The entry that follows was written during a period of active trauma, while the abuse and its consequences were still ongoing. At the time, I was attempting to survive, parent, work, and make sense of events that kept unfolding. I did not yet have the neurological framework to understand what was happening to my mind and body.
During that period, I was studying the neuroscience module of my postgraduate certificate. One lecture in particular focused on neuroplasticity and the neurological impact of trauma. Through neuroimaging and clinical evidence, it became clear that PTSD is not a personal failure or a weakness of character, but a traumatic injury—one caused and compounded by repeated exposure to threat and repeated re-living of harm.
That understanding mattered.
For a long time, I carried responsibility that did not belong to me. I questioned my decisions, my resilience, and my capacity to cope. I told myself I should have left sooner, should have handled things differently, should have been stronger. What the science made clear was that the injury did not arise from leaving “too late,” but from the abuse itself and from being forced to repeatedly relive it through systems that failed to protect us.
I had left. I was no longer living with him.
What followed was not something I chose, and it was not something my children deserved.
The neurological changes I live with are the consequence of sustained harm and re-traumatisation. Those who caused that harm made choices. Those who allowed it to continue made choices. The injury that resulted is not mine to own in terms of blame, even though I am the one who must live with its effects.
This reflection is not a correction of the entry that follows.
It is context.
The original post remains exactly as it was written. It reflects the reality of that moment—before insight and understanding. It was a time before science allowed me to make peace with what had happened to me. Within the Two Years On series, entries are presented as they were lived, alongside the understanding that came later.
The words that follow are not evidence of failure. They are evidence of injury—and of survival.
Reflection — Two Years On
Returning to Work with PTSD
(Original entry — 10TH September 2024) (written during active trauma)
PTSD isn’t a mental illness in the way it is often framed; it is a traumatic injury. I learned about this recently. It left me with a question I cannot easily answer.
Does this mean I have to endure it forever? Will my condition worsen if the abuse persists?
Research increasingly shows that post‑traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and traumatic brain injury (TBI) can share overlapping neurological consequences following trauma. Global estimates suggest that around 1.1% of the population experiences PTSD within a 12‑month period.
Approximately 69 million people worldwide sustain a traumatic brain injury each year.
The neuroimaging below illustrates how PTSD and TBI differ — and overlap — in brain perfusion patterns.
Trauma alters neural pathways involved in threat detection, memory, and emotional regulation. These changes are adaptive in danger. However, they become destabilising when safety is delayed or denied.
Top row: Surface scans with threshold set at 55%, showing the top 45% of brain perfusion. Bottom row: Active scans where blue = 55% (top 45% of perfusion), red = 85%, and white = 93%.
- Healthy brain: Full, even, symmetrical perfusion with the most active area in the cerebellum.
- Classic PTSD: Increased perfusion in the anterior cingulate, basal ganglia, and thalamus.
- Classic TBI: Multiple areas of low perfusion visible on surface scans.
- PTSD + TBI: Displays both increased perfusion patterns associated with PTSD and low‑perfusion areas associated with TBI.
I struggled to wear my uniform
With the children all back in school and my return to work approaching quickly, I thought it would be sensible to spend some time reacclimatising. To get used to the environment again. To be around people.
I struggled to wear my uniform.
I felt disconnected from the proud, compassionate nurse I once was.
The ongoing character defamation from my ex through the court process has deeply shaken my sense of self, making it difficult to protect my identity and continue fighting.
I question my strength. I question who I am. I arrived early, took the fridge temperatures, and went straight to my room.
The grip PTSD can have on the mind is profound. I expected relief returning to a place that had felt safe for so long. Instead, it felt foreign. The warmth had gone. There were memories, but not the ones I had envisaged.
The comforting memories are gone.
There were days I went home worrying about patients. I would check in with them because they had a lot to manage when I returned. There were times I knew I had made a difference. Work had been the place where I could be myself, where I felt free, and where I found respite from the hell I was living at home.
Instead, the photograph a colleague had encouraged me to keep was still on my shelf. We had covered his head with another image so that only my child and I remained. I could not even look at it.
When I tried to pick it up, my hands shook so badly that I dropped it, smashing it across my desk. The room is full of memories. Trauma does not stop at the outside world; it invades even the spaces that once felt safe.
I avoided reception. They are all wonderful, but I was petrified of being asked how I was. I could not keep the emotion away from the girls, and crying in reception is not something I could cope with.
My nursing team have been through enough with this situation.
It is nearing a year since I left him, and the impact of what we lived has touched every aspect of our lives.
The continuation of it has made me feel worse than I did when I left. I believed leaving would end his control. Now I know how far he will go. I cannot see an end in sight.
They came in individually to catch up, to give me a cuddle, to see how I was. I wish there were a cure. A way to wave a wand and make it all stop. I wish I could be me again.
Haunted by my sanctuary
We all have “our” rooms, even if we are not meant to call them that. I had decorated my noticeboard after twelve months. I was certain this was the right place for me.
I could not stop thinking about how to change the room. I kept staring at the same wall. It was the same view that reminded me of overwhelming days. These were the days my ex failed to pick up our child. I endured endless calls because I did not agree with him. I spent hours wondering whether he would carry out his threats. The chest pain. The stress. The fear. Unless you have lived through a situation like this, it is difficult to understand the depth of the damage it causes.
One thing I do know is that people in healthcare care. Even when they do not fully understand, they care. That compassion has not been reflected by many other agencies involved.
Flashbacks and intrusive thoughts
Flashbacks and intrusive thoughts are particularly prominent in complex PTSD. I hope I reach a point where these experiences ease, where I can close my eyes without fearing what I might see.
I spoke to my manager about moving my desk. A different view might help. However, it is not practical. It would trap me behind a desk and pose a risk. He was thoughtful and busy, but he tried to think of ways we might change the space. I suspect he could hear the struggle in my voice and knew I would not say why.
Normally, I would share anything new with the girls. That day, despite knowing I needed a drink, I could not even face going out to get one. My work mum asked if I wanted a cup of tea, and I went with her. I know I have to find the strength to return, but where that strength will come from is beyond me.
Constraints Beyond Choice
He continues to control the mortgage and still has not signed the deed. I am paying over £600 more each month, and it could take weeks to resolve. Going to half-pay is not an option when I need to provide for the children.
I completed my flu vaccination training and deliberately avoided anything connected to the police or court. I am trying to find a connection beyond the constant protection of the children, but it feels almost impossible. Even reviewing evidence to safeguard them brings further trauma. Everything feels overwhelming—silent and deafening at the same time. I think those who live with PTSD will recognise that contradiction.
My manager found it amusing that I needed to update my safeguarding training. He knows I could probably recite Working Together to Safeguard Children by heart. The sole focus of my last ten months has been safeguarding my children—yet no one has afforded them the same level of protection.
I had a few wobbles. A few cries. I hoped to manage six hours, but I could not.
At lunch, I felt jumpy. Although I knew I was safe in theory, my body did not believe it. It is surreal to feel empty and hypervigilant at the same time.
Small talk feels pointless, but I still care deeply about my colleagues. Normally, I would be full of ideas and support. I didn’t want them to know. I am beginning to realise it is not my team who are the odd ones—it is the wider world. When empathy and compassion feel rare, those who still carry them matter.
I contacted CMHT and called my GP. I am not on regular medication—only medication for acute trauma responses, not long-term suppression—but I have run out, and I am worried about how I will manage tomorrow.
One colleague has become a close friend. She and my work mum provided character references for court. I could not read them at the time. It is clear that I have changed, despite my attempts to fight through. I hate being seen differently, yet I am relieved they cannot see inside my head.
This blog has become my safest space. The only place I can be honest without causing worry to those I care about.
Tomorrow, I meet CAFCASS. I am terrified they will see only the broken version of me, not the person I was before the abuse became too much. I do not want to be broken. I know I cannot live freely while he continues to exert control, and I fear what he will do next. I have not been able to process what I have lived through because it has not stopped.
I know there is still part of me inside. I do not know whether I will ever fully come back.
Tonight, my youngest asked their middle brother for a “real hug.” Watching them climb out of bed to embrace stirred something in me.
These moments—small, fleeting—are what I cling to. They remind me of what things once felt like, and of what is still worth holding on to.
