to touch with love that which we once touched with fear.” For me, that means seeing the parts of myself that I once viewed with shame and fear through a lens of love. I won’t delve into the specifics of my trauma today, though I have before. I’m not ready for that mountain.
For what felt like an eternity, I suffered. But three years ago, I began healing. I learned why I felt the way I did and how to manage it. I moved away from home and built a small life for myself in a new city. I went from having things happen to me to making things happen. Friendships, job opportunities, and the pursuit of meaning became my focus. I felt like I could face the mountains of life with little difficulty.
In that time, I also realized I wanted to be a therapist. Of all the jobs I’ve considered, none resonated with me like this one. I want to help kids avoid the pain I went through. It’s my calling.
For a while, I believed I had healed. I still feel shame and anxiety, and I still suffer from Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But I thought the bulk of the work was done—I had conquered my mountains.
Earlier this year, I had a profound experience while consuming weed. I took an edible, got comfortable, and prepared to enjoy the high. Instead, I found myself reflecting on my mental health and the progress I’d made. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed. I began to cry as pieces of myself that had been floating around in my mind clicked into place. I grieved the childhood I never got to have, the peace and security I was denied. But I also felt joy, like an ocean compared to a puddle of happiness. I saw myself as someone who had survived enormous adversity and come out stronger.
It was transformative and cemented the idea that I was healed. So, what happened a few weeks ago was disturbing.
I’ve recently made a new friend, and one night, after sharing several bowls of weed, we exchanged our trauma stories. Despite our differences, our wounds shared many similarities. I opened up about my most shameful experiences, and she told me hers. What I heard unsettled me in ways I hadn’t expected.
The next day, I woke up feeling off. Within an hour, I was having a full-blown meltdown—crying, shaking, and terrified. My coping strategies were useless. I didn’t even know why I was distressed. I felt like the rug of my healthier life had been ripped out from under me.
I’ve discussed this with my therapist, and there are a few theories. It might have been an emotional release from sharing my trauma, or maybe my friend’s story unsettled me more than I realized. Perhaps it’s because I’ve participated in some of the systems that hurt my friend. I’ll likely never know.
But the experience shook me. I had thought I was okay—more than okay. And yet, this happened. It made me feel foolish for believing I had healed. Still, when I look back at who I was versus who I am now, the progress is undeniable. The suffering I endured just three years ago has mostly evaporated. Of course, there will always be consequences of my trauma, but I feel like I’ve dealt with the majority of them.
So, was I a fool to think I had healed? I don’t think so. That moment taught me that the battle for my sanity is over. I know who I am now, better than ever before. I take pride in the fact that my therapist says I have a “borderline gifted” level of self-insight. My anguish and anxiety are under control, but there’s still more work to do.
You see, my friend unsettles me—not because of her past, but her present. She sings in the shower, passionately expresses herself, and isn’t ashamed to like what she likes. She embodies the freedom I want—the ability to live without shame. I realize now that I’m still battling the shame of being myself. Like a flare on the battlefield, my friend has illuminated my next enemy.
It seems I have another mountain to climb. Perhaps this is the value of my latest friendship—maybe she will show me how.
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