My nervous system is desperate for the kind of connection that feels safe. Because all my life, I’ve been chronically and acutely deprived of that safety. Sometimes it’s been extreme, other times less so, but never enough.
When I had even some of what my nervous system really needs, I did damn well. I danced at Governor Tim Kaine’s inaugural ball, helped change state law, built a statewide organization and conference with hundreds of attendees, and repeatedly took on a group of right-wing extremist lawyers and beat them at their own game. I wrote for the local paper, hosted survivor workshops, spoke on cable TV, and donated art to help others heal. I helped start a sailing school and led a Sea Scout unit, ran large homeschool groups, and wasn’t afraid to call out hypocrisy wherever I saw it.
But back to the main point: all that took real connection. Connection that gave me sensory input, queues of safety, that said to my nervous system, “It’s safe here. You can live here. You don’t have to be on red alert all the time.”
Those connections were nearly all destroyed by the repeated medical harm I’ve experienced in the 7 years since I asked for help with PTSD recovery. I need mountains of cues of safety. I need an endless flow from countless people, particularly men, especially caregivers, and anyone in a position of power. Because those are the classes of people who have harmed me the most and undermined my ability to feel safe in my body, in relationships, and in the world.
When I meet disconnection, dismissal, disregard, or a healthcare provider who is themselves dysregulated and disconnected, it compounds the harm. This is why I have to stop seeing providers unless they are truly attuned and get what I’m really here for: safe connection that rebuilds my social engagement network so I can function.
Because without that safety and connection, none of the other stuff matters, and any help will also bring the last thing I need, more harm.
