I wanted to take a minute to talk about an experience I had yesterday with complex trauma, because I think there may be folks out there that might relate to this and perhaps haven’t connected some of these dots yet.

Yesterday was the live streamed awards cermemony for an award my book had been named one of three top scoring finalists for. I was sad that the larger annual conference & awards gala had to be cancelled, but was excited to tune in and see who won.

As time drew closer to the event yesterday, I could tell I was nervous. I couldn’t bring myself to feel any hunger, I couldn’t sit still for two minutes despite a bad chronic pain day and heavy fatigue, and I couldn’t quite focus my train of thought for more than fleeting moments

When it was finally time to announce the winner, they opened the envelope and began to read the first line of the winners book, as is the tradition.

It took me half way into the sentence to recognize the words as my own. I turned to my husband to say something to clue him in but couldn’t formulate words and just sort of gestured at the screen and said “that’s... I think.... it’s.”

(Luckily he didn’t need it anyways, he knows my book pretty well.)

At that point they read my name and my husband congratulated me excitedly. Almost instantly I had a congratulatory text from my Mom who was watching in CA as well. Messages from other authors watching started hitting soon after.

But despite having anxiously looked forward to this for weeks, I found that the wave of euphoria that usually fallows the intial shock of winning an award never came. In fact, there were NO feelings that came at that point.

I felt blurry, detached, and downright numb.

And then I felt physically drained and super groggy.

I knew how I “should” have felt. So I posted the video of my name being announced, and appeared to say all the right things for a person who was thrilled to have won a major award for her work in a year that boasted the tightest competition scores in the events history.

So why didn’t I feel excited? Or elated? Or proud?

Why didn’t I feel anything at all?

It was until later that I realized what was happening.

Because of C-PTSD, my body can’t really tell the difference between:

the adrenaline of nervous anticipation, followed by shock, bringing a wave of elation

vs.

adrenaline from terror/fear, followed by shock, which can only really lead to *relief* that it’s over & you survived

When they read my name and the shock kicked in, I didn’t get that wave of elation and excitement because my body didn’t know that the hours leading up to it had been nerves & anticipation. They thought I had been terrified and afraid, experiencing something sort of present danger

So the only thing my body knew to feel then was RELIEF - because I had survived the danger and the terror had passed.

So where elation would amp you UP into euphoria, relief set to wind me DOWN into a recovery mode from the trauma of whatever my body believed I had just endured

No amount of going through the motions of texting my friends back excitedly or posting the news of my win could convince my body to produce the endorphin rush of a big win. Instead it was trying to convince me to numb myself, dissociate, and focus on resting so I could recover.

This is just one of many examples of the way in which complex trauma is NOT a “mind over matter” thing. It’s NOT about “choosing to leave the past in the past.” It’s NOT about “deciding not to be a victim anymore.” These are all dangerous misguided ideas of how trauma works.

The effects of trauma are not just mental. At their core they are deeply physical - especially for cases like mine where repeated trauma is experienced in early childhood when your brain is still forming the framework of how it understands the world and processes information.

So if you’re someone who’s experienced trauma, ESPECIALLY complex trauma, please know that you’re not alone if you don’t find yourself going through the expected emotions of something “exciting.”

It’s not your fault, and it’s not something you can control.

It’s hard enough to feel like you’ve missed out on the full experience of some of life’s big moments, so don’t add a needless (and undeserved) helping of shame to your plate.

You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re not weird. You’re not ungrateful. And you’re not unfeeling.

Your body is just trying to do its job the best it knows how. And although I wish I didn’t wake up feeling like my body had been in a car accident or something, I’m learning how to be gentle with myself and say “thank you, body, for the ways you’ve tried to protect me from harm.”

Complex trauma is a beast, but I have to believe there is hope for continued recovery.

Even for me.