Re-Traumatization and Open Wounds

Trigger warnings for trauma, mental health. I'm OKAY, even if I'm not.

One week ago, I went through a psychological evaluation process in order to get a complete picture of where I'm at and what assistance I might need. It was... Intense. It was also on the public holiday celebrating Matariki, the beginning of the Māori new year. I thought to myself, you know what? I can do this. I've talked about this stuff before. I've had counselling. I've done A Lot of self-work to heal and grow.

I was so fucking wrong.

Holy shit.

This was not the beginning to the new year that I wanted.

I don't think I've actually sat and gone through ALL the traumatic events in my life so clearly, out loud, from the first that I can recall to the most recent. I've whispered singular events to individuals here and there, tucked others into the pockets of strangers and friends, never letting any one person hold the full burden. The list is huge. All the things that haunt me and have shaped me into who I am today.

Which, some days mostly looks like a trauma response. Am I person beneath all of those layers, beneath the years? I don't fucking know. Some days, I don't think so. Some days I feel like a fucking shell without a crab. The armour discarded because what is inside me grew too unwieldy, too ugly and mishappen to fit inside.

Are any of us more than the experiences of our lives though? How can I still be so caught up in these things when without them I wouldn't be who I am? Because on some level I know that I am kind and compassionate, that I have so much insight into the human experience, the ability to put myself in other people's shoes because of what has happened to me.

And yet...

Anyway, I know that it's not the intention of these processes to split a person open, even if you do need to be willing to pick the scabs off all your wounds and expose them to someone else in order to get the right kind of treatment. The psychologist was lovely. My counsellor was there for extra support too. (I wasn't sure if I wanted the extra body in the room, but I think that it gave her a far more in-depth picture of who I am and what I'm dealing with - what she is going to be part of trying to help me recover from.)

I kind of feel sorry for her. I'm surely not the most complicated person she's had to deal with, by any means, but still. Even if she's not family or a friend, I feel the burden placed on her. Feel that trauma brain whispering in my ear about shit I am, how hard I make things for others, how worthless, how undeserved. How many people have it worse than you, Cassie? They should be here, and you should just shut up and deal.

It was a safe space, and it was done in the most compassionate way that it could. But for some reason, this time, I couldn't just tape down the scabs and carry on. I feel broken open. Confronted. In a near constant state of hyperarousal, alert and warry, unable to relax in the way it feels like I'd not long managed to teach myself how to do.

Fuck.

I'm frozen, unable to do the things that need doing, but also unable to relax. None of my meds are helping with this right now, and that's causing extra mood issues because they normally do, but now I just feel more broken than ever. What was all that work for, if I am all of a sudden not coping now?

Is this the actual rock bottom? When none of your coping methods work anymore. When you cannot distract yourself from the truth because it's perched on your chest, screaming in your face?

I fucking hate it, that's all I know. And I don't want to feel like this, and I'm really pissed off that I've recovered from the worst of my coping mechanisms like drinking too much because damn, I wish I wanted a drink.

Writing this has helped dispel some of the tension (so, thanks!), and I have counselling again in a few days where hopefully I can begin to work on some kind of reset. I'm not sure how I'll get anything of value done while I'm a walking open wound. Smiling, pretending that everything is fine and normal and I'm not a shattered shell, that what looks like gold glue, holding me together is actually poisoned lead. I want to be a beautiful piece of kintsugi. Maybe one day I will be.

I mean, at least now I'm having a much easier time identifying trauma brain when it's whispering in my ear. That's something, right?

Anyway, welcome, to my new official diagnosis of complex post-traumatic stress disorder. Join the fucking club.