Is It Self-Pity or a Reality Check?
What surprises me now is that I don't always think the past is the hardest part of the CPTSD. In many ways, the hardest part is the present.
CPTSD RECOVERY & PERSONAL GROWTHUNDERSTANDING CPTSD & MENTAL HEALTH
Egle Kami
6/22/20263 min read
Sometimes I feel like having CPTSD is the ultimate achievement in the neurodivergence Olympics. People with CPTSD often relate deeply to those with ADHD or autism. Many of us share similar traits, and some of us have those conditions alongside trauma. CPTSD can also be mistaken for borderline personality disorder or bipolar disorder. Add chronic insomnia, years of living in functional freeze, and the physical consequences of prolonged stress, and it can start to feel as though trauma touches every corner of your life.
Of course, suffering isn't a competition. There is no prize for having it the hardest. So why do I constantly feel as if I could win one?
I am 33 years old, and what most people don't know is that I have been unemployed for the past six months. You might think that sounds like a luxury. Time to rest. Time to travel. Time to finally enjoy life. The truth is that I don't feel like I've ever really lived. I've been tired for as long as I can remember.
Since I was a child, I struggled with severe insomnia. I often had intense pain in my right leg, but I learned to cry myself to sleep quietly so nobody in my family would get angry at me. Home was filled with fear, unpredictability, and emotional neglect. There was never a moment when my nervous system felt safe enough to fully relax. Sometimes the streets felt safer than my own home. And honestly, they probably were.
What surprises me now is that I don't always think the past is the hardest part. I barely remember much of my childhood and teenage years. It feels like a film I once watched rather than a life I lived. The memories surface only occasionally in nightmares, flashbacks, or in the sudden sensations that rise in my body for no apparent reason. A racing heart. Tight muscles. The constant feeling that danger is nearby, even when nothing is wrong.
In many ways, the hardest part is the present. I have finally come out of functional freeze. My physical health is better than it was. Conditions that once controlled my life are now manageable. I have spent years learning about trauma, sleep, stress, hormones, nervous system regulation, and recovery. Entire decades have disappeared into the pursuit of healing.
And yet it never seems to end. The exhaustion remains. The fear of the future follows closely behind. I've been unemployed for six months, yet I am still physically tired.
The collapse phase of CPTSD is behind me. I couldn't have survived it while holding down a full-time job. But my savings are shrinking, my insomnia remains severe, and my entire life revolves around maintaining the routines that allow me to sleep.
The irony is that I am not naturally a routine person. Every month or two, I become desperate to feel alive again. I'll go out with friends. Attend a party. Take a spontaneous trip to the seaside. Do something completely ordinary that other people wouldn't think twice about. But then my body crashes. Again.
What scares me most is that I already know how the story usually goes. I'll return to work. I'll slowly abandon the hobbies, friendships, and small joys that make life meaningful because I won't have the energy for them anymore. I'll survive for two, three, maybe four years if I'm lucky. Then my body will wave the white flag once again, and I'll spend my savings recovering from another burnout, another health crisis, another collapse.
People often talk about resilience as though it is limitless. My experience has been the opposite. Recovery is expensive. It costs time, money, opportunities, relationships, and years of your life.
And for people with complex trauma, there is remarkably little support. There are no clear roadmaps. No universal treatment plans. No straightforward answers. Most of what I've learned has come through trial and error: trying things, failing, burning out, and starting again.
Popular psychology often feels painfully inadequate when your nervous system has spent decades in survival mode. Many professionals are well-intentioned, but few truly understand what it means to live with complex trauma every single day.
So sometimes I wonder: is this self-pity? Or is it simply a reality check? Maybe both can exist at the same time. Maybe acknowledging the weight of what happened and the cost of carrying it isn't self-pity at all. Maybe it's honesty.
And maybe the most exhausting part of healing is realizing that recovery isn't about becoming who you were before the trauma. It's about building a life while carrying the consequences of it.
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