What Living with C-PTSD Feels Like (Some Days)
When everything hurts and nothing moves..
Some mornings feel like molasses in my bones.
Like someone turned down the volume on the world but forgot to tell my brain, because it’s still buzzing with all the things I “should” be doing.
My brain is foggy.
My limbs are heavy.
And even though I love mornings, some mornings feel like they don’t love me back.
I drink the coffee. I take the meds. I try to wake up.
But there are days when my brain still feels asleep, and my body moves like it’s underwater.
And I used to fight this.
I used to label myself lazy.
Swat away thoughts like “what will people think?”
I used to panic when I needed rest.
But I don’t anymore.
Now I lay down.
Now I trust my body.
Now I know: rest isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.
The Body Remembers
C-PTSD lives in the body, not just the mind.
Some days there’s tension in my shoulders and neck.
Other days, it’s heavy legs and chest pain.
There are days I stim more—rubbing my feet together, humming, anything to stay connected.
And some nights, I wake up gasping for air from another nightmare I didn’t ask to revisit.
There’s a shortness of breath.
There’s a stillness that isn’t peace.
There’s a kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix.
Sometimes I speak slower, softer—people notice.
My voice gives it away.
My silence speaks louder.
What People Don’t See
On the outside, I might look “off.”
Quieter. Lower energy. Withdrawn. Or sometimes more blunt, more intense.
But on the inside?
I’m trying to process a thousand moments at once—memories I never got to fully feel when they happened.
It’s a storm of sadness brewing, and sometimes I don’t even know the reason.
But my body does.
I’ve had to learn the difference between rest and avoidance.
To be honest with myself about what I need.
To cancel plans and not apologize.
Because if I push past the brink, I know what happens—I’ve lived it.
When the Spiral Hits
Sometimes, a spiral from an old trigger takes days to unwind.
But I’ve gotten better at climbing out.
Faster. Gentler. More self-aware.
That doesn’t mean I don’t still feel everything—because I do. Deeply.
And I’m not trying to change that anymore.
I’m just trying to care for it.
What Helps Me Come Back
There are things that help me remember I’m safe:
Snuggling my dogs
Listening to the birds outside
Bare feet in grass or sand
Ocean dunks
Weighted blankets
Warm baths and incense
Singing to myself
Slow walks, soft music, candles
Not because they fix me.
But because they anchor me.
A Message to the World
If I could scream one sentence into the void?
It would be this:
EVERYTHING HURTS!
But I’d also whisper this:
Please be kind to people.
The way you speak to others has the power to shift their entire nervous system, for better or worse.
Where I Am Now
I’m learning not to feel guilty for resting.
I’m slowly letting go of over-apologizing.
I’m honoring my needs in a way I never could before.
Healing isn’t linear. It’s not a goal I’ll ever fully reach.
But I’m building tools.
I’m holding space.
And maybe, my purpose is to help others do the same.
If you’ve felt any of this in your bones, your chest, or your soul—
I see you.
You’re not alone.
You’re not lazy.
You’re living in a body that’s been through too much—and still finds ways to keep going.
It is called survival mode.