CPTSD – When Survival Becomes Who You Are

Yesterday I got diagnosed with CPTSD. And honestly? It hit me like a sack of shit to the face.

I’ve had labels before. ADHD. PMDD. Fibro. IBS. Basically, I’ve been collecting acronyms like Pokémon cards. But this one… this one hit different. This one explained the lot. Suddenly it all made sense — why I’m constantly on edge, why I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus, why my brain thinks “calm” is some mythical creature like a unicorn.

The truth is: I’ve been in fight-or-flight mode my whole damn life. No wonder I’m exhausted. My nervous system’s been stuck on “DEFCON 1” since childhood. Adrenaline isn’t just a hormone for me, it’s basically a personality trait.

And the toll? Brutal. My body is screaming, my brain is fried, and my mental health has been hanging on by a thread thinner than the cheap yarn I swear I’ll never buy again but somehow always do. And considering I’m only 4ft 11 and 7 and a half stone — how the hell has someone this small been lugging around this much trauma? Honestly, I should’ve been awarded a sherpa badge years ago.

I spent years telling myself “it wasn’t that bad” or “other people had it worse.” Gaslighting myself before anyone else even had the chance. Turns out, living in survival mode isn’t drama — it’s trauma. Who knew? (Well, apparently my therapist. Took me 35 years to catch up.)

I’ve parented while triggered. I’ve dissociated mid-argument. I’ve masked so hard I forgot who the hell I was. I’ve smiled and said “I’m fine” while internally wanting to throw myself into the sea. Honestly, if masking was an Olympic sport, I’d have more medals than Michael Phelps.

And now… I finally have a name for it. CPTSD.

Do I feel relieved? Nope. Not yet. It feels heavy, like someone just handed me a body-sized backpack of bricks and said “here, carry this, it’s been yours all along.” But at least now I get to stop pretending it’s invisible.

The road ahead? Long. Messy. Probably full of therapy sessions where I’ll cry, swear, and then make an inappropriate joke so the therapist isn’t too uncomfortable. Some days I’ll feel like I’ve got this. Other days I’ll be sobbing into my Pepsi Max wondering why life didn’t come with a manual or at least a customer service number.

But here’s the thing: I want to try. I’m tired of bracing for impact that never comes. I’m tired of living like a smoke alarm that won’t shut up. I’m tired of existing on survival mode instead of actually living.

So yeah. Here I am. Diagnosed. Raw. Swearing like a sailor. Still sarcastic as hell. But maybe — finally — ready to start healing.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re permanently wired for disaster, like your whole body is just waiting for the next hit — you’re not broken. You’re surviving. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we learn how to live. Preferably with snacks, caffeine-free Pepsi Max, and therapists who don’t flinch when we drop the F-bomb mid-breakthrough.