(6 September 2024)

NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

Since the events I described at the end of August, the PTSD symptoms have not eased. They have intensified.

Journaling has become increasingly difficult. Evenings are the hardest. Closing my eyes now feels unsafe. It’s not only because of vivid flashbacks. There is something new as well. I struggle even to name it. The only way I can describe it is flash-forwards.

It is unbearable to see his face so clearly. Not just his presence, but a specific expression—the look he used to give, often when intoxicated. It intrudes without warning. I have tried to bury it, to push it away, but it has become impossible to ignore.

I don’t want to burden friends or family. I’ve carried this privately for too long. Writing is the only way I can release it.

🛑 Facing the System Again: Safeguarding and the Cost of Trauma

In a matter of days, I am expected to attend another safeguarding discussion regarding contact. Six months ago, I could have prepared. I was functioning differently then. Only now am I beginning to understand the delayed impact of PTSD and how deeply it interferes with basic cognition and regulation.

This evening, I attempted to review documents previously submitted to the court. I read a single paragraph before my body collapsed. I ended up on my hands and knees, fighting the sensation of fainting.

This time, unlike August, my body did not just react—it shut down.

The fear that has followed is not abstract. I am terrified that my trauma is now interfering with my ability to protect my child. I left that man in charge of all three children. What followed was not freedom, but a continuation of psychological harm through systems that should have protected us.

I cannot read. I cannot organise evidence. I cannot safely access material without severe physical consequences. That reality is now impossible to ignore.

🧠 Becoming the Patient

I am lying in bed, using every grounding technique I have been taught. I do not want to call support lines. I do not want to alarm anyone. On Wednesday, I attended my second CMHT appointment—the second mental health appointment of my entire life—and was told I will be allocated a caseworker.

I understand mental health. I have never judged anyone for needing support. And yet I feel shame.

How does someone reach their mid-30s, having survived so much, only to feel defeated now? How do you reconcile resilience with collapse? Why does being free from an abuser feel worse than living with them?

I know the answer. Trauma does not arrive on a schedule.

💬 Being Seen

At my appointment, I spoke about the flash-forwards. Almost clinically. Almost as if I were discussing a colleague’s experience rather than my own. I suspect that was my way of minimising the fear.

But she saw it.

She understood the risk—not just of the past, but of what lies ahead. The danger of forcing someone already traumatised to repeatedly face the source of that trauma through family court processes.

This is the second time in my life that someone has seen through the mask and cared.

That is what broke me on Wednesday night. Not weakness—but recognition. Someone saw not just what I have endured, but how close I am to the edge of what any person can carry.

🌱 The Children

Every day, I see the changes in my children. The return of laughter. Connection. Compassion. Love. And my youngest continues to astound me with memory and emotional insight that no child should have had to develop.

I know these changes will be scrutinised, questioned, twisted. That knowledge sits heavily with me.

And still, on the mornings after nights filled with fear, something gentle happens. A quiet reminder. A moment of love that anchors me, even when I feel utterly depleted.

Facing What Comes Next

Next month, I must face him again in family court.

In my mind, the scene plays out relentlessly: the stairs, the road outside, every detail replayed with disturbing precision. Like Groundhog Day, on repeat.

I have no intention of harm—none. But I am frightened by how vividly my mind rehearses it. I am frightened of what prolonged exposure to this level of stress will do to me. And I am frightened for my children.

She saw that too.

Call to Action

If you are reading this and you feel unseen or unheard, your experience matters. If you feel trapped in systems that re-traumatise rather than protect, your experience also matters.

I am sharing this not for sympathy, but for truth. Because isolation compounds harm. And because no one should have to carry this alone.

If you recognise yourself here, I stand with you.