The Messages That Take Me Back to a Place I Fought to Escape

I was diagnosed with very severe PTSD. That’s not just a label or a checkbox—it’s my daily reality. It’s something I carry into every interaction, every message, every moment that feels like someone is pulling on me when I’ve already pulled away.

People tend to think PTSD is all flashbacks and panic attacks. But what I live with is deeper and quieter and harder to see. It’s overstimulation. It’s emotional exhaustion. It’s rage that simmers under my skin before I’ve even started my day. It’s waking up to messages or missed calls and feeling like I’ve already lost the fight before I’ve opened my eyes.

I lived through emotional abuse that came through my phone. It wasn’t just yelling and arguments. It was silence not being respected. Space not being allowed. Message after message. Call after call. Guilt, pressure, expectations. I wasn’t allowed to rest. I wasn’t allowed to disconnect. I wasn’t allowed peace. And now, even though I’ve worked so hard to move forward, it still shows up.

Because I’m still being contacted by people I haven’t responded to. Still being called when I’ve gone quiet. Still being messaged again and again when I haven’t engaged. Still being expected to respond—just to be left alone.

It’s not just one person doing this. It’s multiple people. Some may mean well. Others do not. But regardless of the intention, the impact is the same. My silence is not being respected. And for someone with PTSD like mine, that sends me into a spiral.

It’s not the words that trigger me—it’s the repetition. It’s the pressure. It’s the way my space keeps getting chipped away even when I’ve clearly stepped back. It’s the fact that I’m still expected to show up for people who aren’t noticing I’m drowning.

And what makes it worse is that this doesn’t just affect how I feel about the people who keep reaching out. It affects how I show up for the people I want to talk to. The people I care about. The ones who do respect my energy and hold space for me without demanding a response. Because by the time I make it through the spiral of overstimulation, I don’t have anything left. I’m emotionally shut down. Disconnected. Tired. And I hate that it keeps me from giving energy to the people who actually make me feel safe.

When people continue to message or call me after I’ve stopped responding—even after I’ve explained myself, even after I’ve already said I need space—and they still expect an explanation, or dismiss the one I already gave, and now ignore my silence too, it doesn’t feel thoughtful. It feels violating.

It doesn’t matter how small or harmless it looks from the outside. To my nervous system, it feels like the same thing I’ve already survived. It feels like I’m being pulled into something I never agreed to, all over again.

And just to be clear, this isn’t about everyone. There are people who check in with me in a way that feels grounding and supportive, and I appreciate that more than I probably show. I don’t want that to change. This is about the kind of contact that ignores my boundaries, that continues after I’ve gone quiet, that leaves me feeling overwhelmed instead of supported.

I know not everyone means harm. I know some people think they’re showing love when they reach out over and over, or try to check in even after I’ve stopped responding. But here’s what I need you to understand.

Very severe PTSD isn’t just about the past. It’s how easily the present starts to feel exactly the same. It’s how quickly my nervous system shuts down when I’m contacted again and again after I’ve gone quiet. It’s how triggering it is to be expected to engage when I’ve already said I need space. Even if you mean well, when you keep pushing, calling, texting, questioning, or dismissing what I’ve already said, you’re not supporting me. You are reenacting the exact dynamic I’m still trying to heal from.

To you, it might feel like kindness.

To me, it feels like being backed into a corner again.

To you, it might be just a message.

To me, it’s another reminder that my boundaries don’t matter.

So no, I’m not trying to be cold. I’m not trying to be rude. I’m trying not to explode. I’m trying to stay regulated. I’m trying to protect the part of me that’s already on edge the second I wake up.

I shouldn’t have to keep explaining myself. But if I’m going to say anything, let it be this:

If my silence makes you uncomfortable, sit with that discomfort.

If you care, take a step back—not in anger, but in respect.

And if you want to support me, believe me when I say I need space.

Because my quiet doesn’t need translation.

It needs to be honored.

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With raw truth, resilience, and the strength to sit with the silence,

Lindsay-Michele

Living, healing, and navigating both the stillness and the chaos.

www.lindsay-michele.com | @downtherabbithole.lm