Tag: ptsd

A super common, frequently misunderstood complex trauma symptom is, we survivors find it super easy to feel criticized. 

It’s this nifty trick Trauma Brain plays, where it takes objectively neutral statements, and tries to tell us that we personally are being attacked or criticized.

Then it tells us we need to haul out our “fight” response, because the best defense is a good offense, right? 

Mind you, we come by this habit honestly. 

Many of us, like me, were raised by emotionally abusive narcissists, who never tired of finding was, subtle and not so subtle, to criticize us. 

It makes a lot of sense that we’d develop the habit of inferring shade, even when no shade (or any intentionality at all) is present. 

Want to know how “crazy” this can all feel? Trauma Brain gets me defensive when YouTube videos have provocative titles. “What, you think you know me, online platform that has zero stake in my behavior other than me clicking on the next video? Well, f*ck you!” 

What’s happening when we sniff out “criticism” is, we’re being nudged (or plunged) into emotional flashback. 

It’s that “in trouble” trigger that’s the fulcrum. 

Many of us were raised with such shaky or nonexistent self-esteem, that we instinctively understand criticism— real or imagined— as the “obvious” precursor to abandonment or punishment. 

Again: we don’t make this up for the hell of it. This reflects what we were raised with and in. 

That is to say: we may feel “crazy”— emotional flashbacks are incredible at making us feel that way— but we’re not. 

We’re actually responding the way injured, scared kids might respond. 

Which is what we are on the inside, when emotional flashbacks  occur. 

Soothing ourselves when the “in trouble” trigger gets tripped draws upon the basic trauma recovery tools we spend every day developing: self-talk, mental focus, and breathing/physiology. Creating safety on the inside of our head and heart with how we talk to ourselves, how we direct our attention, and how we breathe and otherwise use our body. 

You are not the first, last, or only trauma survivor to feel blindsided by “criticism” that, upon examination, may not actually be criticism (or even have all that much to do with you at all). 

You are not “crazy.” 

You are injured. 

And shame does not heal injuries. Compassionate care and time do. 

Our trauma conditioning is real good at screeching at us that we’ve “failed.” 

Trauma Brain, what I call the internalized voices of our bullies and abusers, seems to find an endless variety of ways to inform us that we are a “failure.” 

Trauma Brain tells us we “fail” at relationships. 

Trauma Brain tells us we “fail” at managing our finances. 

Trauma Brain tells us we “fail” at managing our emotional reactions. 

Trauma Brain tells us we “fail” to make good choices. 

And on, and on, and on. 

To spoil the suspense: Trauma Brain will never tell us we’re good at something, or that we did something better than we expected to, or that our success at something was kind of a mixed bag. 

Through the magic of the cognitive distortions of black and white thinking, emotional reasoning, and mental filter, Trauma Brail will stay remarkably on message: that we are a “failure.” 

Here’s the thing: it is the case that trauma survivors experience tend to experience challenges and struggles with…well, everything Trauma Brain flatly declares us to have “failed” at. 

But you need to know that struggling is not the same as “failing.” 

Everybody who has ever succeeded or gotten better at dong a thing, has struggled with it. 

The fist step to actually being good at doing a thing is, well, sucking at it. 

One of Trauma Brain’s insidious tricks is trying to tell us that we’ve “failed” at something we’re struggling with— because the fact of our struggle seems to give its argument a germ of credibility. 

After all, most of us trauma survivors are VERY aware of the things at which we struggle. 

And if we weren’t aware, Trauma Brain is “helpfully” right there reminding us— often repeating not only the words of our bullies and abusers, but also amplifying the feedback we get from others around us who don’t understand why we can’t just get our sh*t together. 

An important step in our trauma recovery is gaining clarity about what’s actually happening when we supposedly “fail” at something that we imagine “most” adults don’t struggle with at all: we’re not, actually, “failing.” 

We are doing the thing as best we can, with the tools we have. 

We’ll get better at doing the thing the more tools we develop— and we develop new tools as we make it safe inside our head and heart to work on those tools without judgment or shame. 

Understanding this was a game change for my own recovery. 

It also felt like a risk. 

My father was an abusive, addicted narcissist who had created enormous wealth and material success in his life— and he, among others, strongly conditioned in me an abhorrence of “making excuses.” 

If I explained to my father the difference between “failing” and “struggling,” I am positive he would mock me for “making excuses.” 

I always assumed my dad was a wealthy man, because of his material success— but now I understand that he wasn’t particularly wealthy. Not really. 

He was just a guy with money. 

People who create real success, real wealth, understand the difference between “struggling” and “failing.” 

Yes, accepting that difference may feel like a risk, because Trauma Brain— who, in my case, often speaks in the voice of my father— will tell you you’re being a “loser” and setting yourself up for even more “failure” by “letting yourself off the hook.” 

But distinguishing between struggling and failing— properly understanding struggle as a necessary point in the developmental curve of building a skill— is not “letting yourself of the hook.” 

It’s not making excuses. 

It’s getting real about how skills are learned, tools are developed, recovery is shaped, and a successful life— even beyond trauma recovery— is built. 

Nobody dissociates for the hell of it. 

Nobody dissociates to be a pain in the ass to anybody else. (Believe me, dissociation is a much bigger pain in the ass to trauma survivors who dissociate than it is for anybody else— if we had the choice, we’d find a much less fraught way to annoy you.)

Nobody “chooses” dissociation as a coping tool. 

Dissociation is a reflex— and, like most reflexes, it exists to keep us away from pain or danger. 

Why would we dissociate to avoid pain or danger? 

Usually the reason is because we literally had no other way out of that pain or danger. 

Dissociation is escape for people who can’t physically escape. 

This is what so many people don’t understand— or maybe don’t want to understand— about dissociation: that not everybody can “just leave” a dangerous situation. 

Domestic violence victims very often cannot “just leave” a relationship on which they are economically dependent or in which children are a factor. 

Victims of spiritual abuse often can’t “just leave” a church or community that is their main or only source of social contact and support. 

Children cannot “just leave” a family in which they are being abused or neglected. 

Complex trauma survivors who do not know, in the moment, that they are experiencing complex trauma cannot “just leave,” because they don’t yet realize there is anything to escape. 

There are dozens of reasons why physical escape from pain or danger is simply not a realistic option for many. 

As a result, our nervous system “solves” this “no win” problem by inventing a “back door”— namely, dissociation. 

Sometimes that dissociation looks like just “checking out” or “floating away.” 

Other times, especially when we need to stay or appear highly “functional,” dissociation looks like a “part” of ourselves coming forward to do what needs to be done in the moment, while the rest of us “loses” the time that part is “out.” 

And still other times, dissociation looks like some aspect of our experience, such as our emotions or our memory of specific things, being made inaccessible to us, so we can “function” for a period of time without feeling the “weight” of what’s been dissociatively cordoned off. 

There’s no denying that dissociation is an ingenious strategy for “escaping” situations in which there is no practical or physical escape, at least in the short term. 

I strongly believe any realistic trauma recovery strategy needs to give dissociation and the “parts” of ourselves that have gotten us though tough moments their due. 

Any recovery “strategy” that shames us for dissociating (or shames any other symptom) is not realistic or sustainable. Actual trauma recovery never begins with shame and is never supported by shame. 

It is the case that, if we’re serious about taking back our life from complex trauma, we need to make ourselves less vulnerable to dissociation as a symptom— but that is not the same as shaming ourselves for it or making our “parts” disappear. 

We need to remember that if we’re reflexively dissociating, that means some part of us is in flashback or otherwise feeling panicked or threatened— and we need to look inside to understand what’s getting triggered and how we can be there for ourselves. 

It’s not that dissociation is “bad” or “wrong.” It’s a symptom, and symptoms, while often inconvenient or destructive, are not “bad” or “wrong.” 

It’s that we need to take seriously what dissociation is trying to tell us about what’s going on in our nervous and endocrine system right now— and we need to ask intelligent questions about what we need. 

This isn’t about “staying present” for its own sake. 

This is about committing to not ignoring or abandoning “parts” of ourselves stuck in “trauma time” inside. 

Making the inside of our head and heart is always worth the effort— and when and how we dissociate is going to show us where to start with that commitment. 

Validation really, really matters in trauma recovery. 

The core of our complex trauma wounds was invalidation. 

By abusing us, our abusers and bullies communicated that our humanity was invalid. 

By neglecting us, negligent caretakers communicated that our needs were invalid. 

There is a reason why trauma survivors resound so strongly to validation— because very often we are thirsty for it. 

Parched for it. 

In fact, some times we survivors are so thirsty for validation that something else happens to us: we settle for it. 

That might sound strange— what does it mean to “settle” for validation? 

What I mean is, there are going to be people who may, in fact, validate our experience or our pain, either meaningfully or superficially— and that will scratch an itch for us that we profoundly need scratched. 

But validation might be where their support basically ends. 

What many trauma survivors don’t sufficiently understand is that we do need validation— but we need that for starters. 

Validation of our wounds is not a recovery strategy. 

Validation of our wounds is not the same as tools and ongoing support (though validation is, of course, an element of support). 

Having been in the space of publicly supporting trauma survivors in their recovery for almost ten years now, I’ve observed something: there are many social media personalities who will, in fact, validate our experience as trauma survivors. 

I’m glad we’re in an era where, even as the world continues to largely ignore and invalidate CPTSD survivors’ experiences, many survivors can turn to social media creators and communities for validation. 

However, I want all survivors to clearly understand that validation, as important a tool and experience as it is, isn’t meant to get us across the finish line of our recovery. 

I know of survivors who, even as they find validation-focused trauma recovery content helpful, get frustrated— usually with themselves— for not knowing what to do next. 

Unfortunately, a realistic trauma recovery blueprint needs to entail more than validating quotes. 

A realistic trauma recovery blueprint very much needs to involve more than various kinds of assurances that what happened to us, shouldn’t have happened to us— as true and validating and important as that is. 

Sustainable trauma recovery ultimately has to run on more than validation. 

Mind you: it’s difficult to generate trauma recovery content on the internet that both goes beyond validation, and also applies broadly enough to do numbers. I know, I’m faced with that task every day. 

That is: I understand why so many trauma-focused creators begin and end with validation. 

But what I want you, my audience, to understand is, you’re not supposed to collect all these quotes and suddenly, magically understand what the nuts and bolts of your individual trauma recovery is all about day to day. 

In my content, I do my best to balance validation with applicable knowledge, skills, tools, and philosophies that apply to most survivors, most of the time— but I know I don’t always get that balance perfect. 

The point is: don’t feel bad if all the validating, evocative trauma recovery content you consume online still leaves you with questions or struggles in designing your recovery.

CPTSD recovery is not easy. The nuts and bolts of CPTSD recovery are often counterintuitive. And every survivor’s recovery is highly individual— what worked and works for me may lead you into crisis. It’s anything but one size fits all. 

I believe it’s worth the trouble to continue generating trauma recovery content online, and, to be clear, I am so glad there are other content creators who also offer trauma survivors food for thought every day on the internet. 

Just remember: quotes and other nuggets of inspiration do not replace tools and strategies. 

And validation of our past experience, while crucial, is not the same as managing today or designing a future.