My account was first published in 2018. The experiences and ages described belong to that time.
I turn to face him in bed as he asks, “So… why do you worry so much?”
I sigh. “That’s kind of a loaded question.”
We had talked about insecurities before, self-esteem, childhood struggles, but never the big stuff.
“I have PTSD. Well, C-PTSD.” I explain. “It’s like PTSD, but it’s not from one big thing. It’s from a lot of things. It builds up over time.”
His expression changes. “Fucking hell, so what’s that from, then?”
I hesitate, but I tell him. “My mom was an alcoholic. Things got bad. She was abusive—not physically, but verbally and emotionally. It messed me up. I can get thrown back to that time really easily.”
I barely finish my sentence before he scoffs. “Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme? I work with a woman who has PTSD, but she was an aid worker—she helped orphans, kids who had acid thrown on them. You haven’t been through anything like that, right? Your PTSD is bullshit.”
He smirks. I wish I had called him on it. I wish I had said, “Oh, sorry, is my trauma not big enough for you?” Instead, I just muttered, “Look, just trust me, I’m fucked up,” and kissed him.
And then I dated him. Well, I guess I really am kind of fucked up.
How do I explain complex PTSD to someone who doesn’t have it?
My PTSD is not from war. It came from a much closer, darker place: my childhood.
Trying to explain that can feel like being asked to prove something I already spend far too much time questioning. Before I can describe what happens to me, someone wants to decide whether enough happened to me in the first place.
I can tell someone what frightens me. I can explain why a loud drunk makes me cry, or why something from my childhood can leave me feeling sick. I cannot make them listen. That is the part no neat definition fixes.
What I mean when I say complex PTSD
The explanation I gave him in bed was an attempt to describe my own history. It was not a precise distinction between two diagnoses. PTSD can follow repeated trauma as well as a single event. Complex PTSD is more often associated with prolonged or repeated trauma, but counting events does not tell you which diagnosis someone has.
Under the World Health Organization’s ICD-11 system, complex PTSD includes the core symptoms of PTSD: reliving the trauma, avoiding reminders and feeling under threat. It also involves persistent difficulties managing emotions, a deeply negative view of yourself and difficulties with relationships. The American DSM-5 system does not give complex PTSD a separate diagnosis. The National Center for PTSD explains the distinction.
That language helps name things. It does not give the person beside me in bed a licence to decide that somebody else’s trauma counts and mine doesn’t.
What childhood abuse left me with
For me, it was a pattern of emotional and verbal abuse. My mother’s alcoholism slowly unravelled our family.
It was being jolted awake at 3 a.m. by screaming the night before an important high school exam.
It was finding hidden bottles in shoeboxes, wardrobes, behind desks and under beds.
It was being called a slut, a liar, a lazy, ungrateful, selfish c**t.
Sometimes, I remember so little of it that I question if it even happened. If I’m exaggerating. Other times, the memories are much harder to get away from.
Why being questioned hurts so much
It is so hard for me to handle someone questioning my trauma, the gravity of it, because I already do that myself. Swirling around in my head all day is the thought: “Did I overreact? Am I just a drama queen? A snowflake? Did it even happen at all?”
I have had so many f--king conversations with myself, and with other people, trying to justify my condition. Trying to show that I deserve to be the way I am.
A worrier. A 22-year-old who can’t do nightclubs without panic attacks. A girl who, when she hears a loud drunk, shuts down and starts to cry. Who self-harms. Who stays up wondering, “If my mum dies, will it be my fault? Was all of it my fault?” Who can’t listen to songs from her childhood, or watch Disney movies without throwing up?
A great anxious mess of a girl.
For me, the fear came with being stuck. Not being able to get myself out. Not being able to make things better. Leaving did not mean that every reminder stopped frightening me.
When even a doctor laughs
And still, I find myself struggling with how to explain PTSD to someone who doesn’t have it. I keep having these conversations.
A doctor I was seeing for a knee sprain saw my file and laughingly said:
“PTSD, huh, what’s that all about then? Didn’t get it from twisting your knee I hope!”
I tried to explain my PTSD, and he laughed some more, gave me a quizzical look. And then he didn’t say anything. I walked out of the appointment teary-eyed and feeling stupid.
I know I’m privileged. I know I’m lucky in many ways. I know I haven’t been to war or seen anybody die. None of that makes this conversation easier.
Sometimes I really feel like I don’t “deserve” this PTSD diagnosis. When I start thinking like that, I try to look back and trust myself, despite my mis-rememberings, and despite what people might say to me now.
I try to look towards my 16-year-old self. My dad tells me that she cried more than usual one night, that she told him she needed to get out, that he needed to get her out, and that they left for good reason.
What I need someone to understand
Start with what happens to me
A diagnosis can sound abstract. Crying when I hear a loud drunk is not abstract. Neither is feeling sick when something brings childhood back. Those are the things I am trying to explain.
I am describing a reaction, not asking someone to judge whether they would have reacted the same way.
An analogy can help, up to a point
A smoke alarm that keeps sounding after the danger has passed is one way of putting it. It is only an analogy. It cannot explain every part of complex PTSD, and it cannot tell someone everything about me.
But it can get a conversation past “Why are you still upset?” and towards understanding why a reminder can feel so frightening.
Let me describe my own experience
The things I have written here are mine. Another person might describe different reminders, different feelings, a different childhood altogether. I do not need someone else’s story to match mine for either of us to be taken seriously.
In the video below, Lucy describes her experience of PTSD. Her account belongs to her, just as mine belongs to me.
Listen without putting my trauma on trial
I do not need to hear about someone who had it worse. I do not need a joke about my knee. I have already spent enough time making the case against myself.
Listening without judgement would help. So would patience. If someone wants to understand, they can ask what I mean and give me room to answer, without demanding every painful detail as proof.
I wish explaining complex PTSD were as simple as finding the right sentence. Sometimes the words are difficult. Sometimes I have said them perfectly clearly, and the person listening has decided not to believe me.
I cannot explain my way out of someone else’s refusal to listen. I can try to trust myself. I can remember that girl asking her dad to get her out, and that they left for good reason.
