Hyper vigilance.

“Tell people MY story?” What?! Why. When. Where. How. Who’s going to be there. Who’s going to be listening. Where’s the door? Will it be dark when I leave? Will there be any touching involved? Then what happens? Is it hot? Why am I sweating!?! Did you see that guy with the beard? He’s looking at me funny. I don’t like him. Keep away, keep away. Is he going to be there? Will my husband be allowed to come in with me??

Why am I like this? I want to be barefoot, smelling like patchouli, listening to DMB, and dancing; free. Free from the words etched on the prison walls CPTSD has built up, in secret, in my mind. 

As a Christian with CPTSD I am met with words like “restoration,” “redemption” and “healing.” Wonderfully rooted in scripture but off target and pretty much off topic, to be honest. I’ve got wounds that run deeper than the well in the yard of my childhood home. How could you ever hope to be restored, redeemed, or healed after what I’ve gone through? I have scars that the best coverup, contouring, and filter couldn’t even pretend to hide. And you know what, I’m starting to think at 32 years old, I’m not supposed to hide them 

Jesus’ scars remained. He conquered the grave. Death didn’t heal them. And He was freaking Jesus Christ. The source and supply of all of our Earthly healing. Not only that, but the fact that His scars remained led Thomas to ultimately believe. Jesus, could have busted in hair flowing, lights blaring, music bumping, with a youthful, ripped, unscarred body. But that’s not how the cookie crumbled, or how the story goes, or whatever. Jesus’s scars are what made his testimony complete.