The Problem Is Me... But It's Not My Fault

In the silence of the night, a soul in turmoil resides

Overwhelmed, underappreciated, and worn down inside

Stressed and sick, a heart longs to cry in the dark

Fearing that once begun, tears will leave an everlasting mark

Anxious and triggered, emotions surge like a tide

No one to call, no one near, nowhere left to hide

Alone, with thoughts that echo and won’t depart

Questioning if the problem truly lies within her heart

Unnoticed, unattended, in the grip of unease

She wonders if her mother’s words somehow hold the keys

Scared and nervous, she seeks a comforting embrace

Longing for a moment of solace, a gentle, guiding grace

But in this storm, a flicker of hope remains

For even in the darkness, a glimmer sustains

May she find the strength to rise and to see

Her worth, her light, her own bravery

There are nights when the silence feels unbearable—when the weight of my thoughts sits like a boulder on my chest. These are the nights when I feel overwhelmed, underappreciated, worn down, and like my tears, if unleashed, might never stop. I spiral into questions that have no satisfying answers. I wonder: What is wrong with me? Why do I always feel this way? Why does it seem like no matter how much I love, help, and advocate for others, my own life falls apart in the process?

I talk about it constantly—with my therapist, with a few friends, sometimes even family. And yes, with ChatGPT. I question everything. I say, "If everyone leaves me once I open up, then the problem has to be me." I ask ChatGPT, "Why do you keep lying to me? I am the common denominator, so clearly I am the problem." And yet, even in the chaos, a part of me knows I'm not wrong for feeling this way. I'm just trying to survive the internal storm that Complex PTSD has left me with.

Relationships are extra hard for people like me. I'm nearly 40, but in many ways, I feel like I'm still learning how to grow up. I never had a consistent, nurturing parent. I'm raising myself now, trying to teach myself what I should have learned decades ago. It’s lonely. Deeply lonely. And even though I understand the psychology of it all—the generational trauma, the patterns passed down from my mother, her mother, and so on—understanding doesn't always make it easier to heal.

Knowing the "why" often keeps me stuck. I empathize too much with my mother. I know she didn’t ask for her trauma either. I understand how generational wounds shaped her. But that empathy sometimes silences my own pain. I still feel the covert abuse. I still feel the manipulation passed on through others, messages whispered in family gossip that always seem to find their way back to me. She knows they will. She knows it will trigger me.

I question myself constantly. Am I the narcissist? Is it me? But there's a key difference: I care. I always have. I feel guilt even when I've done nothing wrong. I feel guilt for being hurt. That’s not narcissism. That’s the product of being conditioned to take care of everyone else emotionally, while ignoring my own needs.

My mother didn’t know how to handle my emotions. When I began to show symptoms of distress, she exaggerated them, misrepresented them, made them about her. She didn’t know how to support me because no one ever taught her how to support herself. And so the cycle repeated, through generations. Beyond my great-grandmother, I don't even know where the trauma started.

And all of this knowledge? It helps, but it also hurts. Because I get it. I get why people behave the way they do. I understand. And that understanding delays my healing, because it makes me feel guilty for even needing to heal. If I can explain her actions, is it fair for me to still feel broken by them?

This is a super lonely life. I mean, super duper lonely. Most people don’t get it. And even when I feel close enough to someone to start unmasking, to show them who I really am, they pull away. They don’t understand why I don’t speak to my mother (and that she started the no-contact). They don’t get why my son doesn’t speak to me, or why I’m not married, or why I have no close friends. And that misunderstanding just feeds the belief that I am too much, that I am the problem.

But here's the thing I keep trying to remind myself—and sometimes, even believe:

Yes, the problem is me. But not in the way I think when I'm hurting. The problem is me trying to heal in a world that wasn't designed for someone like me to feel safe. The problem is me having a big heart in an emotionally unsafe environment. The problem is me unlearning survival mechanisms that once protected me but now keep me isolated.

I'm slowly finding peace. I'm learning how to take care of myself. I'm becoming my own parent. It's not easy. It's slow. It's frustrating. But it's happening. One hard truth, one lonely night, one tearful reflection at a time.

The problem is me, and I'm working on it. Are you?