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I was reading Pete Walker's book on CPTSD and he talks about dealing with emotional flashbacks with a step by step process.

The first steps are something like "1. realize you're having a flashback, 2. realize you are afraid but not in danger." I don't know but these first two steps aren't really helping me. I can realize I'm having a flashback but I just don't care. T

he steps make it seem like you're supposed to act like these feelings aren't real or something: "Yeah, you're afraid, but it doesn't really matter because you're not actually in danger".

That just seems cruel to my IC. Nobody ever cared about how I felt in the past, but I can be the one person who cares now. I can't just dismiss these feelings because they're a flashback. How else are they to be dealt with, though? I can't just go around telling everyone that I want to die.

I frequently get bouts of extreme vertigo that can knock me over if I'm standing or even sitting. Other times it just makes me stumble, even when I'm standing still or doing some other task. I remember once having to white-knuckle a desk in class because it felt like the desk had suddenly begun to accelerate. On most nights when I lay down, it feels like the bed is spinning. It seems to have gotten worse over the years along with my CPTSD. Does anyone else experience this kind of thing?

One of the professors I had in college affected my life in such a way that I doubt I would be here if I hadn't signed up for his class. Really the only reason I had picked it was because all the other classes I needed were full.

To give you an idea of what was going on with me, I barely slept or ate, was drowning in college work, had no money, and frequently considered throwing myself off of a bridge that connected two of the freshman dorms. I would go out and stand there at 2 or 3 am, wondering if that night was my last, but I always ended up thinking of that particular class and how I would be sad if I missed it.

The professor, let's call him Mr. Thoreau, praised the first project I turned in more heavily than anyone else's. Being neglected as a child, this obviously came as a surprise to me. How could anyone like anything I make that much?  It felt nice.

Things went downhill for me shortly after that because of unrelated reasons, and the second project I turned in was clearly inferior as a result. He emailed me asking if I could meet with him after class. I was terrified he'd yell at me or express his disappointment in my performance. Instead he told me that the drop in quality of my work had made him worried about me, and suggested that I go see the school's counselors (which I already was). I asked if he thought I was slacking off in his class and he said that isn't at all what he thought. The interaction was still nerve-wracking, but it was also a breath of fresh air compared to what I'm used to.

Throughout the course I feel like we bonded over some things we had in common, and shared a few small moments that still make me smile despite how dark and desolate things have been getting lately. I think about him a lot and I'd really like to be friends, at least, I think I do. It could be that I just want to be dependent on someone to give me support, I don't know how to tell. He seems like a kind and wise man who could talk about anything and make it sound interesting, and I'd love to just listen to him talk for hours,

The other issue is that he's a professor and I'm a student and I wouldn't want to jeopardize his job by being friends with him. I don't go to the same campus as him anymore, so maybe it's not as big of a deal, I don't know. I feel like the best way to interact with him would be in person, but since I changed campuses it's not really an option. Using his school email address for friendly emails seems weird, though, and the only other way I can contact him is though Facebook, which also seems weird. I never really got to tell him how much he helped me, but saying something like "hey, thanks for keeping me from dying!" seems a bit like oversharing.

I don't know what to do.

I'm dumping my story here because this week has been awful and every time I experience something awful it brings back all the other awful things that have ever happened to me.

I never liked going home. I didn't really like going to school, but I liked going home even less. I have vivid memories of wishing the bus ride home would just go on forever. We lived in a fairly run-down trailer with a large yard and a high chain-link fence. Two adults, two children, two dogs, and about twenty cats.

The two adults were almost always nowhere to be seen, laying in a drug-induced coma in their room. There wasn't much money, so we were on food stamps, but I'm pretty sure they sold or traded most of them for drugs. Because of that, you can imagine there wasn't much food in the house, or at least, not food that can be prepared by young five or six year old children. I can recall a time where I thought a bruise on my knee looked a lot like how chicken skin browns when you bake it, and I was so hungry I tried licking and biting it, hoping it would taste like that chicken. Obviously it did not, and it's no surprise that I now suffer from binge eating disorder. There were a few times that I attempted to enter the lair of the Adults- a dark and stinky bedroom covered in cigarette burns- and dared ask for food, but the result was usually being yelled at, called fat, or put on restriction. I quickly learned never to ask for anything, ever.

The two children, my sister and I, were pretty much on our own. We were so young, we didn't know how to cook or clean or take care of ourselves. The house was filthy at all times. Cigarette butts and ashes, the stench of smoke permeated everything. There was cat * and fleas and roaches everywhere. The bathroom was moldy and my sister and I hardly bathed because we didn't understand the concept of personal hygiene. Anytime the adults did see us, though, they made sure to tell us how ugly and disgusting we were.

You'd think that in the midst of all this neglect and abuse that my sister and I would be close. We weren't. She was mean to me all the time. She would hit me and pull my hair and take things away from me just to watch me cry. There wasn't anyone around to tell her to stop, and I guess she was just taking out her frustration on me, but it doesn't really make things any easier. Even after we were removed from the situation, she was still mean to me constantly.

The cherry on top was the two adults constantly fighting whenever they weren't going sleepy-poo via substance abuse. My mother claims to be the victim in all this, but she was just as much an instigator as the step-father. To this day she still will not own up to what she did to me and my sister and insists it is everyone else's fault but her own. I remember once I was sitting at the table on a rare occasion where my mother actually cooked something- early on in her relationship to the step-father, I suppose- eating dinner with my sister, and I just remember my mother storming angrily around the house, weilding a shotgun or rifle of some sort, shouting about how she was going to shoot the dogs. The step-father was unhappy with this, of course, and chased her around the house attempting to wrestle the gun from her. I was terrified and thought if I cried they would stop. They didn't.

I enjoyed going to school just to get away from it all. Even at school there was nobody for me, though. I didn't really have any friends, and I can't say I blame them. I probably stunk all the time and always looked greasy. I excelled at my school work. It was all I really had, good grades were the closest I came to ever being praised by anyone. Later I remember being in a highschool math class, the teacher came around to look at everyone's work, she patted me on the back and told me I did a good job, and I almost started crying in the middle of class because those words were all I had ever wanted to hear. Looking back, I'm surprised that nobody from the school ever tried to find out what was going on at home. Neither of the adults ever showed up to the school for events, and I never got any of my progress reports or report cards signed because the adults were too busy sleeping to do so.

Eventually DFACS was called, and my sister and I were lawfully removed from the custody of the mother and the stepfather. Even now, no one knows who called them. I'm glad they did, I just wish they had done it sooner. My father talks about how he regrets not being there for us, but he could have easily gotten custody of us had some official known how we lived. Instead, he chose to be a cross-country semi-truck driver.

Anyway, now I'm super * up for life and the mother demands that I forgive her when she still will not apologize or accept blame for any of the things she's done, one of which is that she smoked cigarettes and weed while she was pregnant with me, and possibly did other drugs as well.
I am always 100% Doormat Syndrome for everyone, including people I dislike or people who are abusive. I fall in love with and idolize anyone that is nice to me once, especially if it is unsolicited and comes from someone in a position of power. I am majorly depressed at all times and there aren't many times where my brain isn't occupied by suicidal ideation. I have trouble believing that people are honest or that they actually want to interact with me. Even the slightest edge to a voice or a even a dirty look can send me to the nearest bathroom for a mental breakdown. I am basically just a Dog soul in a human body: you can kick me and yell at me, but as long as you give me treats I will be happy to see you and always do tricks for you.

I've tried one-on-one therapy, group therapy, medications, changing my lifestyle, journaling, etc. pretty much anything you can think of, I've tried it.  They always make me feel better initially, but after a few weeks of doing it, I realize it's not helping me at all, and after a few months of doing it, I feel even worse because I'm not making any improvements.

Therapy never works because I only tell the therapist what I think they want to hear and I'm incapable of doing any differently.

I tried SSRIs but all they did was take away my only two escapes from this *-prison: eating and sleeping. It made me uninterested in food and gave me terrible nightmares whenever I managed to sleep. I tried telling my psychiatrist that I wanted to get on a different medication, but he insisted SSRIs were the best option and we just needed to up the dosage.

I've gone through multiple life changes and no matter what I change, I still end up feeling sad, even worse than I did before. I didn't have friends and I was sad; I did have friends and was still sad. I didn't have money and was sad; I did have money and was still sad. I went to college and I was sad; I didn't go to college and was still sad. I didn't have a job and was sad; I did have a job and was still sad. I've pretty much just resigned myself to feeling this way forever.