The Preconceptions of Seeking Support

Isn’t psychology wonderful? It gives us all these neat little frameworks to help explain what trauma does to a person. Like the idea of splitting: how a traumatised person divides into an Apparently Normal Person (ANP), who carries on functioning in everyday life, and Trauma Holders, or Exiles, who are left to shoulder all the pain and memories the ANP can’t handle.

I’m one of those Exiles—or, more specifically, their Caretaker. My job in The Fam is to hold the fragmented memories and overwhelming emotions, to guard them so they don’t spill out and knock the ANPs off their feet. I’m told it’s a noble role, sure, but from where I’m crawling (and on a good day, even standing), it’s not all as precise and organised as the textbooks make it sound. Maybe therapists and ANPs like their neat little classes, categories, and explanations, but for us? It’s, well… Disordered—that’s the clinical term. But for us? It’s disheartening. Actually, it’s infuriating.

Have you ever been to a building site that was never completed? Foundations unfinished. Crumbling walls. Neither doors nor windows—just the wind running through, whistling. Desolate.

And yet, for the ANPs in our system, that desolation is hidden. They don’t know exactly what happened to us. They live the day-to-day life, managing the tasks that keep the world turning.

But my subsystems—the Feeling People—do know. The memories are messy, fragmented, tangled in the fog of dissociation, but we know.

There are days when we scream at the ANPs: “Why don’t you know? Can’t you hear us? We hate that you’re down the pub, laughing, pretending to be a normal person with a normal life—knocking back shot after shot like you’re starring in Sia’s Chandelier video.”

“One, two, three, drink. Throw ‘em back ‘til you lose count.”

And we get it—we do. That’s their way of holding on for dear life. Refilling the glass full until morning light to keep the truth at arm’s length just long enough to survive another day.

But for us, it’s different. We’d rather jump straight into that tequila and drown. Maybe this deserves a trigger warning, but we’d choose a slow, agonising death over this slow, agonising life any day. But hey, who am I to judge?

The idea of joining a support community is daunting for us. We didn’t expect anything—no validation, no connection, no real help. After all, our experiences are so extreme and deeply buried that even we struggle to fully comprehend them. Why would anyone else?

And yet, we found that sometimes, all it takes is someone willing to hold on for you.

The Power of Being Seen

And that’s not all. Our experiences of abuse are buried deeply in our mind, hidden behind thick, impenetrable walls of denial, fear, and dissociation

It’s taken years of effort for me and the Feeling People to start participating in survivor spaces. Slowly and steadily, Mave and Charlie collaborated with those who were patient with us, working tirelessly to make space for us to feel safe—creating an alcove where we could begin to exist as our full selves, without dread or shame, outside the disconsolate comfort of our inner world.

The first step was acknowledgment: validating our existence and our legitimacy. That might sound simple, but for people like us, who have spent so much time hiding our presence and doubting ourselves, that kind of validation is monumental.

They worked with us to overcome our fear of humanity—an overwhelming angst that often retraumatised us and left us crashing heart, mind, body, and soul.

But they didn’t give up. They kept showing us patience and care, and we kept pushing forward, even when it seemed hopeless.

For the first time, some of us are starting to come to the front and express ourselves openly. Teo and Shade, for example, have only just begun to find their voices, braving the vulnerability of sharing their thoughts and emotions. Baby dragons breaking through their shells, tentatively starting a new life as powerful, indomitable offspring of the Universe.

Discovering our voices and telling our stories feels like stepping out of exile—tentatively, but with growing confidence. The darkness of our inner world is starting to overflow into something beautiful. Unashamedly erupting in a rainbow of oh so many grey shades, it feels like a new LGBT+ flag ostentatiously celebrating our inner heroes.

For us, this journey is one of amazement. To everyone who has created space for us to heal: thank you. To the ones who believed in us, even when they didn’t fully understand our pain: thank you. All the solidarity we’ve received has brought us to a place where we can start to see results, and for that, we are profoundly grateful.

Connection and Its Complexities

The other side of the coin is seeing and validating others. And, honestly, that can feel like opening a can of Pandora’s boxes—challenging the safety of the walls we’ve built around ourselves.

Have you ever had a Labrador? Playful and eager to please, loving and loyal to the death. That’s their nature. And that’s why they’re trained as support dogs. But their training exploits that love, forcing them to do what comes naturally in unnatural ways.

For us too, love was a tool—something used to manipulate and control us. We were trained to serve and obey, no matter what the personal cost, much like those Labradors.

That’s why being part of a survivor community feels complicated—a blend of connection and disconnection.

On one hand, we feel deeply driven to help and support others. Part of that comes naturally to us; we’re caring and empathetic by nature. But on the other hand, it’s tricky. Ignoring our own needs and catering to everyone else’s was a key part of our “training” as children.

Even now, when we’re around others who have real, valid needs, we often fall back into that “I’m here to help you” mode without thinking about our own boundaries. Unlearning that is not easy.

It’s like those Labradors—even if allowed to go back to a natural state, the learned behaviour would persist. It’s hard to tell what is done out of love and what because of conditioning.

We’re like that. We want to help and engage, but because we can’t always separate our natural, loving behaviour from our coerced one, we end up pushing past our boundaries. We get compassion fatigue. And sometimes, we allow others to exploit our kindness.

This is something we’re working on. Slowly, we’re learning to appreciate the difference between intentional sharing and trauma dumping—how to share our truths without overwhelming others or ourselves. This newfound knowledge is teaching us to connect in ways that feel more balanced and sustainable.

Being part of a survivor community is triggering for us. And yet, it’s also a place where we can witness resilience and strength in others, which is inspiring.

We’re trying to find that balance. Every shared experience and conversation feels like a small step toward understanding ourselves better. And maybe, just maybe, it’s teaching us how to move forward—together, as a stronger and more connected system.

What We Bring to the Table

When it all comes together, we can’t deny that we’re complicated.Even our name doesn’t belong to just one person—it belongs to a community. That alone limits how many people are willing to involve themselves with us. But there are some who do, and they appreciate all of us.

And what we offer is ourselves, as many and as One.

We care. Behavioural biologists say it’s just the inescapable consequence of biology, so we won’t take the credit. We’re like the Labrador we mentioned earlier—instinctively caring, even when it comes at our own expense.

We don’t like to see others struggle, but we know struggles are inevitable. Sometimes, as we walk our life journey, other people’s paths cross ours, and for a while, we walk with them.

Some say, “misery likes company,” but ableists twist that into something else—like struggling people want others to suffer alongside them. For people like us, that is blasphemous.

Desolate people, like every living being, need connections. Sure, “never cry alone” is a good motto, but it’s more than that.

It’s about sharing that dark humour that scares the average person—laughing together at misadventures. It’s about understanding each other’s struggles and feelings, and sharing solutions.

It’s about finding hope in one another, feeling less alone, and being truly seen and heard.

It’s about appreciating each other’s strengths, unrelenting determination, and obstinate defiance; celebrating survival.

Because “you do you” is just an ideal in society—nobody really does it. Except your tribe.

So, “misery likes company” simply means creating new memories with our tribe. Only people like us, who have had a lugubriously tenebrous past, would consider those happy memories. And they are happy—because having a tribe fills the heart and the Soul.

People come and go. Eventually, everyone will continue their journey on their own. Everyone’s voyage is different. But each will have something new and positive to store in their resilience arsenal—and maybe even find new pathways open to them.

So, I guess this is what we can offer: both the good and the bad. Take it or leave it—your choice. Either way, our Selves are no longer exiled.

Conclusion

All we can do is be authentic and available. What we must do is learn to establish and maintain boundaries.

The journey continues, and we’ll be writing more about community, connection, and what it means to belong. What about you? What’s your experience? Leave a comment, or, if you’d like to share your story in a post, simply use the contact form to get in touch. We’d love to hear from you.