L ast week, I was diagnosed with complex PTSD. The news comes as no shock, given the reality of my childhood and the amount of rejection and emotional abuse I was subjected to growing up. What is surprising is the way the trauma has reared its head so suddenly. It’s become so intense that I’m staying in London for treatment for the foreseeable.
I’m 32 years old and, until last week, had been able to channel my trauma into constant creative output. My friends will tell you that I am a relentless workaholic. All my terrors of abandonment stemming from past experiences with my family have seen me taking to the stage with boundless confidence and reasserting control over my narrative through various creative mediums. I’ve even written about it extensively in this column.