drglenndoyle

Self-criticism is a losing “strategy.”

If self-criticism was going to fix us, we would be all healed by now. 

Hell, if self-criticism was going to fix us, we would have been healed a long time ago. 

Turns out, self-criticism, at last the way we trauma survivors tend to use it, only makes us feel worse. 

Which is ironic, because many of us believe that we “need” self-criticism to function well. 

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told by trauma survivors some variant of “if I lighten up on myself, then I won’t be motivated to achieve!”

We don’t “choose” to believe this, understand— we’ve been CONDITIONED to believe it. 

We’ve been conditioned to believe that criticism and pressure are the keys to motivation and performance— largely because criticism and pressure were the primary tools that were used to motivate us to perform. 

It was what we saw. What we internalized. What we assumed was appropriate. 

Over time, self-criticism as a “motivational” “strategy” became so familiar, it never occurred to us there might be alternatives. 

Here’s the thing: self-criticism, as we were conditioned to use it against ourselves, doesn’t just make us feel like garbage— it also decimates our self-esteem. 

It’s doesn’t just put us in a bad mood. It chips away at our entire concept of who we are, what we can do, and what we deserve. 

Many of us paradoxically only feel “safe” when we’re beating the sh*t out of ourselves. 

Better we do it ourselves, we reason, than wait for someone to do it TO us. 

In that way, self-criticism gives us a feeling of control. 

It’s a bullsh*t feeling of “control,” of course— but we really like that feeling. 

Getting out of the self-criticism habit isn’t easy. We’re talking about heavily conditioned neural pathways here. 

If getting out of the self-criticism habit was “easy,” we’d have all done it by now. But it’s not. 

The tool of self-talk is powerful, in trauma recovery and in life. Self-talk has the power to create and the power to destroy. It is a primary way we direct our mental focus, the “lens” through which we see and interpret the world. 

If vicious self-criticism truly was “motivational,” we wouldn’t struggle the way we do. 

Don’t buy into the myth that self-criticism helps, or that we “need” it in order to perform well. 

Being hard on ourselves does not motivate or enhance our performance. 

Over time, it only gets us to dislike, distrust, and avoid ourselves. 

(That “avoiding ourselves” thing is what we call “dissociation.”)

drglenndoyle

Why recovery supporting self talk is hard.

When we fist start paying attention to our self-talk in trauma recovery, it can be kind of shocking. 

We can be really f*cking mean to ourselves. 

We can be really f*cking mean to ourselves, without intending or trying to. 

Very few trauma survivors wake up in the morning and say to ourselves, “I’m going to beat the sh*t out of myself today.” 

Most of the time, that’s just how things work out— because we, like most of humanity, navigate most of our days on autopilot. 

We let our old programming run how we talk to and behave toward ourselves— and guess how our old programming has us talking to and behaving toward ourselves? 

Most of the time our old programming has us talking to and behaving toward ourselves like our bullies and abusers did. 

Mind you: this isn’t because we WANT to be like our bullies and abusers. 

Most of the survivors reading this would actually do ANYTHING and EVERYTHING to NOT be like our bullies and abusers. 

But many of us learned how to relate to ourselves through the example our bullies and abusers set. 

We internalized it. Unwittingly “downloaded” it into our nervous system. 

That’s why it’s so easy to be so hard on ourselves: we have lots of practice at it. 

We experienced it for so long, it kind of sunk in. Became part of our operating system. 

Then kicking the sh*t out of ourselves became so second nature, we stopped noticing when we were doing it. 

Years and years of that sh*t— is it any wonder that our “parts” and inner child don’t feel safe?

That conditioning is also why it’s so hard to STOP kicking the sh*t out of ourselves— because when we start intentionally trying to talk and relate to ourselves with compassion and kindness, it feels…weird. Wrong. Awkward. 

What that feeling ACTUALLY  is is, “unfamiliar.” 

CPTSD recovery is going to ask us, over and over again, to scramble old patters. Scratch old records. 

That starts with our self-talk. 

It’s real important we get OUT of the habit of talking to ourselves like our bullies and abusers did— even (especially!) if we’re deep in that habit. 

Yeah. Easier said than done. 

But real important to do, if we want our trauma recovery to be realistic and sustainable. 

Easy does it. Breathe; blink; focus. 

Just start by paying attention to your inner monologue. 

drglenndoyle

Readers are recoverers, & recoverers are readers.

I think books are an under appreciated trauma recovery resource. 

I’m not talking about psychology books or books about CPTSD or self help books. Though those can be helpful, too. 

I’m talking about stories. 

I’m talking about books that take us to other times and other places. 

I’m talking about books that put us inside the head and heart of someone else. 

For my money, fiction is an invaluable trauma recovery tool. 

Fiction helped keep many of us alive once upon a time. 

Fiction can act as a pressure release valve on our stressful-as-f*ck lives in recovery. 

Fiction can introduce characters into our lives that can inspire us, or turn us on, or get us thinking, or make us laugh. 

Stories can bolster our mood. 

Stories can give us something to cry about when we have trouble crying for ourselves. 

Stories can remind us that it is possible to create whole worlds that wouldn’t otherwise exist, except that someone saw fit to put words to what was in their head. 

The best stories unlock something special in us— something adjacent to hope. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we heal our trauma ONLY by reading books. 

But fiction can be one of our secret weapons in trauma recovery. 

Just like books helped keep us alive back then, they can do the same for us now. 

Many adults kind of forget the power of a good book. 

Some people were never introduced to that power in the first place. 

But it’s never too late to become a reader. 

Readers are recoverers. 

drglenndoyle

It’s okay to feel.

It’s okay to feel tired. 

It’s okay to feel hopeless. 

It’s okay to feel angry. 

It’s okay to feel numb. 

It’s okay to feel more than one thing— even if it seems to conflict with other things you feel. 

It’s okay to FEEL. 

Why say this? Isn’t it obvious that it’s okay to feel? 

Not to many trauma survivors. 

Many trauma survivors have been shamed for feeling. 

Many trauma survivors have been told that their feelings are “the problem.” 

Many trauma survivors have been conditioned to believe their feelings are invalid— or maybe not even real at all. 

So sometimes we need the reminder: it’s okay to feel. 

It’s okay to feel bad— or good. 

It’s okay to feel things that don’t seem to make sense. 

It’s okay to feel things at a level of intensity that doesn’t seem to match the situation. 

Not only is it okay to feel— it’s also okay to express your feelings. 

That is, it’s okay to express how you feel— to people you choose, for reasons that matter to you. 

It’s also okay to NOT describe or explain your feelings to anyone you DON’T choose. 

How we relate to our feelings really, really matters. 

Our feelings reflect important pieces of who we are, what we’ve been through, and what we need. 

Our feelings deserve to be taken seriously. 

Our feelings deserve to be held compassionately and respectfully. 

Our feelings— even those feelings we’re not crazy about— deserve to exist. 

Remember: it’s okay to feel. 

And also remember: you are not your feelings. 

drglenndoyle

Andy.

Let me tell you about my friend Andy. 

Andy was a supervising therapist at a day program for serious post traumatic and dissociative disorders where I trained. I ran lots and lots of groups with Andy. 

The thing most people will remember about Andy, I suspect, was his playfulness. Which can be a fine line as a trauma therapist. Survivors are so used to being mocked or otherwise invalidated that playfulness and humor can be touchy for them— but he pulled it off. 

His smile was at once mischievous and genuine. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. 

As a therapist Andy came from the psychodynamic theoretical orientation, meaning he believed trauma was healed by giving survivors the opportunity to feel safe in the therapy relationship— even as they tend to reenact old, painful patterns in the therapy relationship. 

Andy was good at making people feel safe. 

Andy loved, loved, loved classic rock music. He had a particular thing for Neil Young— and I don’t think it was only about the music. Neil Young’s spirit of uncompromising rebelliousness spoke to him. 

I cannot remember Andy ever being pissed at me, or showing a flash of irritation or anger in group. Even when he was challenging you, he had a way of doing so that felt supportive— and, importantly, didn’t leave you feeling stupid. 

A lot of how I do therapy echoes how Andy did therapy. I definitely hadn’t evolved my therapeutic “voice” before working with him. 

So, if you’ve been helped by me as a therapist, you were also helped by Andy. 

Andy worked in a challenging setting. Not just because he specialized in working with complex trauma, but because programs that treat complex trauma tend to be— how shall I put this?— sh*t shows. In the program where we worked, there was a lot of office politics and other toxicity— but, while I was not great at just blowing it all off, he was. He never let it get to him. He didn’t deny it or disown it or anything— he navigated it, deftly, intelligently. I’m still not great at doing that kind of thing. 

When I had a serious professional falling out with my long time mentor, who was kind of a big deal in the trauma treatment world, Andy was one of the few people from the old program to check in on me, offer me support in building my first solo practice, and remind me not to take any of it too personally. 

When I heard that Andy had passed, I did what we all do— I checked the last time we texted. It was a few years ago. He wanted to know if I wanted the high end keyboard (piano, not computer) he remembered me playing when I’d been at his house. I told him thanks for thinking of me, but I didn’t have room for it. 

What a stupid last text. 

I can hear his voice perfectly in my head. 

“How’s that workin’ out for ya?” 

“Don’t confuse how you’re feeling with how you’re doing.” 

“Say more.” 

Andy wasn’t perfect, none of us are. I know he could rub some of his colleagues the wrong way, mostly because he refused to get worked up about things THEY were worked up by. I know he could sometimes run afoul of the expectations of hospital leadership— which he also refused to get worked up by. 

He was one of the few people I ever saw stand up to my ex-mentor. Which, I cannot describe how big a deal that was in the professional circles we ran in. 

I will miss my friend. 

Tonight I dug out one of the CD’s he burned for me back in the day, with his handwriting on it. 

I’m quite sure Andy saved peoples’ lives with the work he did. 

And I’m quite sure he’d support us through our sadness at his loss with the same kind of playful genuineness he always gave. 

drglenndoyle

On a rough night.

Some nights you’re going to be in a terrible mood. 

Some nights words won’t even seem to make sense. 

Some nights your motivation is going to be garbage. 

And, let me spoil the suspense: Trauma Brain, the internalized voices of our bullies and abusers, is going to use how we struggle on some nights to try to tell us WE’RE garbage. 

Mind you, that doesn’t mean we’re garbage. It means we’ve been CONDITIONED to feel like garbage when we struggle. 

It means we’ve been CONDITIONED to attribute the fact that we struggle to some inherent quality of our being— or the supposed “fact” that we’re just “failing” at life. 

I don’t care if you feel like garbage tonight, if you feel scattered tonight, if you’re in a terrible mood tonight, or if your motivation is dog sh*t tonight— none of that means you’re “failing,” at trauma recovery or life. 

It means what it means. It’s a rough night. They happen. 

What we say to ourselves really, really matters— ESPECIALLY on a rough night. 

It’s when we struggle, when we’re triggered, that our trauma conditioning really kicks in. 

Trauma Brain can do a reasonable job of quietly lurking in the background much of the time, only to rear right up when we’re having a tough night. 

Know why that is? Because rough nights make us vulnerable. 

We tend to go on autopilot when we’re having a rough night. 

And guess who and what experiences programmed our autopilot? That’s right— our abusers and bullies. 

Trauma Brain, in other words, does exactly what abusers and bullies always do: attacks us when we’re the most vulnerable. 

We need to remember that on our rough nights. 

We need to remember how we’re feeling on a a rough night is not the same as how we’re DOING, overall, in our recovery. 

(An old mentor named Andy taught me that: “don’t confuse how you’re FEELING with how you’re DOING.”)

On a rough night we need to remember that there is no rule that says we MUST feel good or better. We’re not going to be in trouble for having a rough night. 

On a rough night we need to remember that our biochemistry and psychological functioning fluctuates throughout the day and night— and the fact that we happen to be feeling like crap right now is part of that fluctuation.

On a rough night we need to remember that there is nothing in the world wrong with just getting by, leveraging the recovery tools of distraction and containment. 

If there is anything that is universal to EVERY survivor’s experience of trauma recovery, it’s that we are GOING to have rough nights. Not “maybe;” we absolutely will. 

It doesn’t mean what Trauma Brain wants you to think it means. 

So you’re feeling like sh*t. It happens. 

Don’t overreact. Don’t make long term decisions. Don’t make short term choices that will leave you feeling sh*tty tomorrow. You know the kind of decisions I’m talking about. Play the tape forward. 

Easy does it. Breathe; blink; and focus. 

Get through tonight. 

Then push the “reset” button tomorrow. 

drglenndoyle

Trauma recovery is a multitude of little choices. Dammit.

The bitch of trauma recovery is, we have to it ourselves. 

No one’s going to do it for us. 

No one can do it TO us. 

We actually have to make choices and endure discomfort to realistically recover from trauma— which, I don’t know about you, pisses me the hell off. 

After all, we’re only IN this position because we’re ALREADY enduring a rather HIGH level of discomfort. 

For that matter, we’ve been conditioned to believe that it’s often our fault that we’re suffering— which, we understand in recovery, is just BS (Belief Systems— but also, you know bullsh*t), but many survivors still struggle with feelings of shame and self-blame about our symptoms. 

To me, it f*cking rankles to be told that the key to recovery is making choices. 

The truth is, the choices we have to make in order to realistically recover from trauma are choices that cut against and scramble our trauma conditioning. 

We have to become aware of how exactly CPTSD is f*cking with us, and we have to consciously, purposefully, consistently make choices that scratch that old record. 

Before someone says it in the comments, let me: “easier said than done.” 

OF COURSE it’s “easier said than done.” Literally everything is “easier said than done.” 

This is especially true when we’re talking about conditioning. 

Conditioning, programming, brainwashing— the way these all work is by making it easy, almost effortless, to think, feel, and act in certain ways. 

Trauma conditioning, for example, makes beating the sh*t out of ourselves feel “normal,” “natural.” 

Trauma conditioning makes talking sh*t to ourselves and kicking our own ass seem like the easiest, most effortless thing in the world. 

Pushing AGAINST trauma conditioning, in how we talk to ourselves, how we direct our mental focus, and how we use our physiology? That seems hard, exhausting, and pointless. 

This is exactly how CPTSD traps and tortures us. It makes the old sh*t seem effortless, if painful— and the stuff we need to do to recover, hard. 

There is no doubt: doing trauma recovery sh*t IS hard. Especially at first, and especially when we’re triggered. 

 I will never lie to you and tell you ANY of this is supposed to be easy. 

But the realistic way we rewire, recondition, reshape our nervous system, is by noticing when we’re on CPTSD autopilot, and consciously CHOOSE to do something different. 

We’re just not going to recover on autopilot. 

I know. It sucks exactly as much as it sucks. 

Anybody who tells you trauma recovery is without suck, especially when it comes to making new, uncomfortable choices, is selling something. 

Selling something that smells, methinks. 

drglenndoyle

About that “safe relationships heal trauma” thing…

You’re going to hear it said again and again that you need to experience safe relationships in order to heal trauma— and, yes, safe relationships can sure help heal trauma. 

But I wouldn’t go so far as to say safe relationships are “the” thing that heals trauma. 

There isn’t really one universal thing that does heal trauma, unfortunately. 

But specifically when it comes to safe relationships: you can have all the safe relationships in the world, but they won’t help heal trauma unless you can internalize that safety. 

That is to say: unless you can use those relationships as a model for how to relate to yourself. 

The essence of CPTSD is that we don’t feel safe in our own skin. 

Yes, that lack of safety inside does mirror the lack of safety outside, especially in the past— but it’s the lack of internal safety that we’re carrying around, into every situation, into every relationship. 

It’s the lack of INTERNAL safety that drives our trauma responses, irrespective of how much safety does or does not exist around us. 

(Mind you, I’m NOT saying that external safety “doesn’t matter.” It’s just not what I’m talking about here.) 

If we’re going to realistically recover from our CPTSD, we have to find a way to internalize a feeling of safety— and that can only be generated by how we talk to ourselves, how we consistently leverage our mental focus, and how we use our physiology, notably our breathing. 

Safe relationships can HELP us develop self talk, mental focus, and physiology that support us feeling safe in our own skin— but I get real annoyed whenever I see someone pretending that “safe relationships” in themselves “heal” trauma. 

Why does this matter? It matters because if we try to put all our recovery eggs in the basket of “safe relationships,” we’re misunderstanding the task in front of us— and we’re setting ourselves up for potentially unhealthy dependence on others. 

I used to have a therapist to whom I felt very positively attached. He offered a great deal of modeling when it came to consistency, honesty, and kindness. But for a long time, even with this experienced, skilled therapist, I stayed stuck— because I had this idea that it was something about him that would somehow “heal” me. 

I now understand that that therapy relationship, like any healing relationship, was a tool— useful, but not in itself what was going to complete the project. 

The project is a DIY project— a Do It Yourself one. 

Many people don’t love hearing that, but it’s the f*ckin’ truth. 

I want everybody to have safe relationships. Everybody reading this DESERVES safe relationships. There is no denying the power of safe relationships to support us in learning and practicing new ways of relating to ourselves. 

But we need to be crystal clear on the fact that it’s the “relating to ourselves” part that does the heavy lifting. 

Easy does it. Breathe; blink; focus. 

drglenndoyle

You are not “lazy.” That’s Trauma Brain f*cking with you.

You are not “lazy.” That’s Trauma Brain f*cking with you. 

Trauma Brain, the internalized voices of our abusers and bullies, is real good at giving us pat explanations for our behavior like that— “you’re just lazy”— that chalks what we do up to who or what we ARE. 

Oh, and it usually gets us feeling like garbage. 

Here’s the thing: Trauma Brain is not interested in reality. 

It’s not interested in helping you live a productive, happy life. 

Trauma Brain is mostly interested in you feeling exactly like you did when you were being abused: small. Helpless. Hopeless. 

It’s true that many trauma survivors struggle with motivation— but that has zero to do with “laziness.” 

Often, our struggles with motivation have to do with a “freeze” response. 

When we’re triggered, our nervous system might reflexively default to standing still— which, from the outside, might LOOK like a “choice.” 

But believe me when I tell you: trauma responses are not choices. 

When we’re stuck in a “freeze” response, the very idea of taking action might seem overwhelming— and it’s almost impossible to “think” or “will” our way out. 

Trauma survivors can get sh*t for lacking motivation, procrastination, missing deadlines— when the fact is, we’re “frozen” in a state of sympathetic nervous system activation. 

And we’re not going to bully ourselves out of it. 

Here’s the other thing about Trauma Brain calling us “lazy:” it’s not just sh*tty because it makes us feel like garbage. 

It’s also sh*tty because calling ourselves “lazy” doesn’t actually help us solve the problem. 

Say we accept Trauma Brain’s label of “lazy.” Okay, what then? What’s the solution? “Quit being lazy?” 

That’s about as effective as a therapist responding to a patient’s pain with, “have you considered just not feeling that way?” 

Trauma Brain— or anyone else— calling us “lazy” doesn’t help us design a solution. 

Considering whether we’re in a functional “freeze” state— perhaps exacerbated by what I call Post Traumatic Exhaustion— actually helps us understand both what’s actually going on and what we actually need to do about it. 

Trauma responses only diminish when we feel safer— specifically when we take realistic steps to help our inner child and “parts” feel safe. 

There are many ways to approach that, but they all involve self talk, mental focus, and physiology, especially breathing. 

Do not accept Trauma Brain’s blithe assertion that you’re “lazy.” You’re not. 

Most trauma survivors are among the hardest working humans on the planet. We have to be, just to exist in our skin. 

Easy does it. Breathe; blink; focus. 

drglenndoyle

Pain sucks.

You’re not wrong or crazy to try to escape pain. 

Trying to escape pain does not make you “weak” or “cowardly.” 

The vast majority of us try to escape pain whenever practical. Of course we do. 

You can let yourself off the hook for trying to escape pain. It’s okay. It’s normal. 

Why am I bothering to say this? Because you’re going to get a lot of sh*t for trying to escape pain from various sources.

You’re going to get Trauma Brain, the internalized voices of our bullies and abusers, calling us “weak.” 

You might even get therapists telling you that trying to avoid pain will only ever create more pain. 

It’s true that making avoidance our go-to reflex is going to create more problems than it solves in the long term— but the way these conversations are often framed can leave trauma survivors feeling shamed and child like for trying to escape pain. 

It’s not true that “trying to avoid pain only ever creates more pain.” 

There’s a huge difference between pain that can be productively faced, processed, integrated, and transformed— and pain that just sucks. 

CPTSD is full of the pain that just sucks. 

Not all pain is meaningful. Not all pain leads to growth. 

Some people in our culture absolutely fetishize pain as an “opportunity for growth.” 

Your milage may vary, but I’ve never “grown” as the result of having a headache. 

Trauma survivors often have a complicated relationship with pain. 

Some of us get conditioned to believe we “deserve” it. 

Some of us get convinced we’ll never be able to avoid or reduce our pain, so we stop trying. 

Some of us develop an oddly codependent relationship with pain, and come to believe we can’t function or exist without it. 

Here’s the thing: you don’t have to apologize or feel shame for wanting less pain in your life, or doing what you can to escape pain. 

Nobody is handing out medals for enduring pain without flinching. 

Nobody expects you to love pain or embrace all pain as a “growth opportunity.” 

CPTSD survivors have to approach pain with gentleness and compassion and patience— like we approach all our struggles and symptoms in recovery— but it’s real important we not get in our head about what pain does or doesn’t “mean.” 

In my experience, most pain doesn’t actually have an existential “meaning.” 

You’re not “weak” for experiencing pain. 

You’re not “childish” or “whiny” for wanting less pain in your life. 

You are not under no obligation to cheerfully endure pain just to prove you can take it. 

Nobody is questioning your resilience or toughness. Nobody who matters, anyway. 

Pain sucks. 

And it’s okay to to just stay that flat out. 

Breathe; blink; focus.