Better at Surviving Hell Than Living in Peace
I’ve always chased the why behind things.
Literally always.
Even before anything broke.
Even before I understood “broken” the way I do now.
As a kid, I watched everything going on around me all the time.
My life and the world around me through a lens almost clinical and very possibly detached.
That voice inside (and outside), always asking questions.
Why did the bird pause mid-flight?
How does the water get to the second story in the house and come out of the shower head?
What colors does the dog see?
Why did the rain stop on the exact second I stepped inside?
I catalogued small wonders. My sisters used to tell me no one cared about all the strange facts I collected. Yet, I still collected them: a little dragon with my treasure hoard.
Then trauma came through the door and rearranged my entire life.
After the storm, detachment wasn’t just curiosity, it became my own personal brand of armor.
I actually watching myself unfold from what felt like a distance sometimes.
I would be like “oh that’s interesting,” when I showed signs of PTSD I had read about in The Body Keeps the Score.
This morning I woke up at 3 a.m., heart pounding with the night unraveling me.
I lie there with a pit in my stomach, but I couldn’t figure out why. No nightmares that I could recall came to mind, which is unusual in and of itself.
Then I remember: I can wake Zak. I can crawl to his chest and feel his heartbeat. I can let the oxytocin surge through me, and slow the jagged edges of adrenaline. Use the chemicals my brain likes to produce because of him to calm my nervous system down.
When I do that (just lie there on his chest and listen to his heartbeat) I feel something like peace.
Not easily, but it is peace that’s real.
Some days I’m tired of being this way, of being excellent at surviving.
It makes me feel like I’m terrible at just living.
A Nervous System That Never Sleeps
Not going to sugar coat it for you, surviving hell builds habits.
It makes hyper-awareness standard gear: every shift in mood, every single smell, every flash of light or loud sound I didn’t expect. My body remembers, even when my mind is ready to move on.
I know why I’m still watching.
Because watching was what kept me alive.
After trauma, even rest is suspicious, even safety is provisional, so even my sleep is fractured.
The night stretches like glass under dark light, in which I wake, I catalog the fear, I last as long as I can in my own mind, then I wake Zak.
Because alone, fear grows like those ugly weeds I keep ripping out by their roots but they just keep growing back, with his help though, it softens.
But then morning comes, and I’m only half-afraid of the day.
When Analysis Is Armor
There’s something exhausting about always watching life.
Always measuring and always analyzing.
Sometimes I wish I could turn it off, but I can’t.
I grew up needing to understand my world before it swallowed me. Which is strange, because I had the best childhood possible.
I was just curious. I wanted to know the why behind everything. It helped me to understand and not just absorb what was around me.
But there’s a cost to living behind glass these days.
I see the world perfectly (I’d like to think anyway).
But I don’t always touch it, I just name the rain, I work to explain the grief, and I even dissect the awe.
That’s…control masquerading as strength, whereas real strength would be softer and more messy.
Oxytocin Isn’t Everything, but It’s a Start
When I wake in terror, Zak’s presence is my choice of medicine.
I climb onto his chest, his steady heartbeat reminds me I’m still here.
That safety exists, not because I did anything to earned it, but because someone chose me.
I hate the chemicals my doctors prescribed for me. I never take them. I even stopped going to the psychiatrist after about six months of “trying” new medicines.
That choice is radical.
Still, softness tends to feel foreign to me. I can’t enjoy laying on Zak’s chest without thinking about the chemical reaction happening in my brain to make things easier for me.
The Brutally Honest Truth
You won’t heal by outrunning your body, trust me, I’ve tried.
You won’t heal by calling trauma responses lazy or weak, I’ve also tried this.
I can assure you that you won’t heal by fixing everything around you and cleaning the kitchen until it’s spotless.
You heal by staying in the moment that makes you uncomfortable, and learning to greet fear like an old friend. Healing also looks like not being angry at your body for it’s responses or your brain for the way it works best. It can also look like staying on someone else’s chest long enough for your heart to remember it’s safe.
I am more survivor than living soul some days.
And that’s allowed to change, I make this choice every day.
I’m not done healing, and if you’re still here reading this, maybe neither are you.
But we’re not broken either, we’re just learning to live again.
And however it works best for you is how it works best.
If you are also better at surviving hell than fully living in peace, no judgement for it.
Reads You Might Enjoy:
Revisiting My Trauma Three Years Later (don’t read this if you are recently traumatized or don’t want graphic images in your mind)
Why Does Trauma Make You Forget? A Soft Look at Memory, Survival, and the Brain’s Kindest Escape
Why Do I Cry When I’m Tired? The Science of Overwhelm, Sleep Deprivation, and Softness
