or how to live with complex post-traumatic stress
ANAÏS LANDRIEU
APR 16, 2025

Trigger warning: If you’re affected by psychotrauma and reading this article makes you uncomfortable or triggers symptoms, feel free to leave this page and take care of yourself. With every word, every line—you can stop reading and check in with yourself. Listening to yourself is what matters most.

It took me over a month to find the courage to write again since my last piece, “To society, I’ve ruined my life.”

Telling the truth causes waves. And even though that’s the point of being a writer and artist—to have an impact—it’s still hard. Amid the love and support, there were also some ripples that turned into waves, then tsunamis… Awakening (yet again) a creature that’s lived inside me for a long time: Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD).

Welcome to the story of a 28-year-old woman, currently emotionally raw, who has had the brilliant idea to expose herself again on a deeply taboo and sensitive subject.

So, why put myself through this?

Simple: If we, the ones affected, don’t talk about it, then who will? I want to talk about it because I’ve never read a testimony on this topic, and that’s exactly what we need when we’re facing traumatic resurgence: to remember we are not alone, not crazy, and that it will get better.

Let me be clear: my goal here isn’t to give a theoretical course or advice—you’ll find plenty of that elsewhere. I want to offer a glimpse of a reality many people silently endure, to break the shame, taboo, and silence that still shroud mental health issues.

The second reason I’m writing this: because writing frees, releases, and heals. It does me good. I feel ready to sit down and speak openly about complex trauma. Because if we artists don’t dare express the truth of this human experience—sometimes beautiful, sometimes horrifying—who will?

It’s deeply uncomfortable for me to show this darkness when I’ve been conditioned to believe it’ll drive everyone I love away from me.

Sounds dramatic? It is. But hey—I’m a Cancer sun, Scorpio rising.

Why the sudden touch of humor? Because I don’t want this to sound too heavy. “Let’s make trauma sexy, fun, and romantic so it’s more acceptable” (sarcasm). And while trivializing trauma is harmful, laughter can also be a way to heal.

Alright Anaïs, lots of preamble—can we get to the heart of the matter?

Let’s start here: What is complex trauma (C-PTSD)?

“Complex trauma happens when someone experiences repeated or prolonged trauma, often in situations where they cannot escape or protect themselves—such as emotional abuse, neglect, or relationship-based harm (and more). Unlike a one-time traumatic event, it stems from an ongoing environment of emotional insecurity.

It deeply impacts emotional regulation, self-image, and the ability to form healthy relationships, leaving long-lasting traces, even if the original trauma isn’t obvious or clearly defined.”
— ChatGPT (boooo)

— This is simplified to the max. Technically PTSD and C-PTSD are different, but I’ve kept it accessible or I won’t finish this article until 2032 —

Even after 7 years of therapy, including trauma therapy, I still catch myself thinking: “Anaïs, stop playing the victim. You didn’t survive a terrorist attack or grow up locked in a basement. Ungrateful!”

That’s what psychotrauma does too: it makes you deny your experience, because there’s no single dramatic event to point to. In complex trauma, it’s the feeling and the repetition that create the trauma.

It’s a mess. A buildup of a thousand experiences—no matter how “minor”—that felt violent. And instead of being processed and archived in our brains, these traumas keep living in our bodies and minds. Because trauma isn’t just psychological—it’s also physiological.

Now imagine being a highly sensitive child who doesn’t understand social rules, who is socially naive, who grows up in a world too loud, too stimulating, and who had to deny their nature to adapt…

And since trauma is about how your brain/body experiences an event—not about the nature of the event itself—do you see where I’m going?

Growing up as an undiagnosed autistic and ADHD person can be deeply traumatic. Neurodivergent people are more likely to develop PTSD and/or other mental health issues (anxiety disorders, eating disorders, OCD…).

Yes, every human on Earth has trauma. That’s not the point. In complex trauma, it’s the consequences that are problematicagical (yes, I wrote that glorious Freudian slip and I refuse to correct it—it’s too perfect!).

So what does it look like in MY experience?

C-PTSD isn’t always active (thankfully), and the idea is to reduce the activation over time by reintegrating traumatic memories and teaching the body to feel safe again.

Triggers activate the trauma. A word, a glance, a tone, a smell, an environment, a song… Anything can be a trigger—it depends on the person and their history.

Once the alarm goes off, it begins. Sometimes brutally, sometimes slowly. In my case:

• Sleep issues, recurring vivid nightmares
• Hypervigilance and sense of danger
• Intense anxiety, panic attacks
• Emotional dysregulation (I cry a lot, rejection sensitivity worsens)
• Loss of trust in others (expecting harm, judgment, exploitation)
• Trouble eating, drinking, moving, using the bathroom (freeze mode)
• Constant need for reassurance / inability to trust it / anger at those helping
• Social withdrawal (hiding from others so they don’t see me like this)
• Headaches, neck/shoulder/back tension
• Dissociation and attention issues (feeling detached from body, losing time/reality)
• And the worst of all for me: self-hatred.

I hate myself for having to feel this intensity. I judge myself: Why am I still like this? I feel like a toxic person, a burden. I’m ashamed to talk about it, afraid people will reject me for being vulnerable. I feel unworthy of love.

Sometimes I feel so angry at myself that I say: If I could split in two, I’d punch myself. And yet—I also feel compassion, sadness, despair… Everything feels dark and overwhelming.

This can last hours, days, or months. It comes and goes in waves.

And yes—it might sound intense written like this. And it is to live. But let me make one thing clear: most people have no idea it’s happening.

I repeat: no one notices. Isn’t that wild?

It’s all internal. I isolate myself, keep minimal contact to avoid worrying anyone. I smile when I’m seen, and no one knows—except maybe my best friend or my partner.

That’s why this matters. People imagine “big crises,” but like most neurodivergent or chronically ill folks: we are masters of masking. It’s exhausting, but a form of self-protection and dignity, I suppose.

This is hard to write. So I breathe, and I take my time. It’s terrifying—it’s the first time I speak about this publicly. Only my closest friends know this part of me. I’m really counting on you to read and comment gently. I need that.

I’m afraid people will reject me for sharing this. That just writing this will push people away like I’m contagious. Because yes—mental health is still taboo. Most people are afraid of it, unprepared to deal with this kind of intensity. That’s the problem.

And that’s my whole point: I REFUSE THE DOUBLE PUNISHMENT.

I refuse to stay silent and hate myself for something I never asked for.

This trauma partly comes from masking (hiding neurodivergence), living in a world not made for my sensitivity, emotional abuse, the lack of emotional education in the 90s–2010s, and manipulative people who took advantage of me.

And I should be ashamed of that too? I should hide?

Even when I’m triggered, I do everything I can to support and regulate myself. I take responsibility not to project my emotions onto others. These are hard times that last from hours to weeks—but I remain “functional” enough not to impact others. I always make time to talk, to explain what’s happening. I invest time and money in therapy. I care for myself—out of love.

I ride the wave. Sometimes I drown. But I always get back on the surfboard.

Because yes—C-PTSD is a wounded part of me, and it holds weight, but it doesn’t define me. When I’m activated, even if it takes up space, it’s not all of who I am.

I AM NOT THE TRAUMA. I’m a woman doing her best to care for herself and those she loves—with both strengths and struggles.

When I’m triggered, I’m aware of what’s happening. Therapy and my training in psychology, coaching, and neurodiversity (I’ve been a therapist since 2019) help me observe it. But awareness doesn’t erase pain or sensation.

Yes, a part of me believes I’m unlovable. But I, Anaïs, know that’s not true. And the more gently I treat myself, the less power that voice has—and the less the trauma gets triggered. (Yay!) It’s not linear, sometimes I feel healed forever, then bam—something sets it off again. But it’s not a curse.

Every trigger is an opportunity to heal. I believe each flashback has two options: retraumatization or new resolution.

So the more we self-regulate, the less intense it gets over time. What matters is being patient and gentle—it can take years, even a lifetime. That’s why choosing to actively engage in healing has helped me feel freer and grow.

Today, I know in my heart that I am worthy of love, that I love myself, and that I am deeply loved. But I still wanted to share this slice of my reality, this particular challenge.

What helped me:

• Trauma-focused therapy (EMDR) with a trained psychologist (so important)
• Reconnecting with my soul, spiritual guidance, and faith
• Receiving an autism/ADHD diagnosis to better understand myself
• Having the best of the best friends (some also therapists!)
• Educating myself to reduce judgment and self-blame
• Changing my lifestyle, environment, and relationships
• Expressing myself through art
• Writing and sharing my story online, building a supportive community
• Spending time with loved ones—meals, outings, playing with kids
• Being in nature, taking long walks, seeing animals
• Living with someone emotionally stable, securely attached, loving, and communicative

I think I’ve said what matters. I’m exhausted after hours of writing—terrified to share this publicly—and also proud. Proud to use my voice, to tell my story, to show part of my daily life. Proud to move beyond fear and shame, and to recognize my struggles and my immense strength.

If this article resonated with you, I invite you to share it to raise awareness and support my work. Every share counts. Thank you.

If you saw yourself in my words, you have all my compassion and respect. Shame is a smokescreen. You are incredibly strong and resilient. You are more than your trauma, and you are a gift to those who love you. Take care.

P.S.: I’ve simplified a lot here and shared mainly from personal experience—some of it may not be scientifically exact. Please don’t take it as medical advice. If you’re struggling, reach out to a qualified mental health professional.

Anaïs
Artist, Shaman

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