How My Healing Journey Went From A Rollercoaster Ride Into A Path I Cleared Myself

Trauma? Yeah, we’re on a pet-name basis. I can teach ‘Trauma 101’ and then some.

Childhood? I could have been cast for the lead role in How Not to Parent, a Lifetime Network drama.

There’s a silent space between empathy and survival where you yearn for someone to throw you a lifeline, yet extending the same courtesy is a monumental task.

Even for me, as a Master’s student of psychology, it’s painful to find yourself craving the open arms of community support from people who offer solace and understanding through the tempest of life’s tribulations and only finding more silence between isolation’s echoes.

You’d think after years of conscious healing, I’d have this trauma thing figured out. But hold your breath, folks…

The universe seems to have a twisted sense of humour.

Have you ever managed to find yourself in a relationship with someone even worse than the cast of characters from your traumatic past? It’s like the subconscious pull is saying, “Hey, unfinished business! Round two, anyone?”

Coincidence? Not on this cosmic recycling show.

Fast forward to pandemic times—fear, furniture slashed, and me locking doors like I’m on watch at Fort Knox.

Escape to isolation? Yes, a one-way ticket, please! But in that desperate need to escape, I lost touch with myself.

You might expect relief when the source of torment leaves, right?

Wrong. Enter the tightrope of co-parenting misadventure. It’s like handing your heart over to someone who’s made a career out of crushing it.

Single mom? Check.

Counterparenting with the emotionally immature? Checkmate.

The rebuild starts here. Here’s the kicker, though — when you’re navigating the trauma maze, hoping for a bit of support, the world suddenly hits ‘Out of Service’.

Given my academic pursuits, I figured I’d wield my academic wisdom like a magical shield.

emotionally blank woman stands in the middle of an empty road, It is autumn time

Spoiler alert: In the bout between expectations and reality…

Let’s just say I was flabbergasted at the result.

Imagine telling a potential date, “Hey, I might think you’ll leave me for no reason. Bear with me; it’s the trauma talking.”

The understanding initially blooms, only to wither at the first sign of panic-induced accusations. Explaining my PTSD is like whispering into the void.

The cries for reassurance? Ignored. It was like trying to build a sandcastle in a hurricane—futile.

The realization? People weren’t ready to invest, not even a tad, in my healing journey.

The depression? Yeah, it beckoned like an old friend.

No saviour on the horizon, no magic cure.

The journey out of the abyss is a solo mission. No one else could write my comeback story.

Hey, guess what? The phoenix rose!

Here’s the thing about hitting rock bottom: there’s nowhere to go but up. Slowly, one step at a time, I reclaimed the reins.

Forgive myself? That’s a work in progress. Loving myself has become a daily mantra.

This is me writing my script now.

I am no longer waiting for the world to hand over a bandage. I’ll sew my stitches and paint my rainbows.

From trauma to triumph, the ride continues, but this time, I’m driving.