Writing about, and with, C-PTSD

There are many things that I've been open and, perhaps, far too honest about when it comes to incorporating my life into my writing.

I've told you about a lot of low points in my life. I've mentioned the death of a beloved pet, my mental illness struggles, a sexual assault, feelings of inadequacy and insecurity in my writing, and the news of my father's arrest.

Sometimes being that open and honest hurts. The anxiety I felt after a few of those posts was breathtaking. For example, I almost took the post about my father down immediately after I put it up.

Every time I've wanted to take something down, I've asked myself what the goal was in sharing that post. Am I trauma dumping (as one person has accused me of doing in the past) when I share? Or am I writing about those issues so that others feel less alone? On my best days, I know it's the latter; on my worst days, I fear it's the former.

There are many things I talk about in my blog. But one of the few things I've never talked about is the reason I haven't been able to write with any regularity for the last couple of years.

Like a lot of people with traumatic childhoods, I have said colloquially that I have PTSD. And the psychiatric community agreed with me that I did show signs and symptoms of that affliction. But according to my new psychiatrist, I actually show signs of having Complex PTSD. Lots of things contribute to C-PTSD, such as a history of childhood abuse, relationship abuse, or sexual assaults.

C-PTSD shows up for me in a lot of "fun" ways. I get full-blown panic attacks in crowded places, in grocery stores, from people yelling, from injuring myself, and even from people telling me to be careful. Sometimes they're crying, shrieking, obvious panic attacks. The kind of attack that makes strangers either want to tend to me or shake their head as they walk away. Sometimes, I disassociate and float above my body until the "danger" has passed. From the outside, I look spacey, and on the inside I'm screaming.

There is something specific that happened in my life in the last few years that contributed to my C-PTSD. There aren't many people who know about it, so if you're one of them then it means I trust you implicitly (and know that you'll be discreet if you comment on this post).

While I won't go through all the lore of why I am the messed-up person that I am, I can tell you how it's affected my writing.

• I start projects, and I abandon them just as fast.

• I have trouble reading books by some authors because they hit too close to home.

• Bits and pieces about what happened bob to the surface of everything I write like worm-riddled flotsam from a cliff-bashed ship. Sometimes I don't even notice until someone else points it out. Then I agonize about whether to include it and ultimately erase everything I've written.

• I have panic attacks opening "Down at the Lake." I used to only have them if I tried to edit the book. Then it became every time I opened the book. At my lowest point, it was every time I saw the name of the book.

• I have panic attacks sometimes when opening new Word documents, even at my day job. As a result, I've barely written in 2 years.

  
  

It's maddening. People who tell you that, if you try hard enough, you can write through anything are full of shit.

If you want to be a writer, should you set aside time to write instead of merely talking about writing?

Absolutely.

Should you keep working on a story or novel when you get to that famous "muddle in the middle" so that you can get a finished product to edit?

Yes.

Can you force yourself to write when every time you open certain applications on your computer, you physically can't breathe and end up sobbing under your desk? Especially if, when it happens, you're so ashamed for being weak that you can't bring yourself to tell anyone how bad it truly is?

If you answered yes to that last one, well, you're either a liar or you're a stronger writer than I am.

The only things that are going to heal me are therapy (on it), love and support (thankfully, have that in spades right now), and time.

The last one is tricky for me. I am not the most patient person in general, and especially not when it comes to healing myself. For example, I got upset with the podiatrist who made me wear a walking boot for 12 weeks because I wanted my foot to heal in 4. He was not amused.

Unfortunately, healing with CPTSD is not a process you can rush. No matter how much I want it to be.

In the meantime, I have to be gentle with myself. Which is even harder than it sounds, I assure you. The number of times each week that I mentally sing the chorus to the song "You Stupid Bitch" from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is not in the single digits.

To anyone who has followed along on my haphazard writing journey, thank you for coming along on this very bumpy ride with me. Every day I get a little closer to fine. And every day I get a little closer to the day I can write a novel again. Or even a full short story. Rome was not built in a day, and I can't rebuild myself in one either. No matter how much I wish I could.