How Complex PTSD Shaped Me + Why I Write

An introduction.

This one isn’t fiction.

This is me, Holly, introducing myself. I have a few readers now, and I wanted to explain why I chose to speak about trauma and dreams. So, here is a small background on me as a person and an author.

I grew up deep in the Appalachian mountains in the 90s and 2000s. I come from many generations of mountain folk and have an innate connection to the land that grounds me. I can almost feel the forest, and it was my refuge growing up. My grandpa taught me how to survive in the wilderness, and I explored it alone from a young age. I remember running barefoot through the grass and trees until a spider finally caught my heel. I almost lost my leg, but I was stubborn.

I didn’t stop exploring. I just put on shoes.

Most of my childhood was without the internet. It didn’t come to our small town until I was in high school, and when it finally arrived, all we could get was dial-up. We also didn’t have cell phones until then, and if you had one, you were lucky if you got a signal.

I would read. A lot. I quickly moved on to writing, too. The two have always been central to my identity—they’re core traits that make me feel safe, even when life feels out of control.

They’re also skills that I have felt a drive to share with others. I’ve never been the best at socializing verbally, but I had written words. I just never had the strength to share mine with anyone.

While most of my time was spent with my nose in a book, curled up in some tree, my summers included another reverie. I planted gardens with my family, and the early fall was spent harvesting. I still remember gathering to shuck corn and string beans with the entire extended family. We all lived on the same mountainside, and after school, I would flit between houses, choosing someone to follow around like an eager puppy. It was idyllic, but I never realized how much.

But it wasn’t all ideal.

My story has holes and questions—maybe ones you already see, know, or guess.

That isn’t for me to discuss here, but it does get me to now.

Last year, I realized something wasn’t right. I had a moment where I felt like I was “waking up.” It was a surreal feeling like I’d been on nothing but autopilot for so long, wasting years of my life, completely unaware of myself.

I had been going to work, home, and nowhere else for years. I hadn’t been thinking much of my future. I hadn’t been thinking much of myself at all. Not what I wanted or even what I felt. I had existed and nothing more.

Then, I “woke up,” and I could feel everything. It was excruciating.

For the first time in my life, I finally went to a therapist.

Within three sessions, the therapist clocked me with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), complex PTSD specifically. Complex PTSD (C-PTSD) is different from the more well-known “classic” PTSD because it stems from chronic trauma, occurring over months or years, most often in childhood. It becomes woven into your sense of self, shaping how you see yourself and the world.

When my therapist delivered this diagnosis, I was numb.

And I was confused.

Those holes and questions I mentioned earlier? I hadn’t seen them yet, either. Only the big hits, like losing my dad and brother when I was fourteen.

When something traumatic happens to you, it’s not like in the movies. Sometimes, it’s a nightmare that you are convinced is normal.

I have spent the last year unraveling myself, realizing things I had forgotten or told myself were something else. It feels like spending your life believing you see the sky only for someone to tell you your eyes have never been open, but opening your eyes means seeing the world as it is, not as you imagine it to be.

I am much better now than I was last year, but it was so hard to get this far.

I now know how different I am, but the differences are oddly relieving. They put names and explanations to things I always hated myself for having or feeling. Here are some of my life experiences with C-PTSD.

I have experienced these things for as long as I can remember.

I am scared and anxious all the time. I am constantly on alert—hypervigilant. I feel, hear, see, smell, and taste everything at once. Nothing is ever filtered or muted.

Going to sleep is easy, but staying asleep is hard. I frequently wake up throughout the night. I have night terrors and insomnia, and sometimes, in the darkest night, I’ll wake with every fear and worry that I’ve ever felt magnified a thousand times. I have to wait for it to pass. There is no sleep until it does.

I dissociate so frequently that I barely even realize when it happens. That “waking up” feeling? That was me coming out of an extended dissociative state. There are so many different types of dissociation I experience, too. It’s not just “zoning out.” There are times when you lose parts of yourself, and my own sense of identity is so fractured among them.

It’s hard to pin down who I am when I’m barely present.

My memories are a mess, affected by dissociative amnesia. I’ve lost entire years of my life to it. I only “know” what happened. The memories are blank or have placeholders, like empty postcards. Others are simply snapshots.

Sometimes, the memories return when I don’t want them—quintessential flashbacks. I can be doing something mundane one moment; the next, I’m just gone elsewhere, reliving something I wish I could forget again.

Even if I don’t fully relive them, I can sometimes get “emotional flashbacks”—sudden, intense feelings of fear, shame, or hopelessness.

Those cinematic portrayals of flashbacks in movies and television are rarely how they happen in real life. The real ones are messy, chaotic, and terrifying.

Then… depersonalization. I have never felt connected to my body. It doesn’t even feel like me. I feel like a pilot operating a suit, and I wish I had another one.

I have intense body dysmorphia. I hate how I look. This isn’t just a dissatisfaction with my appearance—I can’t see myself in pictures or the mirror. It feels like I’m looking at a stranger who revolts me.

I am beyond hyper-critical of myself. I pick out every flaw with such intense self-hatred that the cruelest minds would flinch if they could hear my own self-deprecation. This goes beyond just physical criticisms, too. Even things that I feel good at are not immune. My mind will tear these down and make me feel small.

With depersonalization comes derealization. I had my first derealization episode when I was five. I woke up from a nap, screaming because I felt like I was still in a dream. The world felt unreal, like a nightmare I couldn’t escape. I had never been so afraid. These episodes never stopped happening. I just learned how to live with them.

Next… relationships. I always feel unsafe in them, even when I shouldn’t. This includes friendships, romantic entanglements, and every other type of relationship you can imagine.

I have difficulties trusting people, but I long for connection.

I used to believe I was a loner, but I now know I’m not. I’m just afraid. When I do get into relationships, it’s hard for me to maintain boundaries. I allow myself to be used, taken advantage of, or influenced because I worry that if I try to set boundaries, I will lose them.

Physical symptoms are very real, too. They call it somatic symptoms: chronic pain, migraines, digestive issues, autoimmune problems, and fatigue. I am sick and in pain a lot. I get so frustrated. I’m still so young. I shouldn’t be sick so often. I thought maybe I had some secret physical condition, but I’ve since learned it’s “just” C-PTSD. I feel like my body betrayed me, but my nervous system is simply pushed to the limit.

Finally, emotions… this was a hard one for me to realize. I experience deep emotions, but I can’t piece them apart easily. I can only identify if they’re “good” or “bad.” I don’t always recognize when I feel something, and I rarely actually think about my emotions or what I want. They’re these background processes that run for me, and interacting with them is terrifying.

When I was first told that most people are more consciously aware of their feelings and wants and actually consider them, it was terrifying. It was like suddenly imagining this pit within me where my emotions and wants have always existed, only bubbling up when they get strong enough for me to notice. If I allowed myself to open up to it—to think about how I actually feel or what I actually want—I was certain I would drown.

I developed a migraine after this revelation. I’ve had them before, but this was different. It came with an aura, and briefly, I was worried I was going blind. Luckily, my boyfriend is amazing and helped calm me and guide me.

While this isn’t everything, it’s hopefully enough to paint a picture of life with this condition.

I spent my entire childhood and adulthood thinking that everyone experienced these things, and I thought I was just weak for not tolerating them better.

I now know that isn’t true, but I’ve spent so much time living like this that it’s hard to give myself grace. I feel unworthy, like I just need to “toughen up,” and even that constant inner critic tells me I deserve this.

Even that little voice is not normal.

But it’s quieter than it was a year ago.

I am aware of myself now. I sleep a little better on most days. I want, and I feel. More than just the “bad.” It takes effort, but I’m doing better.

I feel like I’m doing more than just existing.

That is how I got here, finally sharing my stories with the world. Writing feels like an inherent part of me that I was always meant to pursue, and every time I spin words, I feel a catharsis, like part of this is pulled from me. I heal a little more with each story I share, and that includes my dreams.

So, I am here as I recover, opening myself to the world and hoping it will help someone else.

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Author’s Note: I am not a mental health professional. I am not an expert on complex PTSD or any other mental health issue. I can only write about my own experiences, hoping they resonate with others and help bring awareness to this condition.

Additional Note: While complex PTSD isn’t listed as a formal diagnosis in the DSM-5, it is recognized in the ICD-11. The US still uses ICD-10 for insurance purposes, which is why my official diagnosis is “chronic PTSD.” However, most trauma-informed therapists in the US work with complex PTSD as a distinct condition. In my case, my therapist identified complex PTSD alongside generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) and major depressive disorder (MDD).

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Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Releases come twice weekly (or more). If you have feedback or ideas you’d like to see, please comment. I created this project to share my recovery journey, and in doing so, I hope to raise awareness about trauma and healing.

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