Trauma, moi?

One of the lowest points in my life was last autumn (2025).

The thoughts got very dark. And I couldn't tell anyone. I kept it all in. I held my breath and pushed forward with life. People had no idea. When I needed a release, I'd lock myself in the bathroom, shove a towel in my mouth to muffle my gagging cries from my family. My daughter would see my red eyes afterwards and ask me whether I was sad, and I'd explain that my hayfever was terrible. 

The trigger to things spilling out was a Teams call with a colleague. I knew she'd ask that question. It was inevitable: "Hiya...you alright?"

And that broke me. 

It was very clear that I wasn't. I explained a topline version of what had been going on - grief for a father figure, my sister's cancer diagnosis, limerence, trying to work out WTF is wrong with me etc. 

I'd recently started journalling and asked her if she'd mind reading it. It was incredibly personal, but I wanted someone's independent view on, to be frank...whether I was cracking up. I wasn't thinking in terms of diagnosis. Mine was a binary view of mental health. Was I going mad? 

So, my poor colleague poured over 40k words of my drivel. Everything from my past - family, childhood, love, sex, death. All the classics.

A few days later, we talked on the phone, as I walked through the farm opposite my house. One phrase she used stood out more than any other: "It's clear you've experienced quite a lot of trauma."

What was she talking about?

I haven't experienced any trauma! That's a word reserved for those who were sexually or physically abused - particularly as kids. Mine was a very comfortable middle-class upbringing, rife with privilege, in fact.

What events in my life could possibly be classified as trauma?

Okay, possibly that time I nearly died due to being electrocuted. And that car crash that could have killed me. Oh, and my bike crash too. And that time I nearly cut my leg off with an axe.

I suppose five years of IVF was pretty traumatic too. 

And there's when I tried to kill myself when I was eight and my suicidal tendencies for the following eight years. And when my mum tried to kill herself a few years ago, I suppose. 

Then there was the time when we fell out with her entire family and never saw them again. But that was only because they accidentally killed my gran and then lied about it. 

Oh, and that time when I was a kid and had to patch up my schoolfriend after he was kidnapped and tortured by drug dealers. He'd been beaten black and blue, had cigarettes stubbed out on him and had his arms and legs cut to ribbons. 

...

...

Ah. 

Without this turning into a pastiche of The Life of Brian...I think you get the idea. 

And that's without even touching on the impact ADHD had on my childhood and my relationship with my parents. 

Recognising trauma has been a huge step forward for me. My colleague's objective distance was the trigger I needed to start realising that all was not rosy in the garden. 

Before last year, I'd never considered myself to have any mental health problems or to have experienced any trauma. I'd had half a dozen sessions with a psychotherapist due to (what I thought was) post-uni burnout. And I'd had a coach a couple of years prior, due to a stressful situation with my son and some work burnout. Each time - like after every trauma I'd experienced - my litmus test of whether I was 'okay' consisted of whether I could still put one foot and front of the other. 

I was fine, me. Strong as an ox. Being 'the strong one' was a role I could perform. After years of masking...years of enduring trauma and working around my ADHD, I 'knew' that was someone I could be. I was the one who coped. Until I couldn't.