‘Don’t let him break you’ - the words I say to my daughter when she can’t fight memories of the abuse

I uttered those words today as I forced her - well, as much as you can a 15-year-old - and left her with tears rolling down her cheeks in the school reception. She went in for an agreed two hours in a quiet classroom, to try and ease her back in gently. I quelled all else I wanted to say. I was brusque, firm -because in those moments, it’s all I can do, and all she needs to hear to take the jump.

“Don’t let him break you” 

I uttered those words yesterday when she sat on her floor, broken, tear-stained, scared to leave her room.

Her teacher reminded her (and me) of the non-fucking-linear healing journey, and I am clinging to that truth - that the dark times always lead to renewed strength, and that when you feel most broken, you are often on the cusp of rising again, like a phoenix from the ashes, wondering quite how you lifted.

I don’t know if it’s harder to watch your daughter in the depths of CPTSD and depression than to feel it yourself - I think it’s more painful. But I also find respite in throwing myself into work, knowing TikTok is keeping her company while I busy myself on Teams and it makes me feel guilty, that I can have a break from the pain. I recall those days when your body physically aches with trauma and your mind only serves to hurt you - when there is no respite at all.

The mother she saw

And I realise she saw me at my depths - only able to function with my stalwart companions, which at the time were Marlboro and Malbec (thankfully I now have more valuable ones). I realise how much it must have hurt them, seeing me distract, absent, shrill and bright - doing everything I could to show up for them every day.

It was what propelled my recovery: throwing myself into EMDR, daily yoga, running, volunteer work - anything that would help me get better.

I worry, and still do, that I was the icing on the cake of their trauma. They faced sexual abuse, trauma from the police, social workers, and school not believing them, stigma from their friends — and trauma from me. But I did what I had to do to survive, to heal, and to be present for them again. And I have to hope that this will hold them strong.

Now, when I see her desperate - desperate because she’s been here before and remembers those many months in a darkened room - I hope she also remembers when she said to me,

“Mummy, it took you years to get better. I don’t want it to take that long.”

Maybe that’s what showing what survival really is - not never breaking, but showing them how to rebuild.

She’s seen me break. But she’s also seen me start to fly again.