Author: drglenndoyle

Because you FEEL “in trouble” doesn’t actually mean you are, in fact, in trouble. 

But feeling “in trouble” is a major trigger to many adult survivors of abuse and neglect. 

That “in trouble” feeling, for a lot of us, preceded some bad sh*t going down once upon a time. 

That “in trouble” feeling was used to control us. 

Sometimes that “in trouble” feeling was used to punish us. 

When we grew up experiencing abuse or neglect, we tend to be super sensitive to the quality and stability of our attachment to others, notably our caretakers and teachers. You know, the adults in our world that dictated what happened in our world. 

When we were in trouble, either real or imagined, it indicated to us that our attachment to our caretakers and teachers may have been tenuous— and our nervous systems were conditioned to overreact to that tenuous attachment. 

Growing up abused or neglected meant that we were already on thin ice with getting our basic needs met. 

We instinctively know that we couldn’t really afford any more strikes against getting our basic needs met. 

So, in response to feeling “in trouble,” we often lapsed into the “fawn” trauma response: saying or doing anything to please and appease the powerful others around us— whether or not we actually believed or felt it. 

The essence of complex trauma is that we don’t have the support or safety to grow out of “childish” behaviors that kept us safe once upon a time— so we carry versions of those behaviors into adulthood in the form of painful, frustrating, confusing symptoms. 

Hence, why so many of us still, as adults, get wildly triggered by that “in trouble” feeling. 

Many of us get intensely frustrated and heavily discouraged by how much feeling “in trouble” f*cks with us. We HATE it. 

We tell ourselves that we’re adults— why on earth should we be so upset by feeling “in trouble?” What the hell does feeling “in trouble” as an adult mean, anyway? 

For a lot of us, that “in trouble” is kind of a catch all feeling for “we’re not doing it right.” 

We get that “in trouble” feeling not only when we feel or fear we’ve displeased someone— but also when we’ve encountered a situation we think we “should” be able to handle, but, for whatever reason, we struggle to deal with.

I personally feel “in trouble” when I encounter a situation in which I’m not quite sure what to do, where to go, or how the logistics work. 

I feel “in trouble” when I feel incompetent or confused. It’s as if there’s a part of me waiting for an adult— maybe a parent— to show up and berate me for not knowing how to human, or at least how to adult. 

You need to know that “in trouble” feeling doesn’t, actually, mean you’ve done anything wrong. 

It doesn’t, actually, mean you “deserve” to be ridiculed or punished. 

It doesn’t, actually, mean you’re ABOUT to be ridiculed or punished. 

Mind you: we can have perfectly reasonable standards and expectations for ourselves, and hold ourselves to those standards and expectations. I’m not saying there are no circumstances under which it’s quite understandable to be disappointed or upset with ourselves.

But there’s a big difference between feeling disappointed or upset with ourselves, and feeling overwhelmingly anxious, sad, and even a little angry, because we’re “in trouble.” 

Feeling “in trouble” does not mean you’re about to be punished or abandoned. 

Especially now, since  you’re working your trauma recovery— and you’ve made the commitment to not punish OR abandon yourself simply for being human. 

(You, uh, have made that commitment to yourself in trauma recovery, haven’t you? Good, I thought you had.)

Meet that “in trouble” feeling, and your nervous system reaction to it, with compassion and patience today. 

That kid you once were, who you still carry around in your head and your heart, is waiting to be abandoned or punished. That kid is pretty sure they know what feeling “in trouble” means— and it’s nothing good. 

Prove to that kid you once were inside your head and heart that you can be trusted.

Prove to them they are accepted and loved. 

Prove to them that feelings, while intense and scary sometimes, are not facts. 

You don’t have to be thrilled with every decision you’ve ever made. I’m not. 

You don’t have to always like the person you are, or you have been. I don’t. 

No trauma survivor is perfect, because no human being is perfect. We all have things we wish we would have done differently. Decisions we really whiffed on. 

Speaking for myself, I struggle with memories of times when I treated people poorly. To use a not-so-clinical term, I could be a real asshole at times. 

(The fact that I’m using the past tense isn’t to say that I can’t be an asshole now— it’s to connote that the times I’m thinking of were in the past. I assure you, I, along with every human being who continues to live, continue to have the capacity to be an asshole.) 

I look back on times when I have not treated people in my life well, and, sure, I can see how my trauma and addiction issues have influenced my behavior— but that doesn’t excuse my behavior. 

There’s a reason why the Twelve Step recovery traction, for all its shortcomings, famously includes steps that involve taking a moral inventory of our behavior and making amends: because no matter how much we may have been suffering or struggling at any given time, we still are quite capable of making very human mistakes and missteps, especial when it comes to relating to the fellow humans. 

Trauma Brain will try to convince us that we ARE our mistakes and missteps— that we’re nothing BUT an asshole. 

That’s not true. 

Trauma Brain will sometimes do this jiujitsu move where it tries to convince us that because we know we’ve behaved poorly at times, it’s also probably the case that we’re to blame for the abuse, neglect, or other trauma we endured. 

That is also not true. 

A recovery program that does not include accounting for our less-than-ideal moments as humans is incomplete. Most everybody reading this has had moments when our pain has contributed to us not being our best self. 

But a recovery program that reduces us to those moments when we failed to be our best self is also incomplete. Because we’re more than those moments we wish we could take back. 

There’s this myth that trauma survivors use what happened to us as an “excuse” to behave badly— but if you have any significant contact with survivors, you know that’s absolutely not the case. 

The truth is, it’s most often the opposite: trauma survivors tend to take on way too much personal responsibly when it comes to our mistakes, and fail to account for how our pain or symptoms were impairing our judgment or bandwidth. 

If we’re going to take realistic responsibility for anything in our lives, we need to be crystal clear on what we could and couldn’t do in the moment. 

Did I have the capacity to treat the people in my life better than I did? I think so— but I also know that my trauma and addiction issues compromise my decision making and emotional availability at times. That’s not an excuse— that’s just reality. 

The truth is, we can both take responsibility for our choices, AND acknowledge the role trauma and other pain play in our poor choices. 

We can have compassion for the people we hurt— AND for ourselves. 

The reality is, to this day, I’m not entirely clear why I treated some people the way I did. I hate that I treated certain people the way I did. I permanently damaged friendships and relationships with people I very much value, as well as behaved poorly toward people I didn’t even know all that well. That happened. That was real. 

I have to live with that. Behavior has consequences, and we choose the consequence when we choose the behavior. 

But I can also acknowledge that I was exactly as vulnerable and/or compromised as I was. That, too, is real. And that, too, should be part of the story I tell myself about who I am. 

What we’re really talking about here is self-forgiveness. 

Contrary to what you may believe, self-forgiveness is not a “get out of jail free” card when it comes to past mistakes. 

But it is a “you don’t have to hate yourself forever” card.

It’s a card we have to learn to play in trauma recovery— because we’re not going to recover while actively hating ourselves. 

Easy does it. None of this is simple or easy. 

You just breathe; blink; focus— and do the next right thing. 

You’ve heard it all over the internet: you need to trust yourself. 

But what the hell does that even mean? 

Why do trauma survivors tend to struggle so much with self-trust? 

The short answer is, many of us struggle with self-trust because of what we were told about ourselves and how we were treated— often by the most important people in our lives. 

When we’re kids, we are wired to take seriously the messages we receive about ourselves— especially from our parents, our teachers, and our clergy. 

In the best of all possible worlds, we receive messages that are supportive and realistic: that we are imperfect, but worthy; that we are works in progress, and that’s the good news; that mistakes and missteps don’t represent fundamental flaws in our human value. 

We didn’t, actually, require “perfect” parenting, or perfect caretaking, or perfect teaching, or perfect spiritual guidance. 

We did, however, require parenting, caretaking, teaching, and spiritual guidance that really saw us; that realistically supported us; and that consistently affirmed that we didn’t have to be perfect to be worthy. 

Many trauma survivors read that paragraph and kind of sardonically laughed out loud. Because that’s really not what was we got, was it? 

There are many reasons why our parents, teachers, and/or clergy didn’t give us that realistic, supportive psychoemotional base we needed to develop stable self-esteem and self-trust. And none of those reasons had anything to do with us. 

But, many of us came to believe that if we didn’t get what we needed from the people whose job it was to protect and love us, it must have been our fault. 

We must not have been “lovable” enough.” 

We must not have figured out how to “make” them love or support us. 

We look at other kids who got the unconditional support and love, and we figure, they must have had or known something that we didn’t. 

They had something we didn’t, all right: a different set of adults and other circumstances in their lives. 

But obviously, when we were kids— and now, as the adult survivors those kids grew up to be— we didn’t know what we didn’t know about how the world and relationships and emotions and attachment work. 

All of which is to say: how were were supposed to learn to trust ourselves, when it was an open question whether we were worthy of love, attention, protection, or trust? 

We learn how to treat ourselves based on the modeling of the people around us. If we didn’t have people around us who loved, respected, and trusted us, how we were supposed to know what any of that even looked like? 

We’re not born knowing how to trust ourselves. We need to learn it, and when we’re kids, we learn through modeling. 

Self trust is important in trauma recovery because, at its core, our recovery hinges on our relationship with ourselves. 

I believe the essence of trauma recovery is making the inside of our head and heart a safe place for us (including our hurt, scared, confused inner child) to be. 

We need self-trust in trauma recovery for a very specific reason: that internal safety only comes if and when we can rust ourselves to not attack ourselves. 

To not shame ourselves. 

To not hurt ourselves. 

To not starve ourselves. 

To not, in other words, do our bullies’ and abusers’ dirty work for them. To not carry forth the abuse and neglect we suffered back then into current time and by our own hand. 

We need to learn to trust trust ourselves— to risk trusting ourselves— because self-trust is a building block of internal safety, and, eventually, self-love. 

 If you’ve read this far into the blog, I don’t mind telling you a secret: I think trauma recovery is, in the end, entirely about love. It’s about reclaiming the love that should have been our birthright: realistic, sustainable, actionable self-love. 

As John Lennon once sang, “love is the answer— and you know that for sure.” 

Yes, self-trust is hard. But it’s buildable, it’s figure-outable— one day at at time. 

Maybe there’s nothing “wrong” with you. 

Maybe the reactions and feelings you’ve had in response to what you’ve been through are actually pretty normal. 

Maybe you’re the least f*cked up part of the situation. 

Maybe you don’t need to be “fixed”— maybe you actually need to be understood and supported. 

Maybe you don’t need to change who you are— maybe you actually need safety and resources. 

I am sick to death of psychology and psychotherapy’s attitude toward trauma survivors that we are “disordered.” 

We are not, actually, “disordered.” The sh*t we’ve been through— that was disordered. 

The people who hurt us— they were “disordered.” 

The culture that openly hates and fears trauma survivors— that’s “disordered.” 

Yes, we have conditioned patterns of thinking, believing, feeling, and behaving that cause us and others pain— but maybe that’s not our fault. 

Maybe coming at trauma survivors with the threadbare “personal responsibility” tropes causes way more damage and hurt than it resolves. 

Maybe it’s extremely rare for trauma survivors to exaggerate or invent their story for attention or personal gain. 

Maybe the cultural assumption that abuse survivors are lying or exaggerating until proven otherwise is culturally defensive bullsh*t. 

Maybe you have the building blocks of your own healing within you. 

Maybe trauma recovery isn’t about becoming a different person— maybe it’s about rediscovering, or even just discovering, who you really are in the first place. Who you are now. 

Maybe your trauma responses are more adaptive and sensical than most of the sh*tty advice you’ve ever ben given about how to handle your trauma. 

The psychotherapy industrial complex has a historical problem: it does not know how to deal with customers who are not, at their core “disordered.” 

I will de on the hill of, trauma survivors are not “disordered,” even f the word “disorder” is part of our clinical diagnosis. 

Imagine the hubris of telling someone who has survived unimaginable trauma and pain that their normal, human responses to their ordeal is “disordered.”

Imagine the arrogance— and the cruelty— of telling those survivors that their pain will be resolved by assuming “personal responsibility” for their lives. 

Yeah yeah yeah. “Trauma wasn’t our fault, but healing is our responsibility.” Good for you, you can regurgitate the cliche’. Here’s your medal. 

Maybe no trauma survivor is unclear about the fact that our healing is our responsibility. We f*ckn’ know. To keep reminding us of the fact is insulting and condescending. Knock it off. 

Maybe you can work a recovery that embraces your inherent value and worth, regardless of what “they” think or say. 

Maybe recovery starts with ditching the “disorder.” 

I assure you: you are not “disordered.” You are injured, you are in pain— and you are a f*cking survivor. But the fact that you survived and are experiencing aftereffects of your experience is not “disordered.” 

Chances are you are the LEAST disordered part of this whole f*cked up equation. 

In my experience, trauma survivors working our recovery are the LEAST disordered people out there in the world, period. 

To do this “trauma recovery” thing, we’re going to have to make our peace with the fact that we’re going to struggle— and, sometimes, our struggle is going to be observable to the people around us. 

I know. We don’t like that. 

Many of us have built basically our entire identity around over functioning. 

(Notice I didn’t say “functioning well”— I sad “over functioning.”) 

We’ve lived our lives by the rule that no one is allowed see us struggling or suffering. 

For what it’s worth, we come by it honestly. For many of us, if we acknowledged struggling or suffering growing up, we were mocked, or scolded, or punished. 

For many of us, that’s how the dissociative symptoms started in the first place: we had to divorce ourselves from our pain, because not feeling it made it possible to not express it. And not expressing it was necessary to stay relatively safe. 

It’s yet another example of the uphill battle so many of us are waging with our trauma conditioning. 

So here we are, conditioned to not feel or express pain— and we’re confronted with the fact that meaningfully confronting and recovering from our trauma hurts. 

Trauma recovery, whether we’re working with a therapist or not, requires us to get close to feelings and memories that sting and ache. 

Confronting and processing those memories can leave us exhausted and sore (yes, I mean physically sore as well as mentally). 

It’s not an exaggeration to say that working our trauma recovery can sometimes feel like experiencing a car crash on the daily. 

That’s not to say trauma recovery isn’t worth it. I assure you, it is. 

If we’ve endured trauma, w have a choice: get our ass kicked by our trauma conditioning and symptoms, or get our ass kicked by trauma recovery. I will always, always take the productive, chosen ass-kicking of trauma recovery over the unchosen, unproductive ass-kicking of trauma conditioning and symptoms. Every time. 

That said: this sh*t is exhausting. There’s no need to deny it. 

And doing this exhausting thing called “trauma recovery” is going to leave us dragging. 

We’re not going to like that. That’s going to clash with our “don’t let anybody see you struggle” programming. But it’s going to happen. 

When that does happen— when we’re tired and sore from working our trauma recovery, and when it becomes basically impossible to hide it from the people around us— it’s real important we not get not a shame spiral. 

We’re going to hav to accept that what other people do or don’t see of our struggle isn’t the end of the world. Honestly, it’s not even all that relevant to us. 

Most survivors, including myself, over invest in what others think of us.

We come by that honestly, too— for many of us, we had to carefully track the approval and acceptance of the people around us as a risk management strategy. 

But one of the gifts of trauma recovery is, it forces us to break that habit of over investment in others’ perceptions or opinions. 

Yeah. They’re going to see us suffer. They’re going to see us dragging. They’re going to see us sweat. 

And we have to be okay with it. 

We don’t have to love it— but we can’t let their perceptions or opinions influence us to back off our trauma recovery. 

This project of trauma recovery makes us confront not just our trauma but— more significantly, in my opinion— our programming and conditioning. Notably: “thou shalt not acknowledge thy suffering.” 

Or suffering is authentic. We can allow it to exist, and we can allow ourselves to outwardly acknowledge it. 

Even if it breaks the old “rules.” 

Especially if it breaks the old “rules.” 

We don’t owe anyone an apology for having a bad day. 

Some days you’ll get triggered. I do. 

Some days you’ll be particularly sensitive. I am. 

Some days you’ll convince yourself that you are absolute sh*t at what you do. I do this, too. 

What we need to remember about our trauma conditioning is that it will take advantage of anything it can to deepen our sense of unworthiness, of unlovability, of incompetence. 

This definitely includes bad days. 

Trauma Brain will grab on to a bad day, point to it, and say “SEE? I TOLD you you were absolute dog sh*t.” 

The truth is, we’re gonna have bad days— not because we’re “absolute dog sh*t,” per Trauma Brain, but because humans have bad days. 

I’m a pretty good therapist, I think. And I have some sh*t sessions. 

I’m a reasonably good writer, I think. And I write some pretty mid blogs and tweets. 

It happens. 

Here’s the thing: our trauma conditioning absolutely DELIGHTS in latching on to our not-so-stellar moments, performances, and days, and amplifying every negative thing we feel about ourselves. 

Then, Trauma Brain pulls another dirty trick: it actually gooses us into feeling shame FOR feeling shame. For feeling sh*tty about feeling sh*tty. 

That’s some next level shaming, there. Trauma Brain has mad skills at making us feel like garbage. 

(Trauma Brain out here with these mad make-us-feel-like-garbage skills, and some people think they’re going to handle Trauma Brain’s shenanigans without working their recovery? Couldn’t be me.) 

So we have a bad day; we feel bad about it; then we feel bad for feeling bad. All the while our nervous system is struggling to manage even one level of this sh*t show— with limited bandwidth from the get go, may I add, since trauma famously does a number on our basic emotional regulation. 

All of which is to say: feeling especially bad about a bad day isn’t a character flaw. It’s a trauma thing. 

What do we do about it? 

We remember that a bad day isn’t the end of recovery; it’s not in itself a sign that recovery is off track; and it’s not evidence that we lack skills, tools, or toughness. 

A bad day’s just a bad day. I’m writing this after a bad day. My own trauma conditioning is trying to convince me that I’m such a bad therapist that I don’t even have useful things to write about trauma, recovery, or life. 

We step back. We breathe, blink, and focus. We listen to something soothing or meaningful. 

We remind ourselves that this will smart less with the passage of time. 

We pet a cat. We remind ourselves of who we are and what we’re all about. 

We affirm that we are more than our least favorite moments as a human. 

We check in with our personal mission statement, and, if possible, we connect with people who share that mission. 

We drink some water. We move our body. We pay attention to our breathing. We get some sleep. 

And we wake up and recommit to our trauma recovery— the same way we do every morning. 

Because you know what? F*ck our abusers and bullies. 

It’s gonna take more than a bad day to pull me and you out of recovery. 

This trauma recovery thing takes patience. So much patience. Infinite f*cking patience. 

If you’re reading this, I likely don’t need to tell you that— and if you’re reading this, you’re probably good and fed up with having to be patient. 

I get it. Me too. 

Here’s the thing: trauma recovery asks us to do things that we never really saw done. Namely, be kind and patient with ourselves. 

Many of us grew up with the exact opposite of that. 

We grew up with harsh judgment. We grew up with annoyed impatience. 

We often grew up with harsh judgment and annoyed impatience being thrown at us in response to very normal kid behaviors. 

Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t a perfect kid. I’m guessing you weren’t either. We didn’t actually need our parents to be perfect, any more than we need be perfect as parents, if we are parents. 

But we didn’t need to be shamed or punished for developmentally normal kid stuff. Even the annoying, inconvenient developmentally normal kid stuff.

If we’re shamed or punished for developmentally normal kid stuff, we internalize shame and the impulse toward self-punishment for normal human stuff. 

You know the human stuff I mean. Having feelings. Having needs. Having preferences. Having difficulties.

Something many trauma survivors know all about is how we can’t seem to breathe without feeling shame. 

We often can’t seem to take up physical space without feeling shame. 

Think about that. Breathing and taking up space is literally the least every human being in the history of human beings does. And we’ve been conditioned to feel shame about it. 

That’s not because there’s anything shameful about the particular way we breathe and/or take up space. That’s because we were shamed and/or punished for normal, universal kid/human stuff. 

It’s a perfect— that is to say, awful— example of what trauma conditioning does to us. 

It’s also a perfect illustration of what we realistically need to recover. 

We’re not going to recover from trauma while showing ourselves the same lack of patience and grace that was shown to us growing up. 

That means we have to do different things than we saw modeled growing up. 

It means we have to do things that we are probably not great at— because why would we be great at them? We have precious little experience with them. 

Talking to to ourselves with kindness and patience probably will feel cheesy as hell for a good long while after we’ve gotten into trauma recovery. Of course it will. We don’t have many models for kind, patent self talk that are cool and natural. 

Extending ourselves the benefit of the doubt probably will feel like selfish self-indulgence at first. Of course it will. We don’t have many models for giving ourselves a break but also holding ourselves accountable. 

Giving ourselves time and space and resources to rest probably will feel “lazy” at first. Of course it will. We don’t have many models for realistically letting ourselves recharge and not having that be the rare exceptional instance. 

All of which is to say: in trauma recovery, you, we, are trying to become someone we’ve really never been. 

In some ways it’s not even “recovery;” it’s creating a new “us” from scratch. 

That’s not gonna happen overnight. But it will happen. It happens every day. 

Be patient while you create, while you rescue, while you reshape, the recovery version of “you.” 

Doing this “trauma recovery” thing consistently and authentically is way more important than doing it quickly. 

Breathe; blink; focus. 

Your recovery over their assumptions today. 

Your recovery over their judgments today. 

Your recovery over your pride today. 

Your recovery over your want to self-harm today. 

Your recovery over their lies about you today. 

Your recovery over their pedantic bullsh*t today. 

Your recovery over their purposeful misunderstanding of you today. 

Your recovery over your old narrative about what your life “should” look like today. 

Your recovery over your fear about the number today. 

Your recovery over your shame today. 

Your recovery over their attempts to define you today. 

Your recovery over your anxiety about their opinions today. 

Your recovery over your cravings today. 

Your recovery over that voice in your head that says you can’t do this today. 

Your recovery over that voice in your head that says you don’t deserve this today. 

Your recovery over your “certainty” that you’re going to backslide or relapse today. 

Your recovery over your uncertainty that what you endured “counts” as “trauma” today. 

Your recovery over their mockery today. 

Your recovery over their neglect today. 

Your recovery over their disbelief today. 

Your recovery over their dogma today. 

Your recovery over their intimidation today. 

Your recovery over their insistence that you keep their secrets today. 

Your recovery over your grief about the life you were “supposed” to live today. 

Your recovery over your grief about your losses, and your uncertainty whether you can go on without those people and animals, today. 

(It’s a long walk back to Eden, sweetheart, so don’t sweat the small stuff.)

Your recovery over the things they said about your body today. 

Your recovery over the things you believe about your body today. 

Your recovery over their cruelty today. 

Your recovery over the cruelty you got tricked into inflicting on yourself today. 

Your recovery over anything that will hurt or kill you today. 

Your recovery over anything that will drag you away from who you are and what you’re all about today. 

Your recovery today. 

Today and every day. 

Breathe, blink, and focus today. 

Forgive yourself today. 

Don’t abandon yourself today. 

You can do this today. 

For many complex trauma survivors, there may not be what we recognize as a “smoking gun” of trauma in our past. 

We may not be able to point to something specific in our past and say, “that was my trauma.” 

The very nature of complex trauma is, it was pain and stress that we adapted to. We had to. It was our everyday life. 

Complex trauma, by definition, unfolds over time, entwines with our relationships, and is functionally inescapable. It may not resemble the “flash bulb” drama of what we think of as “trauma”— it does its damage in more protected, often more nuanced ways. 

Sometimes we even struggle to identify straightforward abuse we experienced as “trauma,” when the abuse was just…part of our everyday, or every night, existence. 

We ask ourselves, was it really “trauma” if I consistently got up the next morning and had breakfast with my abuser? 

We ask ourselves, was it really “trauma” if I got good grades, got into grad school? 

We ask ourselves, was it really “trauma,” when I was actually the “good kid,” who played my role in the sh*t show that was my family? 

We ask ourselves, was it really “trauma”— or do I just need to suck it up? 

I am consistently frustrated by how the word “trauma” can get so many survivors up in our head about whether what happened to us “counts.” 

(As you can imagine, the word “survivor” often does the same thing.)

We hear “trauma” and we think war. We think “shell shock.” We think vivid flashbacks of world-changing events. 

Complex trauma survivors do experience flashbacks— pretty often, actually— but it’s frequently not like the flashbacks associated in the popular mind with “traditional” trauma.

Complex trauma survivors’ flashbacks are often emotional and somatic. 

We get yanked back into the past emotionally. We reexperience what we endured in our body. It happens often. It’s disruptive and painful. 

And yet: we doubt what we experienced was “trauma,” that would necessitate working a “recovery.” 

No. It’s not all about “denial.” 

A lot of it is, we’ve been conditioned to minimize what we experienced and belittle our own reactions. 

We’ve been conditioned to assume, if we’re having a hard time, it’s our fault. 

We’ve been conditioned to believe that, unless it’s a public, violent event, it’s not real “trauma”— and considering it cause to have to work a “recovery” is just dramatic. 

Listen to me: I don’t care if you do or don’t identify with the words “trauma” or “survivor.” 

I don’t care if you have conflicted feelings about whether what you experienced “should” produce the reactions and symptoms it does in you. 

What I care about is you getting into and working your recovery. 

Or, you know, whatever you want to call it. 

Here’s what happened: you were conditioned by your experiences, whatever they were, to believe, think, feel, and do certain things.

If you wanna believe, think, feel, and do different things, it’s gonna take more than a therapy “breakthrough.” It’s gonna take daily steps. It’s gonna take consistency. You don’t just plant a tree, say “TREE!”, and expect a tree to appear. 

We’ve gotta talk to ourselves in different ways. We’ve gotta constantly visualize specific things. We’ve gotta literally teach our body to breathe in specific ways. 

That is: we’ve gotta work our recovery. 

You can do that without call it “trauma” or “recovery” if you want. As I say, I’m not especially attached to either term. Ditto “survivor.” 

What I care about is your quality of life. 

I call it woking a recovery. 

You call it whatever you need to call it to make it palatable to you. 

Sometimes you only had the choices you had— and they sucked. 

Your trauma conditioning is going to try to beat the snot out of you for it. 

Trauma Brain is going to try to tell you you are “responsible” for the sh*tty choice you made— conveniently ignoring the fact that there were no non-sh*tty alternatives. 

Don’t get me wrong: we are responsible for our choices. 

But we also need to acknowledge the realistic limitations of our options. 

That’s not an excuse. That’s reality. 

Maybe we can ease up on ourselves for going with the less sh*tty of the sh*tty choices we had. 

Why does this matter? It matters because realistic, sustainable trauma recovery depends on the relationship that we create and sustain with ourselves. 

In trauma recovery we need to make the inside of our head and heart a safe place for us to be, in all our authenticity and vulnerability. 

To create that kind of internal safety, we need to commit to creating a safe relationship with ourselves. 

That means no attacking ourselves. 

That means no shaming ourselves. 

That means dealing with guilt constructively— and not letting guilt about something we did, metastasize not shame about who we are. 

The traumatized nervous system is frequently buzzing with hypervigilance and teetering on the precipice of flashback. We can’t afford the stress and exhaustion of attacking ourselves on top of all that. 

Understand: it’s not that trauma survivors WANT to attack or shame ourselves. It’s what we’ve been CONDITIONED to do. 

If we’re gonna undo that conditioning and recondition new patterns of thinking, feeling, and behaving, it’s all gotta start with our conscious, committed decision to NOT attack or shame ourselves, to the extent that we have any say in the matter. 

You’re very likely going to find yourself reflexively attacking or shaming yourself, telling yourself that you’re to blame for a painful outcome because you were the one who made the sh*tty choice. 

When you hear you talking to yourself like that, it’s real important to clock the fact that that’s trauma conditioning kicking in. 

That’s an old record playing— and you need to step in, to scratch that record. 

So you do. You breathe; you blink; you focus; you hit the “reset” button— and then you choose your next words to yourself carefully. 

You acknowledge the reality that, look, choices are often imperfect, just like people, including you, are imperfect— and berating yourself will not bring you closer to perfection. 

You acknowledge the reality that there was very likely no choice that would have put you in a much better position than you’re in now— no matter what fantasy Trauma Brain is trying to spin about the road not taken. 

You cut yourself some slack. You talk to your inner child, telling them that, eh, some days you win, some days you lose, and some days it rains. 

You affirm to yourself that giving yourself a break, right here, right now, in your head, will NOT send you down a slippery slope to denying and disowning responsibility for your choices. 

If you were interested in denying and disowning responsibility for your choices, chances are very good you would not have read this far into this blog. 

In other words: you’re cool to yourself. 

You treat yourself like someone you care about and value. 

You give yourself the benefit of the doubt. 

You have your own back. 

This is how we change our nervous system. 

This is how we scratch the record. 

One decision, one reaction, one day at a time. 

Breathe; blink; focus.