A CSA Survivor's Relationship with Dissociation, Survival and Living:
"There are many things I wish I could help people understand about childhood trauma; this just happens to be one I hear very little about. Like many survivors, I struggle to hear sentiments like, "Oh my! I'm so so glad that's over now and you got through it!", "I can't believe you got out of that alive. I couldn't even do that now! I'd give up," or "At least you know your worst days are behind you. You know you can conquer anything!". Even resources and groups for trauma survivors, as well as therapists and clinicians, can share quips like "You survived the abuse, you're going to survive the recovery!". While these things intend to uplift or highlight our strength, they all categorically deny the fundamental mechanism that allowed us to survive in the first place, and why adulthood is the real hard part: dissociation.
Make no mistake, those of us who endured trauma as children are courageously strong. We were forced to be tougher than most, and - by nature or necessity - we became resilient, creative, and sharp. But Little Me didn't even experience the bulk of the trauma back then. I wasn't connected to the physical pain or sheer terror. I wasn't incapacitated by shame, disgust, or uncleanliness. I wasn't aware of the immorality, nor was I having a crisis of conscience. I didn't even know who was hurting me for much of my childhood – parts of my mind did, but not me.
Little Me wasn't facing the anger or the blistering sting of betrayal knowing that those I loved most hurt me in such inhumane ways. I wasn't yet aware this was abnormal or something that could make me feel alien or 'different' from my peers. I was numb, hyperfocused on the things I could control, and was even made to feel special or self-confident in certain traumatic areas very early on. While some of that confidence dwindled over time and I became more aware of my unhappiness, insecurity, and "irrational" fears, none of that compares to what you might imagine a tortured child feels — let alone what I was about to feel later in life.
That suffering is here now. Adulthood is when all of it breaks through and confronts you with a vengeance. No, the abuse is not "over", it is not "behind me", it is not "something I got through". As far as my mind and body are concerned, it is NOW. It is very alive and in full-effect. Each excruciating detail of physical pain, disgust, and revulsion. Every tidal wave of anger at those who knew and did nothing, those who saw my innocence as an opportunity, and those who failed me at my every attempt for help. Each immobilizing shockwave of new material that re-writes my entire life story from how I once knew it. It is all alive in my spine, my eyes, my heart, my mind. THIS is when my survival is tested.
I am hypervigilant, terrified, exhausted, unsure if I'm even real. I exist in hollowing spaces of grief for Little Me and the life I should have had. ...lost in an endless state of confusion, horror, disbelief, and dismay. It is all-consuming, all day, and all night. ...especially the night. THIS is active trauma in my brain and body. THIS is my battleground. I am fighting for my life NOW. As an adult, not as a child.
Furthermore, the dissociative process not only contorts the timeline of when we experience our trauma, but the independent symptom of dissociation itself challenges life as an adult, too. ..even beyond the forgetfulness, memory gaps, driving troubles, safety, maintaining a job, etc.. Two of the most critical elements of trauma recovery are in establishing healthy relationships and improving our overall worldview. It's very hard to want to carry on when all you've known is the absolute worst of mankind; being able to look around, connect, and believe the world is still good is vital to our sanity, safety, and healing. But, dissociation challenges this.
It can dull your senses, leave you numb to positive feelings, keep you at an emotional distance from love or affections shown to you. It can keep you trapped in a surreal in-between state of both the past and the present—where you respond to what's happening today with the same emotional maturity you had as a child. Emotional flashbacks, unexpected triggers, and other sudden symptoms that crop up - particularly in intimate relationships or the more meaningful aspects of life - can complicate joy and frustrate the people in your life. But most of all, no one wants to just "be alive", we want to LIVE. Fully and authentically, with all the vibrance and richness available to us. But, dissociation has a way of diluting and blurring the world - stripping it of its color and beauty. How do you hold onto a light that you can barely see, feel, or trust is even there?
Like most all means of sheer survival, dissociation has its pros and cons. Just like chemotherapy and emergency surgery, they can keep you alive, but there are risks. They are also unpleasant in the moment and - separate from the conditions that necessitate these interventions - they carry longterm consequences of their own. But, without them, you wouldn't be here—so it's a constant tug of war with perspective and gratitude. Dissociation is no different.
It got me through. It saved my life. It gave Little Me a fighting chance. But it also made life after abuse so. darn. difficult. Because, I should feel free. The abuse has ended, I am safe. I should be dancing and singing and holding everything I love dear to my chest. But instead, now is when I fight. Now is when I stare down my trauma, my innocence, my perpetrators - all with adult intellect and understanding - and try to decide if this life is worth living or if I'm up for the task.
It is worth it. And, I am up for the fight. I'm going to do this and will do it with grace and strength. But then, and only then, can you say I survived the impossible or that 'it's over now'. This is the battle. ..and not for just survival, but for life. To make this existence meaningful now. I get the autonomy of choice today, not just get to be along for the ride. I get to choose Life and choose Me each day. The fight is no longer to endure the day just see the next one, or go through the motions while feeling trapped here by obligation to those I love, but instead to fill each day with things of meaning and substance. Things I GET to do. Things I’m so grateful I got to do before my time comes.
I get to discover texture and nuance, vibrance and stillness, range in opacity and brightness - all for the first time. I get to engage with the world like a child, but with it in my control and at my direction. There is so much to learn and discover, so much I've not tasted or touched, and I get to let that excitement lead me. I can trust it. Grow from it. Share it with another. Because I know I am going to conquer this. The trauma, the feelings, the defeat, the difficult relationships, even the dissociation. I will remain appreciative of what dissociation made possible for me, despite its thorns.
I want Young Me to get credit for surviving the horror. But I want Adult Me to get credit for not just surviving additional anguish, but for learning to LIVE, too.
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✧ Nighttime 101 and Nighttime 201: Sleep Strategies for Complex PTSD
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✧ Trauma and Attachment: 3-Part Series on Attachment Theory with Jade Miller
❖ Article Index ❖