Untangling Myself From the Trauma That Still Holds Me Hostage

What It’s Really Like to Live with PTSD (When Your Whole Life Has Been Survival Mode)

People think PTSD is just flashbacks and nightmares.

But they don’t talk about the real sht* —

like when your brain spirals for hours over a tone of voice

or how your body shuts down for no reason in the middle of a normal day.

Or how you feel insane… even when you know you’re not.

This isn’t about one traumatic event.

This is about years of chaos.

Years of being ignored, invalidated, manipulated, blamed, and forced to smile through it all just to survive.

And now that it’s finally “over”…

your body and mind are falling apart in slow motion.

And yeah, maybe you’ve done the work.

Maybe you’ve journaled it, meditated through it, studied trauma like your life depended on it (because it did).

But none of that stops the storm when it hits.

You can know exactly what’s happening and still feel like you’re drowning in it.

You can teach it, name it, reframe it, and still collapse from the weight of it.

That’s the part no one tells you: you can heal and still be haunted.

You can be stronger than ever and still be triggered by something that makes no sense until months later.

This isn’t weakness.

It’s what survival mode becomes when the danger finally stops — but your body doesn’t know how to stop surviving.

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It’s the Shutdowns That No One Sees

You go numb.

Not sad. Not tired. Gone.

Like your body is there but your mind has checked out.

You sit on the couch, stare at the floor, and hours pass before you even realize it.

People say, “Just push through.”

But how do you explain that you physically can’t?

It’s not laziness.

It’s not depression.

It’s what happens when your nervous system has been in overdrive for so long

that it just breaks.

And you can’t will yourself out of it.

No pep talk. No to-do list. No caffeine.

Just silence, guilt, and a body that won’t move.

It’s not just the chores or responsibilities that stop.

It’s everything.

Your brain goes offline.

Even something as small as replying to a message, plugging in your phone, or making a decision feels impossible.

You’re aware of what needs to be done, but it feels like there’s a brick wall between you and the smallest action.

It’s not a conscious choice to rest. It’s not a moment of self-care.

It’s like your mind disconnects from your body and everything starts to blur.

You can hear the notifications, you can see the mess piling up, but none of it lands.

You just sit there, frozen.

And what makes it even worse is the pressure. The shame.

The way the world keeps moving like you’re supposed to be fine now.

Like healing means you should be past this.

But this is what people don’t see.

The days where your nervous system gives out, and you can’t force yourself through it no matter how badly you want to.

You’ve come so far.

You’ve done the work.

But this is the part that healing can’t rush.

Because when your body finally feels safe enough to let go,

it collapses under the weight it’s been holding for years.

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It’s Body Memories That Don’t Make Sense

You don’t remember everything.

But your body does.

Your legs shake. Your stomach twists. You flinch at nothing.

You get this rush of dread from a voice message, a smell, a phrase —

and suddenly your whole system is on fire,

but you don’t even know why.

Sometimes you figure it out later.

Sometimes you never do.

But the fear is real. The panic is real. The response is real.

And not being able to connect the dots?

That’s what makes you feel crazy.

Like you’re haunted by a version of your past that your mind won’t let you access

but your body refuses to forget.

There are moments when your heart races from a harmless sound,

and your hands start trembling like something bad is about to happen,

but nothing’s actually happening.

You try to calm down, to breathe through it, to ground yourself,

but your body is already halfway through the trauma.

And when you don’t have a clear memory to anchor it to,

you question if it’s even real.

If you’re even real.

The worst part is feeling hijacked by something invisible.

You’re not reacting to the present.

You’re reliving something your brain won’t show you

but your body can’t stop replaying.

And you’ve done the work.

The journaling. The therapy. The inner child healing.

You’ve made real progress.

But these body memories don’t ask for permission.

They don’t care how far you’ve come.

They just hit.

And even though you’re stronger now,

even though you catch it faster and fight through it harder,

it still breaks you sometimes.

Because healing doesn’t erase the imprint.

It just teaches you how to crawl out of the storm a little faster.

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It’s the Overthinking That Never Stops

Every message. Every post. Every text.

You reread it ten times.

You tweak every word, then rewrite it again.

You spiral if someone doesn’t respond the right way,

if the tone feels off, if there’s a delay that wasn’t there before.

You obsess over details that don’t seem to matter to anyone else.

But to you, they do.

Because the cost of getting it wrong used to be pain.

Judgment. Rejection. Or worse — silence.

And silence used to mean something was about to blow up.

This isn’t some cute perfectionist quirk.

This is survival mode.

This is your nervous system trying to predict danger and avoid harm.

This is trauma whispering that you have to fix it, smooth it out, say it perfectly,

or they’ll turn on you.

Or they’ll leave.

Or they’ll make it your fault.

Or they’ll use your words against you, take advantage of your kindness,

or pretend to care just long enough to get what they want.

You’ve learned the hard way — not everyone reaches out with good intentions.

You don’t want to care this much.

You don’t want to overthink everything.

But your trauma taught you that the smallest things can explode into something bigger.

So you pay attention to all of it.

Every emoji. Every word choice. Every pause.

You anticipate problems before they happen

because that used to be the only way to feel safe.

And what hurts most is that even now,

even after all the healing work and awareness and inner reflection,

your mind still hijacks you.

Still tells you to fix, to rephrase, to second guess.

Because safety still feels like performance.

Like walking on eggshells just in case.

Like staying one step ahead of being manipulated.

Yes, you’ve come a long way.

You know it’s not all your fault.

You’re learning to notice the patterns.

But the urge to over-explain, to clarify, to get it right

still lives in your bones.

And most people will never understand how exhausting it is

to think this hard about everything —

just to feel a little less unsafe.

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It’s the Constant Trigger Loop

You’re triggered all the time.

Not always in big, dramatic ways.

Sometimes it’s just a random comment. A look. A delay.

And suddenly you’re spiraling.

But the worst part?

You don’t even realize it’s a trigger until you’re halfway through the mental breakdown.

You start questioning your reality.

You start replaying old fights.

You start wondering if you’re the problem.

You isolate.

You over-apologize.

You shut down.

You get angry at yourself for “making a big deal out of nothing” —

but it’s never nothing.

It’s just trauma showing up in a way that doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

The loop is constant. Exhausting.

And you don’t always catch it right away.

You’ll be fine one minute and completely unraveling the next,

and it feels like it came out of nowhere.

But it didn’t.

It came from years of walking on eggshells, decoding tone shifts, bracing for emotional whiplash.

So now your brain scans for danger in everything —

even in silence, even in kindness.

You overthink what someone said. Or didn’t say.

A missed call becomes abandonment.

A short reply feels like rejection.

And once your nervous system locks into that fear,

it’s like you can’t hear anything else.

Logic disappears.

All you feel is panic.

And no one gets it.

They think you’re overreacting or being too sensitive.

But you’re not reacting to that one moment.

You’re reacting to every moment like it that came before.

Your body remembers things your brain can’t even name.

You’ve done the work.

You’ve calmed your triggers more times than anyone knows.

But sometimes, even after all the healing,

it still grabs you by the throat and drags you right back under.

Not because you’re weak, but because trauma doesn’t always knock.

Sometimes it just walks right in.

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It’s the Guilt That Never Leaves

You’re tired, but you feel guilty for resting.

You need space, but you feel selfish for taking it.

You can’t be everything for everyone anymore,

and now you feel like a failure for barely being able to show up for your kids, your job, yourself.

You used to function through it.

Now you can’t even fake it.

And the world doesn’t understand that what looks like “doing nothing”

is actually everything you have left in you.

You cancel plans and feel ashamed.

You say no and immediately start explaining why —

like you need permission to protect your energy.

And even when you know you’ve done more than enough,

there’s still a voice in your head whispering that it wasn’t enough.

That you should’ve pushed harder.

That you could’ve done more.

You’re exhausted, not just from life — but from constantly trying to justify why you’re exhausted in the first place.

And the guilt isn’t just emotional.

It’s physical.

It sits in your chest, in your stomach, in the back of your throat when you try to relax.

Even moments of peace feel undeserved.

Like if you’re not suffering or productive, you’re failing.

And that pressure?

It never lets up.

Because deep down, trauma made you believe that love and worth had to be earned through self-sacrifice.

So now, when you finally try to take care of yourself,

it feels like you’re doing something wrong.

You’re not.

But that doesn’t stop the guilt from creeping in.

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It’s the Silence That Hurts Just As Much

There are people who check in now.

Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation.

But because they actually care.

And that’s new. That’s real. That matters.

But even with that, you still go silent.

Not because you don’t appreciate them,

but because you’re too mentally and emotionally drained to respond.

Because explaining this kind of trauma is its own full-time job.

You try to say, “I’m not okay, and that’s okay for today.”

And that should be enough.

But it never feels like it is.

You’re met with dismissive comments, well-meaning advice,

or the kind of positivity that makes you feel even more misunderstood.

And it’s not always their fault.

They just don’t get it.

But when you’re deep in it, trying to survive the weight of it all,

the last thing you have energy for is translating your pain into something digestible.

Sometimes you don’t even know what’s happening.

You don’t know why your chest feels tight,

or why your brain won’t slow down,

or why the smallest thing cracked something wide open inside of you.

How do you explain something that doesn’t even make full sense to you yet?

So you pull back.

Not because you don’t want love or support.

But because the emotional labor of being understood feels heavier than the silence itself.

You’re tired of trying to make your pain palatable.

Tired of having to explain why this hurts when it should be obvious.

Yes, you’ve cut people off in the past.

Because protecting your peace meant walking away from anyone who made it harder.

But now, even with safer people around, the truth is…

you’re still alone with most of it.

Everyone sees the version of you that survived.

No one sees the version that’s still unraveling in the quiet.

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It’s Not in Your Head — It’s in Your Body, Your Bones, Your Blood

PTSD isn’t just a mental thing.

It lives in your body.

It hijacks your nervous system, your breath, your ability to stay present.

Even when nothing “bad” is happening around you,

your body acts like it’s under attack.

Because somewhere deep inside, it still is.

You flinch at sounds no one else notices.

You scan the room without realizing it.

You’re exhausted before the day even begins,

because your body never got the signal that it’s safe.

People think it’s just a mindset.

That you need to “think more positively.”

“Be more grateful.”

“Let go” of the past.

But how do you let go of something your body is still holding onto with every cell?

You’ve cried it out.

You’ve journaled.

You’ve talked about it in therapy.

And you’re still unraveling the grip it has on you.

Because healing this kind of trauma isn’t about “moving on.”

It’s about slowly, painstakingly retraining a system that was built to survive chaos.

It’s teaching your body that it doesn’t have to brace for pain anymore —

even when every part of you is still expecting it.

You’ve come far.

You know how to ground yourself more than you ever used to.

You’re building tools.

You’re showing up for yourself.

But this isn’t linear, and it’s not fast.

And some days, no matter how much work you’ve done,

you still wake up in a body that feels like a battlefield.

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Final Thought🖤

If you’re living this too,

you’re not overreacting.

You’re not too sensitive.

You’re not broken.

You are a human being who has lived through way too much

without enough safety, support, or space to fall apart.

So your mind learned to survive in ways that don’t always make sense to others.

Your body learned to expect pain.

Your heart learned to scan for abandonment before it even happens.

And none of that makes you weak.

You are someone who learned how to keep going with wounds no one could see.

And now that the chaos is quiet, those wounds are speaking louder than ever.

Not because you’re failing, but because it’s finally safe enough to feel it.

That’s the part people don’t talk about.

Healing doesn’t always feel like freedom at first.

Sometimes it feels like grief.

Like confusion.

Like your whole identity is unraveling.

You’ve made it through the war.

But now you’re sitting with the wreckage.

And rebuilding takes time, energy,

and a kind of self-love that no one ever taught you how to give.

So if you’re in it — right in the thick of it — just know:

You’re not crazy.

You’re not alone.

You don’t need to have the perfect explanation for why this hurts

or what it triggered.

You just have to breathe.

To pause.

To stay.

You’re doing the work, even on the days it feels like you’re drowning in it.

And that matters.

Even if no one sees it but you.

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If you made it to the end of this, thank you.

I didn’t write this for attention. I wrote it because someone needs to know they’re not the only one still living with it — even after the trauma is “over.”

Because healing doesn’t mean it stops hurting.

Because sometimes the hardest part isn’t what happened — it’s what you carry after.

And if you’re carrying it too, just know: you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not alone.

I’m still untangling myself too.

And every day I choose to stay — even when it’s heavy — is a day that counts.

— Lindsay Michele

@downtherabbithole.lm | lindsay-michele.com