If you’ve ever told me something like, ‘We need to talk later,’ and then walked away, I can almost guarantee you’ve just activated my fight-or-flight system like it’s Black Friday at Best Buy. It’s not that I’m overreacting (though, okay, maybe a little); it’s just that, when you live with CPTSD, vague communication doesn’t merely leave me confused. Instead, it feels like a threat, and that sense of impending danger can be overwhelming.
For those of us navigating life with CPTSD, clear and direct communication isn’t just a preference; it’s a lifeline. It’s the emotional equivalent of wrapping a weighted blanket around my nervous system and whispering, “You’re safe, babe.” I’m not asking for a lengthy explanation or a TED Talk every time you open your mouth. I’m simply asking for clarity. No cryptic fortune cookie riddles.
The Emotional Rollercoaster of Vague Statements
When things are unclear, my brain doesn’t calmly wait for more context. Instead, it kicks into high gear, trying to make sense of everything all at once, even if the full picture isn’t there yet. No, my brain goes full CSI: Emotional Disturbance. Suddenly, I’m the lead investigator in a case no one asked me to solve, analyzing every shift in tone like I’m decoding whale songs. The words “We’ll talk later”? To me, that translates into:
I’m in trouble.
You hate me.
You’re leaving the country.
You’re pregnant with my trauma.
You’ve uncovered my rare edition Superman comics and accidently spilt coffee on them.
And yes, I know that sounds dramatic, but that’s my brain doing its job. Rationally, I understand you might just mean “we’ll talk later,” but my nervous system didn’t get that memo. It’s already halfway through drafting a panicked group chat message that starts with, “Okay, but tell me if I’m crazy…”
It’s not paranoia. What it is, is pattern recognition. From survival.
You see, once upon a time, ambiguity wasn’t just annoying, it was dangerous. It meant the calm before the storm. The pause before my name was called. That uncertainty, hanging in the air like a dark cloud, always made me brace for impact, for whatever was coming next. It was never just a moment of silence, it was a warning, a signal that things were about to change. And that’s why I scan every pause, every shift in tone like I’m trying to decode an alien transmission. I didn’t choose this job. My nervous system did. And it doesn’t take PTO.
The Gift of Direct Communication
So when you wonder why someone like me craves directness, it’s not because I’m overly intense (okay, stop the eye rolling). It’s because clear communication is like a nervous system spa day. It’s how I avoid the 48-hour mental spiral and cancel the imaginary crime scene investigation. I mean, how else do I stop trying to decide whether you’re about to break my heart or if you just had something in your eye?
Directness isn’t harsh. It’s not too much. It’s kind.
Simple words. Straight talk. A soft tone. That’s not just communication; it’s medicine. It’s a blanket fort for my brain, a shield against the chaos of misinterpretation.
So please, for the love of all that is regulated, if you’ve got something to say, say it like you mean it. I promise, my nervous system will thank you. And my group chat can finally get a break.
Photo by Possessed Photography on Unsplash