A's Story with cPTSD and Self-Harm

I have been surrounded by mental health professionals my whole life, maybe that’s why it took everyone so long to figure out what was happening to me. I waded through the worst of mental health because I knew what “bad” looked like, and I didn’t want to ask for help for fear of it not being “bad enough”. I heard constant stories of unimaginable trauma, and they were used repeatedly to minimise any complaint I made. I was constantly afraid that my despair was not justified and I’d be pushed aside, no matter how much I suffered. Before I hit my teens I knew that pain stopped my thoughts from racing, and sometimes even elicited compassion or worry from adults who had ignored me until then.

I have been going to therapy on and off since I was 14, and 10 years later I am still unravelling my motivations. My parents suspected there was something wrong when I started showing ‘unexplainable’ injuries all over my body, so I started talking therapy. Once a week I would speak to a large man about my repetitive and intrusive thoughts. His advice involved misappropriation of Buddhist practices and forgiving those treating me badly because my anger would only hurt me in the long run. He breached confidentiality and I lost any trust I had left in adults. The next psychologist made me feel so guilty I only saw her twice. I drew a tree and she told me that if I harmed myself too badly I’d lose the function of my hands. Teachers had started to notice my decline, and I stopped going to class. I’d sit for hours in the staircase landing of my apartment building, too scared to go outside but unable to hide in my room. I’d walk around at night, hungry and scared, looking only at the pavement tiles and music blasting in my ears. I thought that by disappearing someone would notice my absence - I was asking for help without putting in the effort to be vulnerable. I was convinced everyone in my vicinity was able to read my thoughts, but they were refusing to help me.

After blood tests, an EKG, an fMRI, and an X-ray of my lungs, I was referred to the pediatric psychiatric hospital. Becoming a “psych patient” before I turned 16 seemed like the end of the world; I was torn between wanting help and feeling trapped. Six months of CBT ensued, but I continued unresponsive to treatment. I was assigned a little number that would flash on a screen before I walked into the dark therapy room. I’d sit in the uncomfortable chair, crying every week about the same things, begging to be shaken out of the strange trance I had slipped into so long ago. Eventually I was transferred to a DBT research programme for teenagers with severe interpersonal issues. My days were filled to the brim with activities, anything to make sure I wasn’t left unsupervised: dance and maths lessons, art school, volunteering, studying, writing, hikes and trips with friends. Group and individual therapy, emotional recognition homework, collecting my prescription at the pharmacy, and weekly injections that came in bright red bottles. I slept a lot and ate very little, partly due to medication side effects, and was riddled with nightmares.

I kept hearing the same from professionals: you have to forgive them, that happened so long ago, you have no evidence, you have to change the way you think. Looking back, I am incredibly thankful of all the effort my loved ones made to ensure I was safe, even if I didn’t understand it then (it is very degrading to not be allowed to close the bathroom door). The late night conversations, the coffees and shared pastries, the desperate attempts to connect with me over dinner. It’s difficult to see that people love you when you don’t love yourself, and no amount of reassurance fills the gap that only you can patch.

When I got accepted into University, the hospital discharged me and notified my mother that they had gotten my treatment plan completely wrong. I moved country with a small box of antipsychotics and no chance to ask for a refill unless I underwent the awful process of talking to more professionals. During my degree I found myself falling back into my self-destructive patterns, and I put my relationships in danger. But I survived with the support of those around me and graduated with a bachelor’s in Psychology. I met my current therapist, a wonderful woman who listened to the snotty story of my life until we decided I needed to do trauma-focused work.

A couple of times I have contacted GPs to help manage my flashbacks and symptoms, and have been prescribed all sorts of SSRIs and SNRIs with little to no follow-up. The only answer I got from the locum was to join the waiting list for CBT, and my health notes were full of comments like: “reports being tired but able to clean”. I have always wondered if the way I look or the way I speak makes health professionals take me less seriously. I have slipped through the system without one specific label fully sticking, it started with generalised anxiety, until I developed co-morbid depression; I was then told I had borderline personality disorder, they suspected stress induced psychosis, and got recommended by a psychiatrist to pursue an autism diagnosis. Currently, I’m being treated for complex PTSD, but I’m comfortable knowing that it is my pain and it does not need a label to be real. 

I am still working on myself through EMDR and schema therapy, as I try to live a life that makes me feel connected and fulfilled. I work in a field that fascinates me, and I use my personal experiences of being misunderstood to advocate for individuals being ignored by the mental health system. I don’t wish to sugarcoat anything, I still struggle with the same things I did ten years ago, but now I have the skills to cause less damage to myself and those around me. There’s still nightmares and intrusive thoughts, and I hate going outside alone. But now I do things I was never able to, like enjoying a nice meal with no guilt, talking loudly in class, asking my friends for advice when I’m stressed, and dancing for hours to terrible music.

If there’s anything I want to highlight from my journey is that learning to take care of yourself, to live compassionately, takes time and effort. Practice makes perfect (or close enough), and practice looks like vulnerability, anger, honesty, anxiety, gratitude, patience, and acceptance. Diary entry from 17/03/2025 - “Life moves on, and I’m holding on with claws.”