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Most of my life I've suffered from sudden "mood swings" during which I often want to self-harm/attempt again. This desire persists now, even though I haven't cut in almost ten years. As I've become more aware of the--my--CPTSD experience, I've been able to identify self harm as a major marker of EFs. And god they're so intense, so terrible, so overwhelming. So much cold self hatred. If I can sit with my emotions. Most of the time dissociation follows ideation in short order. I still don't know how I feel about the dissociation.

However, my EFs don't always come in the self-harm/ideation vein (thank god?). When they don't, it can take me days, or more likely, coming out of the EF, in order for me to recognize it for what it was.

I guess I actually prefer the self- destructive EFs because they are easier to name. Does anyone else feel similarly, or have other definitive EF tells?

I'm also new to resources in this diagnosis. Five months ago, I finally went back to therapy after ten years and actually found someone I trusted enough to actually talk to (for anyone else my childhood was "fine, I guess."). She told me about CPTSD, and I read Van Der Kolk's  The Body Keeps the Score, and suddenly I understood myself, understood the way seemingly all my personal traits were trauma reactions. It took a while before I could see any aspect of self as separate from trauma. I'm still working on that. Then found Pete Walker's online info, including 13 things to do in an EF. This has helped tremendously--sometimes now I can stop the rushing darkness/panic before I lose myself in it. I'm working on this day by day, moment by moment. I'm glad for this community of support.

New here, new to the necessity of embracing truths I've spent decades trying not to accept, not to own. I'm still fighting every day to accept my past, including its fragmentation, its gaps. I'm hoping this can serve as the space I need, proof of language.

I always called it anxiety and depression, then later there were terms like BPD and panic disorder. There were doctors who never believed me (a big trigger, not being believed), forced meds. There was more trauma, more minutes lost to the middle distance. More cutting, more ideation, more days without eating. Then the attempt. It all compounds.

I could--can--feel it in my chest and stomach, the morning panic, but I didn't know why I never felt safe or at home. I am still working on understanding myself, both my priviledge and my trauma. I am still working on using terms like "abuse", "neglect", "assault".

Once I counted the layers of truth like tree rings, I felt the dead heart beneath. And this is where I spend a lot of days--I call them good days--days I can accept even some parts of my past as real, accept the present moment as real; accept myself as real, and maybe, someday, maybe, worthwhile.