I am not an arsehole

This post contains a strong language and content warning.

Some of the cacti I got at the plant fair, two in me-made bisque-fired pots

The worst things I’ve ever been called in my life are ‘arsehole’, ‘bitch’, ‘pig girl’, and ‘fucking arrogant little shit’. While I know that I am not any of these things, the name-calling still hurts. It hurts a lot, because the people who issued these insults were very important people in my life. And while most of this list is historical, the first one is fresh from last weekend. 

I have complex PTSD. 

I am supposed to be ‘recovering’. 

But if my trauma isn’t just in my past, because it’s also being laid down freshly in my present, how can I be expected to recover? 

No one seems to have the answer. 

And what’s more, if I’m stuck in a cycle of trauma, abuse, neglect, victimisation, and targeting, while socially isolated and becoming rapidly more disabled – what’s to become of me?

The Reddit C-PTSD community recommends two books for the trauma survivor:

The Body Keeps the Score: Mind, brain and body in the transformation of trauma, Bessel van der Kolk, 2014, Penguin Books

Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving, 2nd edition, Pete Walker, 2025, Azure Coyote Books

On page 91, The Body Keeps the Score gave me something I’ve been looking for for a very long time – a simple explanation in just one sentence of how certain people can cause or heal trauma in others:

“… knowing that we are seen and heard by the important people in our lives can make us feel calm and safe… being ignored or dismissed can precipitate rage reactions or mental collapse.”

There it was, as plain as day – ‘rage’ or ‘mental collapse’. 

C-PTSD is a kind of mental collapse.

As for rage – see my previous post.

Back to the name-calling of last weekend.

To be fair to the important person who used this word while in my car, as my guest, I would like to clarify what they actually said:

               “If you are not an arsehole, why are you parking here?  You should park over there.”

‘Here’ was a dedicated disability parking space. 

‘There’ was not.

Now, I have a disability, a very complex one that affects my whole body, and I also have a disability parking permit.  I have this permit because I have significant difficulty walking 3 metres or more, especially if carrying something.

I had taken this important person with me to a plant fair. 

We had both been excited about going. 

This person had been trying so hard to be nice, after decades of causing me trauma and pain.  I had been helping them earn a place in my new life by putting up lots of clear boundaries and dedicating hours of re-education. 

The insult came out of the blue.

Over the course of the excursion, I developed so much pain in my legs and lower torso that I could hardly walk back to my disability car space.  My legs became a pair of rusty scissors, and I felt trapped and frightened in my own body.  If I couldn’t make it back to my car, how would I get there?  I mumbled something to my companion, who remained silent and dispassionate.

I have to conclude that this person isn’t capable of seeing or accepting my disability. 

Or, in fact, of seeing or accepting me. 

Or of making real and sustained change to their behaviour. 

I will always be in emotional danger with this person. 

I find this utterly heartbreaking. 

I came home and started researching motorised wheelchairs. By myself. Because there isn’t anyone else.

Gen Memory

June 2025