I was diagnosed with C-PTSD—a label I don’t love, but it fits.
These days I often feel like I’ve just walked away from a car crash in slow motion.
It’s lonely, so I wanted to speak to it.
After breaking a decades-long silence about abuse, my only goal was to protect the next generation—to give the safety I never had.
The fallout was brutal: threats, lies, and finally the loss of my entire family of origin.
One family member tried to redefine what happened to me, stating that she heard I wanted it, it somehow wasn’t really r*pe.
That kind of statement leaves a mark you don’t forget.
When I called it out, the story flipped to denial and gaslighting. I was suddenly an irrational trouble maker. I was then cut off from the kids I’d fought to keep safe.
Everyone knew it wasn’t right, but silence ruled.
And silence, I’ve learned, is its own kind of violence.
Now I walk mostly alone. It’s safer that way.
But we’re social creatures—we need connection.
I don’t need rescuing. I’d just love a few safe friends, people who can hold space without judgement.
C-PTSD isn’t my forever. The good days are good. On the hard ones, ghosts still visit, but they pass.
If you see me quiet or shaky in public (as I've learnt, it happens) don’t worry—I’ve ridden these waves before.
I lost a family to truth, but I’m finding myself again through honesty, peace, and kindness.
That’s the kind of family I want to build now.