It’s Christmas Day.
I’m not in crisis. I’m not spiraling. I’m not flooded with big feelings.
And yet, I can’t focus for shit.
Holding a single thought feels like trying to carry water in my hands. I can’t hold information from one browser tab to another. Sentences disappear halfway through. Everything feels slow, sticky, fogged over. Like my mind is doing heavy processing somewhere behind the scenes and forgot to leave me any executive function to work with.
This is the part I want to normalize.
Because from the outside, I probably look fine.
What Actually Happened
The short version: my ex came back into town and sent a classic breadcrumb email. Nothing overt. Just enough to test whether I’d respond favorably.
I did respond, clearly, kindly, with boundaries. (Probably with too many words; he doesn’t deserve that, but part of my recovery is no longer silencing myself.) That part feels settled.
No drama. No emotional explosion. No self-abandonment.
So why does my brain feel like it’s running Windows 95 on a bad day?
The Part People Don’t See
Earlier this year, before he left town, he weaponized my trauma in anger. He used things I had trusted him with, triggers, fears, vulnerabilities, and then disappeared. No repair. No accountability. Just gone.
The fallout wasn’t emotional theatrics. It was physiological.
Over the last ten months, I lost 87 days to dissociation. Days where my mind and body simply shut down. Not hours. Days. I’d only snap out of it when my body started screaming for food.
I know my trauma isn’t his responsibility. But he did know how bad it gets. And he still chose how he behaved. And when the damage became clear, he chose not to help repair it.
That period cost me my ability to work. It cost me stability. It cost me a sense of safety in my own body.
The Last Few Months Changed Things
I’ve made huge strides.
I learned that “just calm down,” “think positive,” and “push through” don’t work for a nervous system like mine. I’ve spent months retraining my body, not my thoughts, back into regulation.
When people say “crippling anxiety,” my system takes that as a creative challenge.
So when he reached out again, yes, it stirred things.
But I stayed present. I stayed kind. I stayed boundaried. I didn’t collapse. I didn’t abandon myself.
I allowed myself to have my voice. After decades of shame, that was incredibly freeing.
This Is the Point That Matters
For people with CPTSD or trauma-related wounds: this is normal.
Our nervous systems don’t heal because we understand something. They heal when we create space for the body to feel it too.
I struggled for years, beating myself up because I could name what was happening but couldn’t fix it. I was familiar with my wounds, but I couldn’t stop them from bleeding.
Now I have a much more roll-with-the-punches attitude.
No amount of research papers, insight, or powering through changed anything. What started to change things was learning how to be gentle with myself, how to kindly coach myself through.
Today, that means accepting that I can’t do what I want to do. I have to step away from my desk and choose something that requires less thinking.
I’ve learned that my brain fog isn’t a failure. It’s my body communicating: you’ve done enough, and now it’s time to rest.
And if I don’t want to lose more days?
I’d better damn well listen to her.
