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  • 🕯️ When Night Falls: Flashbacks, Flash-Forwards, and the Weight of PTSD

    🕯️ When Night Falls: Flashbacks, Flash-Forwards, and the Weight of PTSD

    (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.

    When Night Falls

    Since the end of August, the PTSD has not eased.

    It has intensified.

    Journaling has become difficult. Evenings are the worst. Closing my eyes now feels unsafe, not only because of the flashbacks, but because of something I do not fully understand.

    The only way I can describe it is flash-forwards.

    I see his face clearly. Not just his face, but a specific look. The one he used to give me, often when he was drunk or had taken drugs. It arrives without warning, usually when everything is quiet and I am trying to sleep.

    I have tried to bury it.

    I have tried to push it away.

    But it is becoming unbearable.

    I do not want to burden friends or family. I do not want to frighten anyone. But I need to get it out somewhere, even if all I can do tonight is write it down.

    Content warning: PTSD, flashbacks, trauma response, family court, safeguarding concerns and distress.

    Facing the System Again

    In a matter of days, I have to attend a meeting to discuss safeguarding concerns around contact.

    Six months ago, I could have prepared. I could have pulled the documents together, organised the evidence and forced myself through it.

    I was functioning differently then.

    Now, I am starting to understand the delayed impact of PTSD. I knew Complex PTSD could be devastating for patients. I understood that professionally. But I did not understand how cruel it is to live inside it until now.

    This evening, I tried to review a statement that had previously been provided to the court for the non-molestation hearing in January.

    I read one paragraph.

    One.

    And I ended up on my hands and knees, trying not to faint.

    That is what frightens me most. Not just the fear itself, but what the fear is now preventing me from doing. I need to prepare. I need to protect my child. I need to access the evidence.

    But my body is reacting before I can even begin.

    I left that man to protect all three of my children. What followed was not freedom. It was another version of control, carried through court, paperwork, contact discussions and the systems that should have helped us.

    And now I am terrified that the trauma is affecting my ability to keep protecting them.

    Becoming the Patient

    I am lying in bed trying to use every grounding technique I have been given.

    I do not want to call a support line. I feel guilty when I do. I also do not want to say anything that makes anyone worry about me.

    On Wednesday, I attended my second CMHT appointment. The second mental health appointment of my entire life. I was told I will be allocated a caseworker, possibly a psychiatrist, practitioner or another professional.

    I understand mental health.

    I have never judged anyone for needing support. I would never see another person as weak for needing help.

    And yet I feel shame.

    How has this happened?

    How have I reached my mid-thirties and suddenly become someone who needs mental health support just to survive the fallout of another person’s harm?

    I keep asking myself questions I would never ask anyone else.

    Why can’t I get over it?
    Why can’t I move on?
    Why am I living with this much panic?
    Why do I fear closing my eyes?
    Why does facing court feel like a date my whole body is counting down to?

    I do not want to be this person.

    I want the old version of me back. The one who carried everything, supported everyone, stood tall and somehow kept going, even while going home to chaos.

    Now I am out of that house.

    And somehow, in some ways, it feels worse.

    Being Seen

    At Wednesday’s appointment, I saw the same professional I met at my first CMHT appointment.

    She is empathetic, but rational. Kind, but clear. She listens in a way that makes me feel understood without feeling handled.

    I spoke to her about the flash-forwards, if that is even what they are called.

    I think I spoke about them too matter-of-factly. Almost like I was discussing something with a colleague in a staff room, rather than admitting how frightened I am.

    Maybe that was my way of minimising it.

    Maybe it was easier to make it sound clinical than to say how terrifying it feels when my mind keeps showing me the same images over and over again.

    But she seemed to understand the seriousness of it.

    She recognised the risk, not just from what has already happened, but from what is still being asked of me. Facing him. Preparing evidence. Going through family court. Trying to protect my children while traumatised by the very person I am being expected to face.

    She saw the mask.

    That is what broke me afterwards.

    Not weakness.

    Recognition.

    Someone saw what I have carried, and seemed to understand how much more I am being expected to endure.

    The Children

    Every day, I see changes in my children.

    The laughter coming back. The connection between us. The compassion. The love. The moments that remind me why I left, and why I keep going.

    My youngest continues to amaze me. Their memory is extraordinary. This week alone, they directed me to a nursery they left at two. Four miles out of town. Nowhere near where we live now. They remembered being pushed there in a blue pushchair as a baby.

    They remember more than people realise.

    For months, I have tried gently to help them understand that people cry for lots of reasons, not only because “daddy shouted at you.”

    Now they tell me people cry because they are happy, sad, because of music, because of “drops of heaven”, because they stub their toe, because there is water in their eyes in the hot tub.

    And yes, still, because of daddy shouting.

    That hurts.

    But it also shows me something important.

    They are processing.

    They are learning new meanings.

    They are not trapped in only one version of what emotion means.

    No child is perfect. No family is perfect. But on the mornings after nights where I have barely slept, where his face has haunted me, where I have woken frightened or crying, one of the children will say something gentle.

    Something beautiful.

    Something that pulls me back into the room.

    They seem to know when I need reminding why I am still here.

    Facing What Comes Next

    Next month, I have to face him in family court.

    At this rate, I fear I may be facing that largely alone.

    The flashbacks and flash-forwards have been happening for weeks now. The same images. The same sequence. The same details.

    The stairs.
    The road.
    The building.
    The aftermath.

    It plays in my head with disturbing precision, like Groundhog Day every time I try to close my eyes.

    I need to be very clear.

    I have no intention of harming myself.

    But I am frightened by how vividly my mind keeps rehearsing danger. I am frightened by what prolonged exposure to this level of stress is doing to me. I am frightened for my children, and I am frightened of what it means to keep being pushed back into contact with the source of the trauma.

    I think she saw that too.

    She saw what I can take.

    She saw what I have already taken.

    And I think she also saw that there is a limit to how much more any person can endure before they break.

    That is why I cried for hours on Wednesday night.

    Because someone saw through the mask.

    Not the polished version.
    Not the capable version.
    Not the professional version.
    Not the mother who somehow keeps going.

    The real one.

    The exhausted one.

    The frightened one.

    The one still trying to protect her children with whatever strength is left.

    Why I Am Writing This

    I am sharing this because isolation makes trauma worse.

    Because systems can re-traumatise people while still calling it process.

    Because there is a cost to repeatedly asking victims to relive, evidence, explain and defend the harm done to them.

    And because someone reading this may recognise themselves in it.

    If that is you, your story matters.

    You matter.

    If you are wearing the mask because it is the only thing holding you together, I see you.

  • Learning to Recognise and Manage Triggers of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Resulting from Coercive Control

    Learning to Recognise and Manage Triggers of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Resulting from Coercive Control

    Two Years Later

    Two years on, I’m sharing this entry exactly as it was written. I’ve only updated pronouns and images for accuracy and copyright reasons, because my branding has changed and my child deserves to be represented correctly. But the words themselves remain untouched.

    I won’t rewrite the emotions, the chaos, or the fear I was living in at the time. This post captures the reality of trauma as it unfolded — before I had the language for PTSD, before I understood my nervous system, before I knew how deeply coercive control had shaped my responses. It’s uncomfortable to read back, but it’s honest. And honesty matters.

    This is a record of what survival looked like in real time. It’s also a marker of how far I’ve come.

    Content Warning: Mentions of coercive control, trauma, PTSD symptoms, and distress.

    Forty-Eight Hours Without Sleep

    I have not slept for forty-eight hours.

    The panic, anxiety and flashbacks are crippling me. I feel completely overwhelmed by the police investigation into gross misconduct and grooming, and by everything surrounding it. The incompetence, the failures, the constant need to explain and evidence everything again. It is adding to something I am already struggling to survive.

    On top of that, I am terrified that my ex’s bail conditions may be removed.

    I tried to break the stress by painting ceramics with a friend. I tried gardening. I tried keeping busy because sitting still feels impossible. My body is completely wired from anxiety, but all it has really done is leave me exhausted and in pain.

    The Solicitors’ Office, and a Dress That Still Mattered

    Today I had to speak to the mortgage company and then go to my ex’s solicitors to collect gifts for my child.

    It was brutal.

    He is on police bail with restrictions preventing him from contacting me or the children directly or indirectly. Yet I am still placed in the position of collecting gifts and watching my child open them, because I have to put my child first.

    That is the part people do not see.

    You can be falling apart inside and still have to protect your child’s experience of the world. Still trying not to let your trauma become their burden. Still trying to make something feel normal for them, even when none of it is normal.

    My little one wanted to wear the Elsa dress, so they did. In the middle of all the chaos, fear and triggers, I still wanted them to have that moment of freedom and joy.

    But attending that office massively triggered me.

    It felt like walking into a place connected to the continuation of the abuse. At times, it feels as though the process is allowing further psychological harm, particularly where allegations are being repeated despite evidence I believe contradicts them.

    I have no faith in the justice system anymore.

    Paperwork, Debt, and the Cost of Leaving

    When I got home, I needed to print mortgage documents.

    That pulled me straight back into the memory of being pressured into a 50/50 split that left me with even more financial burden.

    Throughout our relationship, he never held a job. He spent beyond his means. He lied about money. I ended up paying off thousands of pounds of his debts.

    When we got together, he already had significant debt and had lied about his living situation. He told me he was staying with family. I later realised how much had been hidden.

    I covered everything.

    The deposit.
    The mortgage.
    The household costs.
    The debts.
    The consequences.

    I worked so hard to get back on my feet. Now I am being forced to pay him a large sum again, just to remove his financial control from me and allow me to remortgage.

    It has all become too much.

    Trying to Be Heard

    I phoned Victim Support and gave them extensive documentation about the police failures and how they have directly impacted my children and me.

    I also sent my statement to Professional Standards.

    I know it may not be what the investigating officer hoped for, but I cannot bring myself to throw him under the bus. Not when the reality is far more complicated than that. Not when he was the only one who actually tried to act.

    I have also received an email from the officer investigating coercive control. She is coming on Sunday.

    But I have no faith left.

    I feel like he will get away with it all. He got away with abusing his ex for ten years because nobody believed her. I am terrified the same thing is happening again.

    The Night I Cannot Close My Eyes

    I feel very alone.

    The thought of living under his control for years to come, and having to face him in court again, is terrifying. Speaking to Victim Support left me with palpitations while I was still on the call.

    I miss work, but I am not ready to go back.

    I could not speak to a close friend tonight. It felt pointless. I resigned myself to the idea that it is easier to face this alone, then regretted telling them I had gone to sleep.

    I cannot sleep.

    I cannot close my eyes.

    I ended up texting my sister in the middle of the night. I tried calling Victim Support twice, but both times I was cut off after thirty minutes because the demand was so high.

    Tonight I am struggling with a kind of internal pain I cannot properly describe.

    Crippling pain.

    The kind I did not know before I accepted the reality and impact of the abuse I had lived through for so long.

    So many psychological triggers are firing at once. All of them are connected to him. All of them are connected to what might happen next.

    The thought of enduring his control for the next fourteen years is not something I can mentally cope with. He has never cared about the damage his actions cause.

    I am waiting for support from CMHT, but I know that may take time.

    And I am terrified.

    Terrified of spiralling back into the dark place I was in on 15 April.

    The Ongoing Impact

    This is the ongoing impact of coercive control within the family court system.

    It is not just the relationship.
    It is not just the separation.
    It is not just the abuse itself.

    It is the way control continues afterwards through solicitors, mortgage documents, bail conditions, court hearings, accusations, handovers, gifts, paperwork and silence.

    It is the way you are expected to keep functioning while every part of your life is still being pulled through the same system that has already failed to protect you.

    And somehow, you are still expected to hold it all together.

    My Lived Experience: A Personal Journey Through Trauma and Recovery
  • Still Standing- The Quiet Aftermath of Survival Life After Trauma: Motherhood, Exhaustion, and Carrying On Without a Safety Net

    Still Standing- The Quiet Aftermath of Survival Life After Trauma: Motherhood, Exhaustion, and Carrying On Without a Safety Net

    Two Years On — Reflection

    Reading this now, I’m aware of how little I could see ahead at the time. I had no sense of what the end of that year would bring, or how much would change for my child and for me. I was simply trying to get through each day.

    Looking back, this moment feels significant in ways I couldn’t have understood then. It was one of the earliest signs of my child’s emerging sense of self. Two years on, I am deeply proud of the strength, clarity, and resilience Gabby has shown. She has grown into herself with a quiet confidence that continues to humble me. What I saw then as a fleeting moment of joy, I now recognise as the beginning of something much deeper.

    Living in the Aftermath

    This week has been heavy, especially for my little one. A difficult day yesterday spilled into today, and when things dip, carrying everything alone feels relentless.

    Support thins over time. People are there in the beginning, then life moves on. Those who remain, I’m careful not to lean on too much. I don’t want to burden anyone, and I’m conscious of how damaging it is when emotional weight becomes something others have to manage. I refuse to repeat patterns that hurt.

    We celebrated my little one’s birthday this week. He chose to dress as a princess, and his happiness was unmistakable.

    Watching him brought pure joy, and also a quiet grief. A reminder of how far I still feel from the mum I want to be, the one I was before everything changed.

    That realisation brought guilt, but his joy mattered more. It always does.

    Being around people, even for good reasons, costs energy I don’t always have. Joy and exhaustion sit side by side now.

    I’ve felt low this week. Maybe it’s accumulated stress, maybe it’s the ongoing reality of having to find strength every single day without a safety net. Some mornings, getting out of bed feels almost impossible. Doing that alone can feel heavy in a way that’s hard to explain.

    And yet, I keep going.

    Not because it’s easy.
    Not because it’s resolved.
    But because there is no alternative.

    I still believe in others.
    Even when it takes effort.
    Even when belief feels fragile.

    My Lived Experience: A Personal Journey Through Trauma and Recovery
  • Day 3

    Day 3

    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.

    Day 3 — 9 November

    Today began with a much‑needed lie‑in, as the little one woke up a bit later. The teens got themselves ready and left in the morning. I eventually got us dressed, went out, and cleaned the car — even mopping the car floor. I have a colleague accompanying me tomorrow for flu jabs. She hasn’t had young children for many years, so she won’t appreciate car seats and smeared finger marks. My ADHD often makes me worry about what others think, possibly due to Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD).

    With the car clean, we headed off to post some more Vinted parcels. The lockers were full again! @inpost, you need more lockers! Then we went to playgroup. Mr S wasn’t quite ready for his client but thought we were waiting for him. He offered to clean the car as I walked back with the dirty water — a bit of an empty comment, knowing I had already been out doing it.

    Playgroup was great. I enjoy being around more for him; we played, and I watched him engage with other children. I had the chance to speak to other parents, mostly grandparents. Life seems the same for most working parents, juggling childcare and work. The little one made a friend, only three months older but twice his size. We danced when the music started. Mr S messaged to say he was walking up but taking ages, likely expecting me to collect him, which would have meant taking the toddler away. I didn’t go. Last year, I would have rushed out to get him.

    We had our snacks, and Mr S arrived, as did my sister with her one‑year‑old, who played with my toddler.

    After playgroup, we needed to collect something from our local town, 12 miles away. I invited my sister along. Mr S was glassy‑eyed and very “chatty”, which isn’t like him. Combined with the stench and putting two and two together, I knew drugs were involved.

    I’m sick of hearing “you ok, you ok” followed by faces being pulled at me. I’m not ok; I’m miserable whenever he’s around. It makes me feel so down and numb, knowing this is life. We eventually got to town and headed into the photo shop. They were doing a package deal for photos, so the little ones had some taken together.

    Mr S filled the shops with awkward comments, pretending he couldn’t hear every answer to every question he asked. He ended up outside vaping while I went through the photos. The toddler needed a wee, and a lady said there was one just across the road. I couldn’t take him, so Mr S let him wee directly outside the shop on a main street. Obviously, it was my fault he had wee on his shoes (I was inside). More shitty comments followed.

    We needed to stop at the shop because my baby niece had just had a massive nappy explosion. But first, I had to pick up the toy I’d promised — I wanted him to smile for the photos! 📸 Mr S, on the other hand, needed to get some vape oil. As we stepped into the vape shop, he stood there in silence, staring at all the paraphernalia — bongs, pipes, and the like. I must have asked him a million times about the flavour and strength he wanted before he finally decided.

    He hasn’t got any cash on him because of his past struggles with alcohol, which led him to frequent benders. With only a few clients here and there, he hardly makes enough to cover what he owes. As we left the shop, his head hung low, hands shoved deep into his pockets, commenting on how he needs new hoodies.

    Let’s put this into perspective: he has more clothes than all of us combined. Meanwhile, I’ve lost a stone in three months and haven’t bought myself anything new in years. I used to get him whatever he wanted, but now I’m desperate to save enough to escape this life. Next, he claimed he needed money for books, despite having a mountain of unread ones at home.

    I could see his irritability rising as the effects of the drugs wore off. We then headed to Smyths because he’d lost his finger skateboard. Yes, he’s almost 40. While I changed the baby and chased after the toddler, he took his time looking through every skateboard in sight, stretching out the visit.

    Finally, I loaded everything into the car alone and headed to drop my sister off, in silence. The tension was palpable; you could feel it hanging in the air. The conversation shifted to his new friend, a client who enjoys weed. Mr S recently told him he’s out of weed, even though that’s not true. Perhaps they can play D&D together. I couldn’t engage anymore; my responses had dwindled to one‑word answers. Just more money to shoot out of my arse.

    Once home, I unloaded the car and tackled the cooking and cleaning yet again. I don’t go swimming with them anymore, but I still have to drop them off at the swimming pool. He was almost home when the phone rang, he only had to pack the swimming bag, and he’d forgotten the trunks. I headed back to them, and he stormed out of the changing room. So I got to watch my son swim. After changing the toddler and heading out, I’ve stopped running after him now, which clearly didn’t go down well. He had the van keys, thankfully he didn’t lock it. So we sat and froze waiting; his phone was off, as usual, when he vanishes. Not long after, he must have realised the paddy wasn’t working, and I spotted Mr S walking across the car park from the van. Should he just walk home? That decision is entirely up to him.

    As the evening settled in, he headed to the studio to draw, fine by me. Yet I found myself wondering why I said I was glad he has a friend now. I’m constantly met with his claims of being alone. Years of his behaviour have led to people distancing themselves from him.

    He opted to stay upstairs since the teenager was actually out of his room. I told him repeatedly, “It’s got nothing to do with me where you draw.” I could see him getting worked up, but thankfully he eventually left the room. Then he wanted to come back in and stroke my hair, saying he wouldn’t smell bad. The irony is that he’d just spewed a load of insults. After nearly five years of this, I’ve long since moved past wanting that kind of comfort. It doesn’t make up for the emotional, mental, and financial abuse I’ve endured.

    Just as I was finishing my blog for the night, he walked into the room with a book, clearly stoned, and began talking. I asked how his drawing had been going, but panic washed over his face. It seems he hadn’t actually done any drawing at all. I spend so much of my day wishing for a change. After his affair last summer, I was a complete mess, convinced I couldn’t handle life alone and that I needed him. Reality has hit hard since then. I wish he would find someone and leave instead of clinging on out of fear of losing the house. Whenever I bring up selling, he threatens suicide.

    He insists he just wants a happy family, but what he really means is that I must abide by his rules or face hell.

    The problem is that I know I’m worth more than this, and the children deserve better.

    Here’s hoping for a drama‑free night… fingers crossed for work tomorrow. x