This article is written by The StoryKeeper, sharing their personal experience of living with a male CSA survivor who has C-PTSD. Originally published on their own blog, we’re grateful to share it here with permission. To read more from, The StoryKeeper, please visit A Wild & Complex Life.
Kitchen
I slept in the van outside the man’s bedsit last night, so I pop in to say a quick hello before I head off for today’s work. But something’s up, I can feel it in his energy. He stands still, as if calm, in the middle of the kitchen but something’s off. He doesn’t much respond to me entering the room. There’s a bounce in his feet, a haunted look, eyes skittering and not able to meet mine.
Here we go again…
Is he even aware he’s in this strange space this time? It can be so very counterproductive for me to ask him about it if he isn’t aware. To bring it up the timing has to be perfect and the approach, language and energy have to be impeccable, without a hint of accusation.
I judge that he’s not too far into it for me to push a little, yet I sense that he’s also too far in for me to feel he’s safe to be left to it. This doesn’t feel like something that he’ll be able to push back down or that will blow over. If I leave him to brew, the volcano will have to erupt eventually. Sometimes it feels safer, healthier, kinder and cleaner to just lance the boil of whatever emotion is seething beneath the surface with a carefully considered jab of a sharp blade.
“You feeling OK?” I ask gently.
“I’m OK,” he replies.
The bouncing imperceptibly speeds up. A slight twitch jerks his head minutely to the right. His energy begins to hum at a mosquito-pitched whine.
It’s time to make considered a choice here. I swiftly try to read all the signs. Do I push or not? Will it help or harm him to question further? It sometimes feels like choosing to freefall off a cliff not knowing whether or not you’ve packed your parachute. All you can do is jump and hope. I decide to jump…
“You sure?”
He goes to say yes but his body betrays him. The hum of energy hits screaming point, the bounce becomes insistent, the tiniest of jerks travel down his arm and force their way into his hand with a small, jabbing right uppercut (if I’ve got my terminology right, I’m not exactly a boxing expert here).
As some deep part of him realises he’s betrayed himself and can no longer hide, the energy shifts. Alongside the usual urge to run and hide there’s a hesitant need to connect, each in conflict with the other. Here is healing in action, healing in such small steps you sometimes don’t realise there’s progress at all. But this slight possibility of connection is what positive change looks like for the man, for he who would once rage and storm away, push me off and reject all help. He is slowly, unsteadily, healing enough to stay with this, to stay with me.
I stand before him, slow my breath, no movement, no eye contact, palms outstretched as if in offering and I wait. I keep my energy as still and gentle as I can, no expectation, no calling him to act.
The need to connect wins the moment and his left hand shoots out violently, grabbing my fingers with force. The skin-on-skin connection hits him as if it burns, jolting through him and wracking his body. I don’t meet him in any way other than this. I stay still, small and gentle, as if facing an injured animal about to fight to the death. He grips my hand harder and tighter, as if holding on for dear life and yet punishing me for offering support when he desperately wants to fling me away.
I wait… as the conflict rages through him, playing out in the thrashing of his body, the hard set of his jawline, the darting eyes looking any which way but at me.
I wait… with my right hand crushed in his, left hand outstretched in an offer of support, of love.
I wait… to see what comes next. No expectations, just this moment, then the next, and the next.
As I wait, I put aside my own trauma response. I tell my emotions and reactions to still themselves and promise them their time later. I feel into my feet on the cold floor tiles, ask my body to be a container to hold all that needs to be held, seen and felt. I widen my energy out to the four walls of the tiny kitchen to fill it with warmth, care and safety… and I wait.
As the bodily conflict, set in motion by his choosing to connect, begins to subside, there’s a sudden flash of movement as he snatches at me with his free hand and my other fingers are grasped in the vice of his. We stand opposite each other, our hands linked but with heads turned apart. The tension within him heightens, the movement growing uncontrollable, head switching side to side. I feel the crawling discomfort of whatever emotion is flying and flowing through him and, in his silence, I hear the raw and painful bellow of a wild beast, uncontained and yet held within. Tears prick in my eyes at his pain but I dare not draw him to me now. That would be for my comfort, not for him, and it risks chasing away the emotions he’s so close to feeling.
I glance towards him out the corner of my eye and, in the periphery, notice him lift his chin and raise his eyes towards mine, fearfully. A sudden shaft of connection flashes between us, then pings back into the depths of him in terror.
I know those eyes, I know who they belong to and, more importantly, I know just how much they need to hide away unseen. It’s like coaxing a terrified mouse out from beneath a cupboard. One ill-judged, tiny movement and he scurries away back into the lonely shadows of safety.
And so, we wait anew…
My world seems to consist of waiting, both right now in this moment, in these many moments, and more generally. I’m waiting for a brief respite from commitments so I can hit the road again. I’m waiting for sunny weather, literally and metaphorically, for the emotional fine days. I’m waiting for things to become normal again. Just waiting, feeling like life is on hold, and coming to terms with the fact that this waiting is life too but with its own pace and flow. I’m not really waiting for life to happen and take proper shape, although sometimes feel I am. This waiting is my life’s shape, as it is right now, and I’m learning to live with that.
As I wait, hands achingly crushed in his, I surreptitiously watch the aftershocks post-connection that wash through him. I see the terror in those eyes soften and dissipate, just a touch. I see who the eyes belong to take form in the man’s face, and then throw wary glances my way. Glance and withdraw, glance and withdraw. Assessing my trustworthiness, my presence.
I speak to the adult before me. “Who’s here?” Although I’m sure I know. “Is it the boy? Can I talk with him?”
A swift, shy nodding bursts through, I’m not entirely sure whether from the man or the child.
“Hello boy,” I say softly. “It’s lovely to see you.” Perhaps not the best of phrasing to use with a child that wants to stay hidden, but I never said I get this right all the time. So gently, I must tread. This small, scared one could flee at the slightest misstep or heavy-handed intervention, no matter how well-intentioned the approach.
“Do you want to talk with me? Do you know what you’re feeling? Would you like to share it with me? I’d like to listen and I won’t judge. I will just listen and hold you here in love and care.”
And out it comes… all the deep, dark, poisonous, hidden horrors and emotions tumble out of him. They are not new to me. We both know they’re within him and yet he still finds them hard to share. I let him be heard. I let it all be heard. I offer up love and safety, standing there with hands so tightly held I no longer know who is holding who. And I resist the urge to hold him closer. Instead, I hold him with my undivided attention, my heart and my whole being as he stumbles over words and through feelings.
After, I offer up words in a mother’s voice, strong, warm and secure words of love and care. I honour his bravery, his purity and beauty. Repeating the phrases again and again, gently and slowly, in the hope that some may be heard. Drawing all my focus into them, knowing the energy and emotions of them may slide into his being, even if the meaning can’t yet be allowed to settle or grow within.
It is only as his breathing slows and agitation subsides, as his grip loosens and his hands hesitantly slide around my waist, that I know I can hold him. He bends his head towards me and tucks beneath my chin, turned away from me of course. I cradle the back of his head in my hand, still and gentle, spare arm lightly around his shoulder allowing him to control the depth of physical connection. We stand there joined in silence and I drink in the clear, intense joy of a rare moment of pure and open togetherness.
We hope this story gives insight into the experiences of partners supporting someone with C-PTSD. To read more from The StoryKeeper, please visit their website at: A Wild & Complex Life.
