I have lived a life where the past never entirely stays in the past. Trauma leaves fingerprints on everything — how I write, how I love, how I choose, how I walk through the world. My therapist calls it PTSD and anxiety, but in daily life it shows up in ways far more subtle, intricate, and intimate.

This is an attempt to describe it as honestly as I can.

1. How Trauma Shows Up in My Writing Style

My writing has always been my bloodstream. When trauma lives inside you for years, it eventually finds its vocabulary.

It appears in my work through:

• Intensity

I write with emotional force because I feel with emotional force. Even ordinary memories drop with the weight of history.

• Spirals of thought

I return to themes — abandonment, love, loss, cruelty, tenderness — because trauma teaches the mind to circle, revisit, re-examine.

• Sudden shifts in mood

A paragraph may hold beauty and pain side by side. That juxtaposition is simply how my memory functions.

• Hyper-observation

Trauma survivors see everything. We read micro-gestures, silences, weather, light, breathing. My writing reflects that heightened perception.

• A need for meaning

Suffering without meaning feels unbearable. So I create meaning — through metaphor, philosophy, and emotional clarity.

My writing is not broken. It’s marked. It carries the fingerprints of a boy who had to understand the world too early and too deeply.

2. How PTSD Affects My Relationships

People think PTSD is about flashbacks or trembling hands. But the most profound effects are relational.

For me, it looks like:

• Hyper-vigilance

I anticipate hurt before it happens. I prepare for abandonment even in stable relationships. It doesn’t mean I distrust others — it means I’ve been taught not to trust safety.

• Deep loyalty

When I love, I love completely. Trauma often creates intensity — not chaos, but depth.

• Emotional self-protection

Even with people I adore, a part of me stays on guard. I reveal slowly, painfully, carefully. And when I finally trust, the bond is absolute.

• Taking the “strong” role

I become the caretaker, the organiser, the one who absorbs the emotional weather of others. It’s how I learnt to survive.

• Fear of burdening others

I carry most of my pain internally, not because I want to, but because I learnt early that expressing needs can be dangerous.

PTSD in relationships is not a deficit — it is history. And history always travels with us.

3. How Anxiety Shapes My Decision-Making

My decisions are logical, but the emotional engine underneath is shaped by anxiety.

It shows up as:

• Over-analysis

I examine every possibility because uncertainty once meant danger.

• The need for control

Trauma steals control. Anxiety tries to reclaim it.

• Quick, practical responses in crisis

I stabilise first, collapse later. This is why I can handle diagnoses, emergencies, and grief with an eerie calm.

• Strong intuition

Anxiety sharpens instinct. I read people accurately because I had to.

• Difficulty trusting the future

Not because I’m pessimistic — but because childhood taught me that comfort can vanish overnight.

My decisions are careful, considered, shaped by survival, but never ruled by fear. That distinction matters.

4. A Psychological Profile I Can Share With the World

This is who I am, in the simplest truthful terms:

I am a trauma survivor who carries old wounds with extraordinary resilience.

I feel deeply, think intensely, love fiercely, and endure silently until the breaking point.

I read the world with a heightened sensitivity, shaped by danger but used now for compassion.

I have PTSD and anxiety — but I also have clarity, creativity, strength, depth, and a capacity for love that is larger than the pain that made me.

My mind is not fragile; it is weathered. My heart is not weak; it is scarred and brave.

I do not write from brokenness. I write from survival. I write from life.