“I’m Still There”: PTSD’s Push, Pull and Paralysis

 

“Trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.”

— Peter Levine

You exit the site of the crash or isolate yourself from an abusive family, but a piece of you never leaves. You smile in photos and attend events, yet deep inside, you're still there—caged and stuck. Confronted with the urge to run, the temptation to fight, and the overwhelming paralysis that leaves you rooted to the ground, it feels like you're caught in a perpetual struggle between escape and confrontation.

PTSD often strikes unexpectedly—the slam of a door, the screech of tires, or the scent of cigarette smoke can suddenly send you spiraling back to that detestable moment. Your heart races, palms sweat, muscles tense—not at what’s before you, but at what lies behind, as the past crashes into the present with unforgiving force. You push yourself to exhaustion trying to outrun memories that refuse to stay buried.

But it’s not just about force; there’s also a powerful pull. You're drawn back into the darkness of that night, that betrayal, that painful conversation. Sometimes dreams drag you down, while at others, dense silence envelops you, pulling you away from warmth and happiness. You want to move forward, yet the past clings to you like a restless child pleading for attention. And then, the worst: paralysis. Your mind screams "move," but your body has forgotten how. The world blurs, your breath shortens, and time collapses. You feel suspended somewhere between the classroom and the assault, the living room and the nightmare—frozen as if your nervous system hit pause while life continues around you.

It’s easy for others to misunderstand this—mistaking avoidance for apathy, dissociation for disinterest, or labeling you as fragile, weak, or unwilling to “just move on.” But PTSD isn’t about a failure to heal; it’s a scar on the nervous system, a testament to surviving the unimaginable. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting the past; it’s about learning to live alongside it. Recovery is neither loud nor linear—sometimes, it’s gentle unlearning and relearning that a slammed door isn’t a threat, and that pain can be held without letting it define your every breath.

If you find yourself caught between push, pull, and paralysis, remember: you are not broken. You are not weak. You still exist. Some of you remain "over there," reliving moments your body wasn’t ready for at the time. But with time, therapy, and patience, the boundaries between who you once were, who you are now, and who you are becoming gradually fade. Ultimately, the quietest yet most powerful act of resilience is the courage to stay, even in the shadow of trauma. We are not just what happened to us; we are what we choose to become after.

“It’s not the bruises on the body that hurt. It is the wounds of the heart and the scars on the mind.”
— Aisha Mirza