PTSD and Me

Some days, the words flow like water from a broken dam. My fingers can barely keep pace with the memories surging onto the page. Other days, they come in droplets, each one heavy with the weight of things I’d rather forget. Writing about trauma isn’t just telling a story – it’s reliving it, frame by frame, in high definition.

I find myself developing strange rituals. A candle must be lit before I begin. The coffee must be in the blue mug, never the red one. These small controls matter when you’re diving into chaos. They become anchors to the present when the past threatens to pull you under.

The research is particularly difficult. Each interview with another survivor, each medical paper on PTSD, each statistic – they’re all mirrors reflecting different angles of my own experience. Sometimes I recognize myself so clearly in their words that I have to step away, take a walk, remind myself that I’m here, now, safe. The trigger warnings I’m writing for others, I often need myself.

There’s a peculiar guilt that comes with turning trauma into text. Am I exploiting my own pain? Am I exploiting others’ by asking them to share theirs? Then there’s the unexpected guilt of good writing – as if making something beautiful from something terrible somehow diminishes its horror. But perhaps that’s the point: to create meaning from chaos, hope from hurt.

The hardest parts to write are often not the dramatic moments of trauma, but the quiet aftermath. The way trauma changes how you move through the world. How you startle at sudden noises. How you plan escape routes from every room. How you catch yourself holding your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Writing these moments means acknowledging how deeply the trauma has woven itself into the fabric of daily life.

Some chapters leave me emotionally exhausted, as if I’ve run a marathon. Others leave me oddly energized, filled with a sense of purpose. There’s power in naming the unnamed, in shaping formless fear into something tangible that others can understand. Each word is both a key unlocking my own healing and a hand reaching out to others still locked in their own darkness.

I keep two journals now. One for the book, one for processing my feelings about writing the book. The meta-trauma of traumatic writing. Sometimes the second journal holds more raw truth than the manuscript itself. It catches the tears that can’t go on the professional page, the anger that needs to burn itself out before it can be transformed into something useful.

The revisions are particularly treacherous. Reading and rereading accounts of trauma, polishing them into their clearest form, means there’s no skimming over the hard parts. No looking away. Each edit requires full presence, full witness. Some days, I can only manage one paragraph before my psyche pulls the emergency brake.

Yet there are unexpected moments of light. In writing about healing, I find myself healing. In articulating how trauma changes the brain, I understand my own responses better. In researching resilience, I discover my own. The book becomes both mirror and window – reflecting my experience while offering glimpses of possibility beyond it.

The ending is the hardest to write, because trauma doesn’t end cleanly. There’s no neat resolution, no perfect healing. Instead, I’m trying to write toward hope without denying the ongoing reality of living with PTSD. It’s a delicate balance, acknowledging both the weight we carry and our capacity to carry it.

I’ve learned to be gentle with myself during this process. To respect my limits. To celebrate small victories. To recognize that this work is more than just writing – it’s an act of reclaiming, of reconstructing, of resistance. Each word is a step on the path of healing, not just for me, but for anyone who might find themselves in these pages.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that writing through trauma requires community. My therapist. My writing group. The survivors who share their stories. We hold space for each other’s truth, witness each other’s pain, celebrate each other’s resilience. In this way, the solitary act of writing becomes a collective act of healing.

The book isn’t finished yet, but I am not the same person who started writing it. Each chapter has changed me, challenged me, stretched my capacity for holding difficult truths. Perhaps that’s the real story here – not just the trauma itself, but how we grow through facing it, naming it, shaping it into something that might help light the way for others.