The Writing Project

Today I’m going to write about something a little deeper and try to unravel a few things my mind is still figuring out.

Recovering from trauma sucks. Some years ago, I began experiencing panic attacks, which eventually led me to discover that they were symptoms of trauma. And that led me to discover that I had complex trauma. Panic attacks suck, too.

During these long years of trauma recovery, I’ve had to accept many parts of myself that I didn’t particularly like. I’ve had to make adjustments to my life because, suddenly, I no longer felt safe in open spaces. I became more afraid of flying than I used to be. I had to accept certain limitations and use my creativity to find new ways of doing things. I had to learn about boundaries, and most importantly, how to respect myself. It hasn’t been easy, because trauma recovery isn’t linear. But strangely enough, it can also be kind of fun. You never know when those little sparks of living might appear.

For a long time, I thought of my recovery as the realisation that I’d spent most of my life in survival mode. Now, I think of it more as becoming aware that I’m finally living. And yet, I still have limitations. I’m still terrified of certain open spaces, even when I know there’s no actual danger. I dislike crowded places and feel much more comfortable in quiet environments. Sometimes I need someone to accompany me to places I used to visit on my own.

And whenever I start thinking about these limitations, I get frustrated. I think about all the things I’m missing. About how I can’t just take a plane to Argentina by myself like I used to. About how the thought of arriving at Waterloo Station in London terrifies me. Or how I have to drive 45 minutes to find a quiet swimming pool where I can swim a few laps without feeling overwhelmed. Sometimes, when someone dismisses my trauma symptoms, even though they’re not as intense as they used to be, I’m suddenly confronted with the reality that I’m still recovering. That I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to walk into a busy train station alone without feeling afraid. And it feels unfair, because after spending so many years in survival mode, I want to enjoy the life I couldn’t enjoy before.

But then I stop and think. Am I being fair to myself? Because when I focus on all the things I still can’t do, I seem to forget everything I’ve been able to accomplish through trauma recovery. And that’s where the paradox begins.

In the last few years, I’ve gained so much confidence in myself. I’ve managed to do things that once seemed unimaginable. I started working again, went back to studying, improved my languages, and began to understand that the way I was raised wasn’t a reflection of who I was. I’ve learned to recognise my needs, establish boundaries, and find different ways of doing things. And perhaps most importantly, I’ve discovered a sense of calm I never knew existed.

Before I understood my trauma, I used to read tons of self-help books, desperately trying to quiet my mind. Nothing seemed to work. I think I was judged so much as a child that I eventually learned to judge myself constantly. But through trauma recovery, something began to change. My mind became quieter, and that calmness gave me space to daydream again, to reconnect with the things I love, like writing, cooking, and travelling.

Somehow, the very symptoms that forced me to slow down also made me reconsider how I wanted to live. I had to become more creative, more patient, and more aware of what really mattered to me. Of course, I wish I didn’t have to deal with panic attacks or these limitations. I’m not trying to convince myself that trauma was somehow a good thing. But I can’t ignore everything I’ve built while learning to live with it.

So why do I sometimes measure my recovery by the number of things I still can’t do? Why does being unable to walk through a train station alone suddenly seem more important than everything else I’ve accomplished? Perhaps that’s the paradox I’ve been trying to understand. Trauma recovery isn’t measured by how many places I can visit, how many trains I can take, or how many things I can do without help. Some of the most meaningful changes aren’t even visible.

And perhaps another paradox is that, after spending so many years surviving, I don’t necessarily need to rush into living. There’s this feeling that I should somehow make up for all the years I lost. That now that I’m finally living, I should be doing everything I couldn’t do before. But maybe that’s not what I need. Maybe I need to slow down.

Because when something matters to me, I’m willing to find a way to make it happen, even if it takes more effort than it would for someone else. And that effort isn’t about sacrifice or proving anything. It’s about knowing what matters to me and deciding how I want to spend my energy. Sometimes that means finding another way to travel. Sometimes it means asking for help. And sometimes it means accepting that I don’t have to do something just because I used to be able to.

After all, it’s not realistic to expect myself to undo thirty years of feeling unsafe and living in survival mode. Recovery takes time. And perhaps what I’ve found most difficult to accept is that I don’t need to rush to enjoy the life I couldn’t have before. That I need to be patient with myself, take my time, and enjoy every bite, every step. Who knows what life awaits me?

Michelle me preguntó el otro día: «¿Por qué no escribís el libro?». Y me quedé pensando en esa pregunta.

¿Qué necesito para escribir mi libro? ¿Ideas? ¿Adaptar el atelier para que sea más fácil escribir? ¿Quizás pasar la máquina de café a esa habitación? ¿Disciplina? ¿Constancia? ¿Ver oficinas de escritores como inspiración? ¿Ser un poco más egoísta con otras personas y usar la escritura como una forma de dedicarme a mí misma?

Lo que más me cuesta es tener esta idea de que necesito que las cosas estén perfectas para poder hacer algo. Necesito tener una habitación fría, sin calefacción, con pilas de libros en mi biblioteca. Desorden, una biblioteca robusta y desordenada. Un armario normando también. Anteojos, use o no.

En mis días pretrauma, cuando escuchaba a mis padres decir que escribir nunca era una carrera seria, imaginaba la escritura como algo inalcanzable, algo que solo unos pocos podían dominar bien. Me imaginaba a mí misma como alguien que escribiría a escondidas, donde mi escritura no tendría valor, incluso si significaba mucho para mí. Incluso si en los talleres de escritura a los que iba les gustaba lo que escribía.

¿Talento desperdiciado?

«Pipa, vos tenés mucha tela para cortar», decía Ani, un amigo del taller.

En mis días postrauma, después de años en los que dejé de escribir para sobrevivir, hoy veo que mi pasión por escribir sobrevivió al trauma.

Durante la recuperación me era difícil conectarme con esa parte de mí, después de tantos años viviendo con el impulso de sobrevivir.

Ahora escribir se siente como algo natural. La inspiración y lo que busco están adentro mío. Es solo empezar y crear un modelo de escritura que nunca existió, más allá de que haya manuales sobre cómo escribir.

Por ahora no creo que necesite una oficina perfecta, aunque en algún momento haga algunos ajustes. Tengo fotos, tengo documentos de Word ya comenzados, tengo souvenirs de viajes, tengo muchos journals.

Volviendo a la pregunta de Michelle, creo que se responde con otra pregunta: ¿por qué no?

Quizás ese sea el prefacio de mi vida postraumática.