Toxic Shame
Last year, amidst the fog of survival mode, I wrote a piece—possibly titled “Toxic Shame”—where I explored the weight of living while barely staying afloat. Recently, a fresh episode of emotional dysregulation led me back to therapy. As my understanding of Complex-PTSD grows, I’ve become more attuned to my symptoms, their timing, and the specific triggers that set them off.
The primary catalyst has been my mother’s hospitalisation, which began just before Christmas. Over the last three months, my brother, his partner, and I have been navigating the exhausting logistics of her care: managing Lasting Power of Attorney, facilitating a safe discharge, and coordinating with the local council to end her tenancy. While clearing out her flat, my husband handled the heavy lifting while I sifted through papers and old photographs.
Sifting through her life forced me into an involuntary “memory lane” trip. At the time, I felt detached—a common survival tactic I later described to my therapist as the ability to perform painful tasks without “feeling” the associated emotion in the moment. The danger, of course, is that the subconscious simply archives that pain, waiting for the moment you think you’ve escaped to resurface.
The “cold fingers” of that suppressed emotion finally reached for me as I was scheduling my next therapy session. Initially, I was confused by the sudden surge of panic and fear; to me, my daily routine felt unchanged. However, my best friend pointed out the obvious truth I had been ignoring: my world had changed because of my mother’s crisis.
More significantly, I had uncovered several suicide plans among my mother’s papers. I had treated finding these documents as a mundane task, but my friend reminded me that this was an extraordinary, traumatic discovery. I hadn’t avoided the pain; I had simply stored it away until it could no longer be contained. But this survival mechanism, that once may have kept me safe as a child, now catches me off guard.
I often struggle to connect my panic with the reality of my life; my reactions are delayed, fragmenting my experience and leaving me adrift in confusion. While I am fortunate to have a therapist to guide me through these shadows, the cycle remains disorienting.
Recently, I found myself reflecting on a rare period of peace, counting my blessings and feeling truly grateful. Yet, before the week could close, the raw sting of panic returned. I felt suffocated by a nameless, chaotic fear. In my desperation, I looked back and wondered how I could have felt so secure just days prior, foolishly telling myself that “nothing had changed.”
After all, life was moving forward. I had started a wonderful new job that I love, and Christmas had been a joy for my happy family—with the exception, of course, of my mother.
That is where I finally found the trigger. While she was in the hospital, I felt purposeful. I was useful showering her, washing her hair, monitoring her care, and supporting my brother. It was only when that frantic utility subsided that the suppressed weight of the situation finally caught up to me.
I rarely acknowledge the triggers in my life, oftentimes pushing on with a stiff upper lip. Learned behaviour perhaps form years of coping with uncertainty, unpredictability. Nevertheless, as I continue my journey, with regular input from my therapist, I am developed a more focused awareness of my own needs. I am growing a new level of self-compassion and patience. This is how I “hold space” for myself.
If you find yourself overwhelmed, or feel lost, or ignored, please reach out, either to your NHS GP, or via a talking therapy service in your area. In acute crisis, you can ring 111 who would signpost you to a local crisis service.
