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Regarding triggers:

Some of the things you say press firmly on what hurts. You aren’t hurting me. But the words found a hurt place & pressed firmly on it.

I’m in pain. You didn’t cause it. You just found it. And sometimes pressing on it makes me panic. #PTSD
Thinking of the recent #medhumchat discussing poems by Mary Oliver, pondering over the famous quote: “Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
#cPTSD took living from me. Survival was the landscape, you see. I could only see surviving, in whatever way possible.
The thing about survival mode is that it’s an existence. There’s no flourishing. No richness. No being captivated by a wide expanse, nothing wild & precious...focus narrows to the next meal, and the next moment, and the aching need to be warm. To recognize safety.
To have my limbs & their actions belong to me. For the words I speak to really be mine, not carefully crafted to avoid attention or abuse. To move my body freely, not restrained by fear or someone else’s will.
I have been a fragmented person all of my life. In fact, the person you all know as Eve wasn’t a self until December 21, 2006. And this year is the first time I can truly say, I want to live. Not merely survive.
To have an existence that embraces things beyond survival’s demands, and to not conflate having more of (basic needs) with thriving.
There have been so many days that I was locked behind my eyes and behind my hands and I went through the day as a shell of a self.
This process of becoming a real, whole person, of recognizing safety, of understanding the locked doors inside and what lies behind them, of learning how to be functional...this is hard.
I say “look, I kept my kids alive and that’s gonna have to be good enough” and people laugh because they think I’m making a joke about parenting when I am absolutely serious. I kept them alive. I kept myself alive. That’s not good enough, but it’s all I have.
I say I kept my kids safe, and I take some pride in it, but if you’ve followed me and listened you know they weren’t, not really, not at first. If I couldn’t even recognize what safety was, how can I claim to have kept them so? I can’t. I just can’t.
But i did my best. Did what I knew to do, and kept learning better, and did that too, and kept going. And I damn sure wasn’t walking that whole time, I was crawling, I was injured and broken. Still am, in ways.
This is a thing that hurts, you see. A trigger. A finger placed firmly on the sorest spot.

I own that piece, my failure. Can’t hide from damage done, you see. Have to make sure they have access to what they need to heal. How can I do that if I pretend it never happened?
How can they heal if I shrug and say “I did my best” and move on? They can’t. Healing takes work. They have to do it. I have to do it.

At the same time, for my own process I can’t live back there, in survival mode, or in regret and despair. I think I owe them that, too.
They saw me surviving and learned how that’s done. Couldn’t hide it from them. So they deserve to see me live, and thrive, and learn that, too.
Recovery is hard work. Healing is a process, not a destination. And owning all the pieces of that process is essential when you’ve been broken, as I have been broken.
Regarding triggers:

Some of the things you say press firmly on what hurts. You aren’t hurting me. But the words found a hurt place & pressed firmly.

I’m in pain. You didn’t cause it, you just found it. I’m learning to live with it. #PTSD
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