C-PTSD

The truth behind the perfectionism I wore like armour.

This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever written—and one of the most honest.

For years I believed

my pursuit of perfection was about ambition, discipline, or proving something to the world.

But the truth is, I was just trying to feel wanted.

To be loved.

To finally feel like I mattered.

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“Her one hope is that if she becomes smart, helpful, pretty, and flawless enough, her parents will finally care for her.”

I used to think I wanted to be all those things—smart, pretty, perfect—just to feel a sense of belonging. To feel like I was enough. Like I deserved love, life, and a place in the world.

If someone had told me it was really because I wanted my parents’ love, I would’ve brushed it off with a laugh and a shrug.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

I was so used to acting like I didn’t care. Like whether they loved me or not had nothing to do with why I chased perfectionism, why I sought validation through admiration, popularity, likes, flawlessness, success.

“It’s not because of them,” I’d say, rolling my eyes.

I liked to think I was above their hold on me.

“They don’t affect me,” I’d mutter, flicking the thought away like an ant crawling up my arm.

Them not loving me? Whatever.

I’d play it cool—holding my breath, keeping the truth buried.

But the truth is: of course I cared.

Of course I wanted a mum who loved me.

Of course I wanted a dad who wanted me.

They are the reason behind the perfectionism.

I just couldn’t reconcile how I could hate them so deeply—how the mere sight of them made me freeze.

How the smell of my mum made me feel physically ill.

How my jaw would lock, my body would jolt when she got too close.

I love hugs—but hers?

They make me want to scrub my skin raw.

Her slimy kiss. Her floppy embrace.

Her “I really do love you,” lingering like stale weed and old tea on her breath.

Her brown, tarnished teeth telling a story darker than I’ll ever know.

I hate her.

I hate him.

I hate them.

And yet—I craved them.

I needed them.

Biologically, subconsciously, I did.

I didn’t want fame, a Miss Universe crown, a law degree, or an influencer name.

I wanted unconditional love.

Caring, attentive, safe love.

Love that actually felt like love.

As I write this, I feel the sneer form on my face.

My body tenses at the thought of how much I gave to prove I was worth loving.

How much I wanted what they could never give.

But I force myself to write it anyway:

I wanted them to care for me.

I wanted it all—for them.

And now?

I’m doing it for me.

Starting with reading every word I write.

Even the hard ones.

Even the truths that land with a full stop.

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Reflection Prompts