Looking back, after the reading I’ve done this last year, it’s likely that complex PTSD was a strong undercurrent of my Last Major Relationship (TM). There were signs<&Mdash;>Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart always on the living room table, for example. I mean, we talked about past Traumas and traumas<&Mdash;>her family had a history of bipolar, mine does too. But I was so naiive about what PTSD could mean, and definitely naiive about what I could (or could not) do about it for myself. I knew (I don’t know if she said this or if I just gathered it the way I do) that she wanted the house tidy as a response to her prior trauma. And when I moved in with the dog, we brought our combined creative and canine chaos.

She and I would have conflicts over “the mess” in the living room when I left my own book out on the couch or didn’t put a throw pillow back in the right spot. I delighted that she worked weekends<&Mdash;>me, Wendell, the Cat in the Hat and Things 1&2, 13 dwarves, and a hobbit thief got balls deep in some crazy cottage industry cooking and canning shit, only to clean it all up before she could know<&Mdash;>except for the cans popping sealed all night on the counter.

We’d have conflicts about the table in the spare room, which I used as a writing desk. As with all my desks and worktables, it grew scattered with notes and books and papers, stuff from my pockets emptied at the end of the day, all stacked to make room for my elbows to type. She’d say, “Why can’t you keep the table clean? I’d like to be able to sew.” And I’d say, “what are you going to make?” “Nothing, I’d just like it to be clean so that I could sew.” “Okay, let me know when you’d like to do some sewing and I’ll clean it.” But it wasn’t about the sewing. It was about having a controlled space.

I took offense to this controlled environment<&Mdash;>she wanted me to live with her, but not appear that I lived with her. I felt, then, used for my half of the rent.
But it was just this: as a response to chaos, she wanted a calm, controlled space.

There were other ways PTSD or chronic trauma played out in our dynamic. I was way in over my head when her family came to visit. She refused to pick me up from the airport, but always expected me to go out of the way to drive her at least one way. Maybe that’s not related to PTSD, I don’t know.

She loved to treat herself with drinks, and chocolates, and eating out, and weekends away. At first I loved it, it too: it was fun. But as my wallet felt the strain, I tried to advocate for my financial security. “I want to save more money,” I told her one day in our backyard. “No, I don’t want that,” was her gut reaction. I see now that these little treats were her way of motivating herself; I still cannot comprehend, really, how threatened she probably felt at the thought to lose this system she had created for herself.

Another big one for me was that after a conflict, the apologies were often one-sided. I would apologize, often for a bit more than what I was responsible for, to restore the peace. If the conflict had arose because of something I brought up, I often found myself apologizing for ever having that feeling, because of her hurt feelings. But because the original seed was a Real Feeling (TM), the same thing would happen a few weeks later and though I’d try to keep it under pressure to stop from getting out, ultimately I’d pop like a poorly canned jar of pickles and be angry about the same exact thing, and end up apologizing again for it all over again. Though always our conflicts would have both of us saying shitty things, there would never be a reciprocal amend. I would apologize, she would say “okay.” There was never a “thanks, and I’m sorry I said x.” There was no hugging it out. Certainly no make-up sex.

And sometimes, in the next conflict, that apology would be used as a means to shut down my feelings. “You said sorry about x, so you can’t be upset with me about y.”

This dynamic continued even after we broke up. We had struck a tentative friendship, and one night we met for dinner. As the sun went down she let me have it, all the reasons why we didn’t work. I apologized and drove home. The whole way home, though, my body lit up with warning signs flashing, “but wait!” I’m sure I had shit to apologize for<&mdash;>didn’t she also do things that hurt me?

Almost 10 years later, I feel bad. I feel bad that I was so naiive. I had no fucking clue! But after Pia Mellody’s Facing Co-dependency, after The Body Keeps the Score, after How to Be the Love You Seek, after ADHD and Us, after Secure Love, what I know is this: maybe I have a clue, a hint, an idea. But I still don’t know.

And there is nothing I could have done about it.