"I live in such a fog!", Ophelia said to me last week. "I can't see my way out of it." Boy, do I remember that feeling! Ophelia lives overseas and we work on her PTSD recovery via Skype. She's terrifically motivated, open to trying new approaches and honest about her healing experience. The PTSD fog, I've learned, is universal. I myself waded through it for decades until is was so thick I felt its swirl around me was more real than the world in which everyone else lived.

It may be a new year but old trauma topics continue to be relevant! I’ve written before about how important it is to move slowly in recovery. A few years ago, I worked with a client, Anna, who refused to heed this advice. When she had a small success in healing, she took that as license to go full speed ahead – and always slammed herself into a wall, had a meltdown and had to start over again. I’m no stranger to this cycle. I, too, had to learn to take myself down a notch or two from warp speed. It makes total sense that we do this. After trauma speed can be comforting as it stops us from spending too much time in situations or uncomfortable places in our minds. Plus, the road to healing is long and frustrating, which makes you just want to get it over with fast! Instead of recapping what it means to pace yourself in recovery, today I’m mulling over what it means to pace yourself in your emotions.

When I was struggling with PTSD one of the things that I always hated about birthdays and new years were how they brought me face to face more than usual with the passage of time. More than that: They forced me to acknowledge the fact that I was losing days and months and weeks and years of my life to symptoms I could no more control than I could understand. What I'm trying to say is, new years celebrations always made me feel more sad and anxious than usual.

Before your PTSD diagnosis, when you’re struggling with PTSD symptoms, you know exactly what to do: You have to figure out what’s wrong. If you’re proactive about chasing down answers and fortunate enough to find a professional who recognizes the signs of PTSD and diagnoses you with posttraumatic stress disorder, your next challenge is deciding how to approach recovery. Since there is no single way to heal, it’s up to you to know your options.

In the wake of the Newtown, CT, tragedy last week I’m reminded again how fragile language is in our moments of deepest shock and despair. ‘Pain’, ‘grief’, ‘loss’, ‘shock’ hardly begin to scratch the surface of what it means to live through a traumatic event and then face the task of learning to live after it. In the wake of my own trauma, I acutely felt the absence of words.

During my own PTSD decades (yes, I struggled for 25+ years!), one of the toughest things for me was having to be around other people when I felt horrible, depressed, anxious, angry, sleep-deprived and just generally dysfunctional.

When I first started my PTSD recovery I read a slew of books and articles about how trauma recovery is supposed to happen. Many of the theories, dating all the way back to the late 1800s (check out Charcot and Janet if you want to do some research), spoke about the need to 'integrate' the trauma by being able to tell your story. Huge road block: I couldn't tell my story. Did that mean I wouldn't be able to heal?

Why do senseless things happen to people who are just doing their best to move through life being good? You can be productively contributing to society, helpless and young, older and learning to evolve on the continuum of your own private journey here on earth -- it doesn't seem to matter what kind of person you are, trauma randomly selects you to scoop up in the siphon of its cyclone. Why?

I'll be honest with you: From the surface there wasn't much I was good at in PTSD recovery - unless you count avoidance. I was really, really good at that! And hypervigilance. And re-experiencing. Basically, you know, I was really good at PTSD symptoms. Recovery.... not so much! So when I ask you what you're good at I know that's a sort of loaded question. Struggling with symptoms of posttraumatic stress can make you feel like you're just not good at anything, unless it's being depressed, hopeless and just generally feeling useless.

So many of the survivors I work with and talk to express the same idea: There are more than one of me in here! Technically, they don’t mean there’s more than one personality inside their mind, so what do they mean?