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Sorry, but I had to relay some trouble concerning humor, which I'm fairly sure results from cptsd issues (fantasy, dissociation, etc). Namely, I have a marked tendency to let my humor slide into cynicism of a high order. So sometimes I fret that maybe it's taken the wrong way...okay, but I'd still rather balance the humor; when I don't have it it's like the emotional ghosts rush into the opening. It helps, but can hurt--always the balance is risky.

I've had an interesting ride with humor. Some have noted I can have an almost absurd funny bone. I've used it a lot, but once I really needed it, and I'm convinced it helped me survive (if not thrive) and/or save my life when I was young.

Indeed, as an adult many have enjoyed my humorous takes on things; what they usually miss is the pain from which it springs, so while they're chuckling I'm really wincing inside. I wholeheartedly agree with some who do sense something, and surmise that I'm hiding behind it. Oh, for sure. That half-truth doesn't change anything, but I know it helped smooth my tortuous path, somehow/sometimes. I'd rather be able to find a light touch, even within heavy emotional seas.

As a lonely, depressed kid, I still somehow found that in the midst of all the madness around me I had some inner light--or shall we say perhaps I was prone to fantasize, and mine took the form of an inner jokester. This provided another lens with which to view and/or survive as best I could. Although I didn't name my inner friend, the term "holy fool" fits well, as my tormentors considered themselves supreme holy sorts (I have other, coarser names for them, but no one needs to know--although I tend to call them the GAWDawfuls).

That outlook followed me into adulthood, and helped salve the shame and grief of the early years--notice I say helped but not "cured" (I've given up on that concept). But I'm grateful to have somehow/someway developed that internal humor--external would have been dangerous in those situations. The oddity, if such, is that the blessing might never have happened without the curse. Or, maybe that's not so odd after all.

If they only knew that I could secretly trust my inner comic to laugh at them, they would have beat me even more, shamed and belittled me ten times worse, but I managed to keep the candle lit inside, and yes, I know it saved my life. Never easy, and I don't understand the "how" of its presence, but I'm so glad it was there.

So keep laughing...sometimes it was my only grasp at sanity, and I treasure it -- may yours thrive as well. 

Kudos to you, and your therapist for sensing the anger and the need to incorporate it into your therapy, whatever/wherever it leads. It takes a lot of courage to plunge into that area, but having a safe therapist to be there while you explore is a good sign. The T can guide, but it's your journey, and in this instance it sounds like you made an important step, albeit one filled with exhaustive mental/emotional/physical stretching.

I had a similar type of event in a group I was part of, once, but it went sadly awry, and I ended up being angry at myself, the very last thing I needed; suffice to say the group dynamic itself became confrontational, and the leader (not really a therapist) didn't handle the situation smoothly--she was nice in many areas but not geared to cptsd sensitivities at all. Or so it seemed.

So it's nice to hear your experience, albeit challenging, turned out in a fashion that bodes well. So--good for you! May you be able to build on that.         

I have to say, that I really FEEL the support, the hand-holding, those who have joined by the fire, and held and squeezed my hand. I can't thank you enough.

It's only happened rarely in recent years, but when some would try and touch me, they could sense my discomfort and didn't try again. It hurt me that they didn't, but I just never knew how to trust anyone's touch; my hyper-vigilance was so intense to even the best-intended people, and they'd not try again.

Self-love, self-compassion...yes, it's been an extreme hurdle. But thanks to your sincere touch, I can breathe easier, and feel that there are friends for me, too. And not judge myself as needy or selfish, but only as a human who has friends who can see behind my wall of pain, because they've been living there too, all along. And I'm so happy to be able to gently squeeze back, and love you for who you are.

This is prompted by another sleepless night, that started out alright, and then...

So I had the radio on faintly; there was some indecipherable talk going on and then the words I never seem to miss, and flinch/wince when I do.

Those simple two words--"Loved Ones". They say you outgrow some things--I've never outgrown (and I'm 65!) in my automatic drawback from the sound of those words. The simple word "love" can also trigger, but now it's more just a passing reaction like, hmm, wonder what that is. And yes I'm an adult and yes it "shouldn't" bother but sorry, it always has. And sometimes the pain may not hit directly, but other times...you know.

It's not like I avoid the topic entirely--I absolutely crave true instances of love that I hear about...and I marvel sometimes at the depth to be found when I see it in action.

I've gotten better at witnessing instances of loving interaction (mostly between parents/children but also teacher-student, for instance) without having my first reaction turn personal, and I've learned to be amazed at what this nefarious love-thing can look like. And then...

...it's always over there, for them. Good for them, too. But...well, you know the drift I'm in, we all do. 

No more to say, but perhaps in doing so I've helped someone know they're not alone, even though we're confined to these screens to enable us to reach each other. But at least it's there...unlike the love that never was.

And maybe I'll even sleep tonight, and not wake up to find tears on the pillow again.

I'm still new at negotiating all the topics here, so hope this is the right place to critique some of the terminology, in particular the use of the tag "disorder" to describe our condition.

This actually kept me from realizing some of my problem over the years--either from denial or retreat or just plain fear of what else lay lurking in the fog/storm (those terms I can relate to for sure!).

Chronic? Yup. Traumatic? For sure. Stress? Spot on. But Disorder is, well, harder to swallow, in my experience.

I don't know, I just felt so out of whack to be described as having a "disorder". It sounds somewhat demeaning, or sinister, and almost places the blame back in one's own lap--"if only you weren't...fill in the blank". And try explaining what's going on to someone else and use the word "disorder"--on come the "poor you" stares or the knowing looks of "oh, we understand" (you poor diseased schmuck).

Personally, I've come to disregard the "D"; it's bad enough without a word that defines you as something or somebody less than worthy because of the dis- word.

I know, mental health clinicians need a label, and it works for them. Meanwhile, I think part of our work here is to work with the labels and this may just affect me--I want words to mean what they mean (so many people in my early years, and unfortunately later, never said what they really meant and/or used them to manipulate, etc. I'm sure many of you can relate--hypocrisy is an apt description, I think.

So while I accept the term in its clinical use, it would be so cool if it didn't sound so demeaning. But then what do I know? I'm a disordered person, by definition.

So here's another of his takes, from his current newsletter:

   IN LOVING ARMS
If you feel sad for no reason,
embrace the reasonless spontaneity of your sadness!
In the first light of morning,
when you hear a bird singing her spontanous song,
you're not pushing for reasons.
Sadness does not arise to be healed.
It arises to be heard.
It arises to be held,
here, in the loving arms of awareness.
- Jeff Foster

There's also a facebook page with very poetic quotes which I find quite insightful and comforting:

https://www.facebook.com/jefffosterquotes

Thanks.
 

Well, okay, here I am again, with a brief addendum.

While Jeff Foster isn't specifically CPTSD, the book that helped the most with those issues is probably known to most of you--Pete Walker's COMPLEX PTSD: FROM SURVIVING TO THRIVING.

It's thorough coverage blew me away, although I was disappointed to find it doesn't have an index.

I've seen it refereed to on some other feeds, and concur with one commentator who noted that she has to absorb it in slow chunks. I found my own read (and re-reads) like that, too--plus just the delving dredges up flashbacks.

It's a beatiful book.

I'm brand new on board and am settling in to this community and the many gifted people here sharing their journey through the fog, and out of the storm, as it were. Of course, the fog redevelops and the storms plunge in yet again, but I find it valuable to have found friends on this site who know the territory. I'm isolated from personal friends, living a modified hermit life-style deliberately chosen when I moved to the woods, built my own place, mostly in reaction to my own horrid rounds with people as a youth.

I wasn't exactly sure where to put this, but the "books" section seemed apropos. I'll just share an author that helped me walk out of the fog and helped me when the crazy inner rumbles threatened my spirit yet again. Isolated as I am, it's been largely with books and other reads that I've found solace, but amazingly had jobs in tourist places that put me in touch with lots of people, even was a noted public speaker, but the private pain traveled with me, and stil does--but at least I was always  able to retreat.

I've been struggling with this for over 40 years, been through lots of therapy (resisted thinking I needed it) and approaches ranging from Jungian stuff to enneagram and other personality systems, journal writing, you name it, I may have been there. I've come up a little short on bodywork approaches, but more due to some other health issues rather than any overt resistance--although some of the body issues seem related to CPTSD for sure.

So a couple years back I decided to try therapy again, and was determined to root out all the nasties of the monster memories and move happily on. Wow, what a joke that was--but at least I've learned that one.

Shortly into that therapy round, I ran into a free online series called "Self-Acceptance" put together by Tami Simon of Sounds True Productions in Boulder, Colorado. The series features a number of presenters, some well-known, others not so much; some neuroscientists, therapists, authors, all individually interviewed in 40-50 minute sections.

Well, they all kind of sounded "jargony" for me...except for one who stood out named Jeff Foster. So I looked him up--he has a website (life without a centre) and has several books--one I picked up was called The Deepest Acceptance and there's a tape program he put out with it, also via Sounds True. Actually, his best book was put out by Nonduality Press, simply titled Falling in Love With Where You Are.

His approach stems from what's called the nondual philosophy, but that's just a label--its ideas resonate with me, but more importantly they hit me at a time I needed them, too. Foster also has numerous little clips on YouTube that are great--one that got me started was simply titled "There's Nothing Wrong With You".

Foster's approach isn't pushing any dogma, it just reflects someone who also traveled some rough waters and came out realizing that life is like ocean waves, and we're up, down, in storms and calm, and always a part of it even when we don't realize or remember or even know how. It's not specifically geared to tackling specific CPSTD issues, but I actually found that lack of jargon to be a strength--it's all about life and self-realization, including those of us whose waves crashed on the rocks and were thrown back into the sea, where yes, those pounded waves roll on. His descriptions are so much better than mine--you might like to take a look at Jeff Foster.

Sorry this ended up being a bit long-winded, but I felt it might help if I threw in some of the personal observations that drew me to his materials, as they're not precisely tailored to the CPTSD conundrum. 

My journey with CPTSD has taken me down a long, winding trail, and while I've given up searching for a "cure" I am still charting a course in which to feel healing.  While that roaming has already stretched over 60 years, I've learned to accept—grudgingly at times—and understand that what's past is passed. The catch there—it still hurts, and the ache can threaten my hard-won quest for peace. Getting "over it" is a false model of security. I haven't given up hope, it's just that I don't search so desperately for it anymore. The hope isn't so much a turning towards a new morning as it is an appreciation for tears left behind and those that remain.

I used to think I should be able to step past the biography; from a name change through exhaustive self-help reads, spiritual seeking, and more—you name it, I traveled far and wide thinking there was just one more step needed, one program to follow, a magic bullet or a miraculous revelation. The trip included nine therapists—you read that right; mine was a classic "freeze" response, and I bailed out of formal therapy frequently. In the end, all the outside pursuits could only provide a thin salve for the stinging inner wounds, and iit's primarily on  that inner trek that I've truly been able to find the trail again.

That probably doesn't surprise many on this site—it's why I was thrilled to find it. For you are traveling here too, stumbling sometimes, but you don't need to "try and understand" because you already know the route with its raw numbness, fear, and elusive peace. So I look forward to sharing in that peace, learning and living with new friends.  It's like settling down before a comforting fire on a long winter's night.  We all know so well how vulnerable and lonely this path is...I can sense you, though, through the tears; squeeze my hand and don't go away.

Thank you.