#traumasurvivor

[sabilewsounds]

Help Circulate to Save My Family

Hi, II'm Sabi I'm a #caretaker 24/7 for my elderly mom who is suffering with #dementia

Please help us stay alive by sharing our #MutualAidRequest

I cannot write alt text because of my cognitive issues so if someone could comment that, it would be helpful as well.

Thank you

[plants-in-my-soul]

Maybe someday, i found a way to cope without self harm.

[truecampbell]

For my primal brain on up to my cerebral brain, I need these reminders.

[introspectivelyrical]

no

💖follow my other socials💖

[davidwfloydart]

Read my mind… #traumatizedforlife #traumatizedasf #traumasurvivor #sexuallyaroused #arousedforsex #orboth #readmymind #readmystory (at Catalina Foothills, Arizona) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpJglnKroRw028j1ggImAoLH-bxp6EDxz6bDps0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[groundedingoodness]

[innerscape]

(7/10) Acceptance and Realization

When you have anxiety, your body and mind will call out to you for help and you must try to help yourself out in whichever way you think possible - be it by educating yourself, asking for help or simply taking a step back to give yourself time and space.

You must not give up. Take each day at a time and know that you will overcome this.

[joyffree]

The Biker's Red Christmas (Thirteen Bikers for Christmas) Holiday MC Romance by Rae B. Lake Release Blitz

This Christmas, Lash will get far more than he bargained for.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗲 🎄 MC Romance 🎅🏻 Holiday/Christmas Romance 🎄 Kidnapping 🎅🏻 Knife Play 🎄 Sweet for Her 🎅🏻 Possessive H 🎄 Scarred Hero 🎅🏻 Touch her and ☠️ 🎄 Sweet for Her 🎅🏻 Trauma Survivor 🎄 A Bet

[caesarandthecity]

The Monster Was Not Under the Bed

Since I was a child, they told me that monsters hide under the bed. That nightmares come at night, in the dark, and that somehow, I should fear what I couldn’t see. I used to be terrified of the dark, of something lurking just beyond my vision. I thought that something monstrous might happen while I was defenseless in my sleep. But I didn’t know, in my childish innocence, that the real monster never waited for nightfall. It didn’t hide in the shadows—it revealed itself in the daylight, where everyone could see, and yet no one did anything.

My greatest fear was never the bogeyman. There was never a monster in my closet or a nightmare waiting to haunt me while I slept. No, the true monster was always there, right beside me, wearing the mask of a mother. She wasn’t a creature from a dream—she was the one who terrified me, not in my sleep, but in the brutal reality of my childhood.

Growing up afraid of the world made me fear everything. I was terrified of horror movies, afraid of the monsters in them. Even werewolves made me anxious, as if they might catch me at night. But little did I know that the real monster was much closer than I ever imagined. I remember countless times when I showed love to my mother, just to avoid her aggression. I remember her smell—the cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. That was when she was happiest—drunk and smoking.

I also remember the times she cooked my favorite recipe: carrot cake. Looking back, it wasn’t even that good, but as a child, it was the best thing in the world. It was simple, hastily made—because she never had the patience or love to make anything special for me. But still, I cherished it, hoping it meant she loved me too.

But these moments of love, these fleeting respites, were illusions. They were thin layers meant to cover the truth. The truth was that the monsters in horror movies—Chucky, Freddy Krueger, Jason—were nothing compared to the real monster. My mother was capable of far worse than anything in those stories. Living with her meant living in constant fear. I never knew what was coming next. I had to stay alert, always trying to please her, because if I didn’t, I would pay for it.

Her punishments were brutal, designed to tear me apart—not just physically, but emotionally. I wish I could tell you this was just one story of pain, but it’s only one of many. Even as a small child, I wished someone would come up to me and ask, “Are you okay?” But no one ever did. I had to carry that pain alone, bound by the silent pact between us. And the truth is, my silence wasn’t because I loved my mother—it was because I feared that one day, she really would succeed in killing me.

We made silent agreements, she and I. Unspoken pacts that I was forbidden to break. I could never speak of what happened behind closed doors. Each session of torture was just between us. She, my mother, my beloved mother. No one saw, no one could testify. The few who witnessed glimpses of her rage are no longer here. But they played their part. They defended me in small ways, because no one in their right mind could see a child beaten to the point of fainting and think it was normal.

I remember the first time she tried to kill me. I was still in preschool. She wrapped the cord of a clothing iron around my neck, tightening it until my skin broke under the pressure. The pain was sharp, but the thoughts were sharper. Why? Why would she do this to me? What had I done at six years old to deserve this? Was it because I was different? Did she see something in me, even then, that she couldn’t accept?

The cord left marks, and she made me cover them with a scarf. I went to school, not just with the scarf, but with the shame, the fear, and the lie she made me carry. She said if anyone found out, the punishment would be worse. When the teacher asked what happened, I smiled—an innocent, rehearsed smile—and said I had cut myself. But how does a child cut their neck? The scarf choked me almost as much as the secret did, a daily reminder of the horrors I lived through at home.

Her attempts to break me, to destroy me, didn’t stop there. They were constant, until I began to believe that I deserved it. When she beat me, when she wrapped the belt around my neck and told me she was going to kill me, I stopped resisting. I was already broken inside. I had come to believe that I was a despicable being, that I had earned every beating, every instance of her cruelty.

What haunts me most is not the physical pain, but the love I still felt for her. I loved her, despite everything. She was my world. Despite the violence, despite the fear, I still craved her love. I begged for it. I begged her to stop, to see me, to love me. But my words were swallowed by the silence between us.

I tried to share this pain with my sister. I showed her the scars—on my body and in my soul. But when I told her, her question hit me harder than any blow: But where was I? I never saw that. It hurts. It hurts deeply to know she never understood, never saw the reality I lived. And of course, she didn’t. The tortures happened only between me and my mother. They were secrets hidden in plain sight.

My mother’s lies and violence echo in my mind to this day, blending with questions that will never be answered. Why did she hate me so much? What did I do to deserve such treatment? It took me years to realize that the problem was never me. The monster wasn’t me. The monster was the figure society calls “mother,” but to me, she was the embodiment of terror.

[infinity-state]

Understanding Mental Illness: 06

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental health condition triggered by experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event. It can affect people of all ages and often involves reliving the traumatic event through flashbacks or nightmares.

Symptoms:

Intrusive Memories: Recurrent, unwanted distressing memories of the traumatic event, flashbacks, or nightmares.

Avoidance: Avoiding places, activities, or people that remind them of the traumatic event.

Negative Changes in Thinking and Mood: Negative thoughts about oneself or others, feelings of hopelessness, memory problems, and feeling detached from family and friends.

Changes in Physical and Emotional Reactions: Being easily startled, always being on guard for danger, self-destructive behavior, irritability, angry outbursts, and trouble sleeping or concentrating.

Connecting with Someone with PTSD:

Be Patient: Understand that their healing process may take time, and avoid rushing them.

Provide a Safe Space: Ensure they feel safe and secure when they’re with you.

Encourage Open Communication: Let them share their experiences at their own pace.

Avoid Triggers: Be mindful of their triggers and avoid exposing them to these without their consent.

Encourage Professional Help: Support them in seeking therapy or counseling if needed.

[sabilewsounds]

Help Disabled Family Survive Homelessness

Disabled Latina Multidisciplinary ArtistFull Time Caretaker for elderlymother and their Emotional Support Animal

Sole income was from creatingHomeless & lost access to equipment🐇

Raising funds weekly for Hotelto stay off the street and awayfrom dangerous heat💚

Save three lives, please support

https://ko-fi.com/sabilewsounds

https://www.paypal.com/pools/c/97A72CMx6G

Hi, I'm Sabi, a LatinaMultidisciplinary Disabled Artistand the primary caretakerfor my disabled, elderly mother

In March of 2024, we were evictedWe have been fighting poverty for decades

In Jan 2023 I was laid off due to my CPTSD leading to this situation

Since the Eviction my mother our ESA and I have been living in crisispaying for a hotel one week at a time

I am emergency fundraisingfor our housing, food & car. You can support via one timecontributionsvia Paypal & Kofi (above)

You could support long term by becoming a Bun Supporter (monthly member of my KoFi)

[posttraumasecrets]

Welcome to the channel Post-Trauma Secrets & Decluttering

[truecampbell]

Some days I just need to be a turtle.

[introspectivelyrical]

excerpt from no (wip) 💖follow my other socials💖

[sadhoglet]

This makes me feel so many things

My chest tightens and my eyes scrunch up and I wanna scream and go out and walk until my feet bleed and I collapse in on myself and cry

Somehow this is the exact mood and tone of my fucked up childhood