While I have written a lot about the plight of women and children in our current times (and for all of the biblical history of the Western world), I have hinted that I, too, have suffered.

While researching my minor thesis, many of the emotions of those days of suffering have returned, but rather than avoid the painful memories, I want to face them head-on and deal with them. However, my brain has other ideas, constantly telling my system I am in danger, and so the physiological symptoms start, thanks to CPTSD.

So, in the spirit of facing things head-on, I wanted to share with you my story of healing and my efforts to continue this new way of life. You see, before I could heal, I had to accept I was broken and needed healing.

So many of us go through life on autopilot, and much of that is to preserve our energy for more important tasks like socialising or major events such as births, marriages, etc.

I was on autopilot, but not to conserve energy. I was on autopilot, so I didn’t have to address the deep wounds I carry with me.

It wasn’t until I was in my early fifties that I couldn’t avoid the cracks appearing in the mask I so expertly wore. You see, I had a personal life crisis which ripped a huge tear in my psyche, my self, my soul. And life after that crisis wasn’t the same. I lived in the same house, and I worked at the same job—on the outside, nothing had changed. But my ability to see things as I had previously—through rose-tinted glasses—had disappeared. Instead, everything was now tinged with doubt.

My trust for anyone and anything had dissipated, and even the most innocuous comments were analysed (often at 1 am, 2 am, 3 am…), and a negative connotation was derived.

Initially, I thought the world had gone crazy. I spoke to colleagues about so and so’s behaviours and my frustration at minor things, but I was met with smiles and nods. My belief there was something wrong with the world was obviously wrong, and I knew that. I tried to change how I saw things, but everything was dark grey or black.

I expected that after a few days or weeks, I’d recover, and when I hadn’t, I visited the doctor. She gave me some self-help suggestions and sent me away for two weeks, telling me to return if I hadn’t improved. I returned and, after completing a questionnaire, was diagnosed with depression. This was in March 2015. I signed up with a psychologist and began CBT (cognitive behaviour therapy), believing I would be cured in a few months—after all, don’t we all get depressed from time to time? How wrong I was.