Complex trauma is pain. As I’m writing this I’m crying out in agony with an icepack pressed to my temple, waiting for my Instapot chili to finish. It’s Sunday evening. I’m trying to relax. Unsuccessfully.

The pain comes in many forms.

It’s neurological: a haze of fatigue and aching dull noise in my brain lingering like fog on a long winter morning. Nerves taxed to their limits unaware of the even the concept of calm.

It’s physical: the aches and pains in my kneck and back and the weakness in my body from a lifetime of poor posture, binge eating, sendentary collapse, and sleepless nights. Longterm injuries ache, unaddressed over the years by a consciousness stretched too thin to think beyond the next 6 hours.

It’s psychological. Ruminating on missed and broken connections. Haunted by painful memories of embarassment, shame, confusion. Grief over poor financial decisions, poor career choices, and all the missed times and opportunties to truly express my essence and care for myself. Attempts to find peace and acceptance for decades of regrets.

It’s emotional. Isolation. Loneliness present in the here and now. Sitting with this pain attempting to sooth myself while I border on the brink of collapse. Praying I’ll have strength and clarity to bring to work tomorrow. Fear that this will be my life forever.

All of these pains swirl together into one big soup that I have to drink scoop by scoop and hope that one day I’ll end up at the bottom of this cup.

I look around and I see disorder. Crumpled clothes on the floor. A book here. A dish there. It’s not as bad as it was, but I feel the chaos lingering beyond the fringes waiting to grab me with it’s tendrils and pull me back into the abyss. Everywhere I see opportunities where I could, should, would do better if I only had the energetic capital. I’m at my limit and this is barely a life.

It’s the pain of struggling all I can. Trying everything to do what’s right. Praying and praying for connection, for belonging, every morning. And then the day comes to and end and I feel I lived less than a half-life. Sorrow that only a tiny fraction of my being is able to show and grief for the lost potential I’ll never know.

It’s the pain of seeing my words -written and spoken- reflect a distorted shadow of my thoughts. Longing and longing for my perspective to be understood but falling short each time my finger presses the period key.

The time comes to turn in for the night. Alone in a dark room with my prayers and some lamp light.

And still all things considered it was a good day. Even in the moment it may not feel that way. I cling to my hope that one day soon, this fog will lift, and the painful haze will be reduced to a memory.

The chili is done. It’s pretty good. I feel my spirits rise. Little things make a difference.