Dear Britney (in case you’re still reading):

Your questions feel like they come from a place inside you that’s been hurt— shaped by experiences that still carry pain. They read to me like:

“I want to be honest about what I carry, but I don’t want to lose people because of it.”

“I’ve been hurt before by sharing too much too soon… and I don’t know how to get it right.”

“I want someone who’s willing to be close to me in my pain—not just put up with it from afar.”

If any of that rings true, just know you’re not alone. I hope to read from you, but even if you’re not ready to post again, your voice mattered. You were heard.

Anita

Dear Omyk: Thank you so much for your kind message. I look forward to hearing your thoughts whenever you feel ready to share—there’s no rush at all.

Wishing you a gentle day ahead.

Warmly, Anita

Dear q:

You are so welcome—and thank you for your kind words and for sharing so openly. It takes real courage to be this honest while you’re still in the middle of the struggle. That honesty is strength.

Let me start here: there is no shame in anxiety. It’s not a flaw, and it doesn’t make you less worthy of love or connection. There’s no shame in speaking from anxiety—we’ve all done it.

You wrote, “All the anxiety I’m feeling is making me act and speak out of insecurity and neediness, and that repels my partner even more…”- When we feel overwhelmed, our instinct is often to reach outward—seeking reassurance, love, or clarity from someone else to help us feel grounded. That’s such a human response. But what I’d gently encourage is this: what if the person you most need reassurance from right now… is you?

What if, instead of chasing your girlfriend’s reassurance, you let your own steady part lean in and say, “Hey, I see you’re scared. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You’re navigating an incredibly heavy stretch—long-term unemployment, relationship strain, and intense anxiety—all made more complex by your deep self-awareness and sincere desire to grow. And this person—you—who is facing all of that and still trying to do better, deserves all the compassion you can give him.

Practicing self-compassion doesn’t require grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s as simple as pausing and saying, “This is hard. I’m trying my best. I can be kind to myself, even here.” It’s about reclaiming safety from within, instead of chasing it in the eyes of someone else.

When you’re anxious—especially in emotionally raw moments—your nervous system starts scanning for danger. Am I okay? Does she still love me? Am I failing? Am I safe? If you’ve relied on others for stability (especially growing up), then every delayed text, sigh, or shift in energy can feel like a verdict.

But when you nurture your own inner anchor—a voice that says, “I see you. I’ve got you.”—your nervous system doesn’t have to work so hard for proof. That voice becomes your internal regulator. It gently shifts you from survival mode into a more present, grounded state. It’s a quiet form of self-reparenting—and it’s powerful.

This isn’t about silencing fear or pretending you’re fine. It’s about having a part of you that can sit beside the fear and say, “Yes, this hurts—and I’m here with you through it.”

You might think of it like this: instead of constantly checking the weather outside for a storm, you’re building a warm, reliable shelter inside. That way, when the winds pick up, you’re not running for cover. You already have a place to rest.

If you’d ever like a suggestion for a grounding exercise to support that, I’d be happy to offer one.

You also shared, “I’m afraid of my girlfriend walking out on me.” That fear is so understandable. But sometimes, the more we resist a fear, the tighter its grip becomes. So when you’re ready, you might experiment with gently imagining that possibility—not to brace for disaster, but to show your mind that even in that grief… you would survive it.

Picture the morning after: you wake up. You breathe. You make coffee. You text a friend. You take a walk. Life continues. There is grief, yes—but also breath. Stillness. A new kind of space. Eventually, there are chapters you haven’t met yet.

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about loosening fear’s hold. Because her leaving wouldn’t break you. You are more resilient, more whole, and more deeply alive than that fear leads you to believe.

You don’t have to walk this road alone, Q. You’ve already taken the brave step of reaching out—and I hope you’ll keep doing so, as much or as often as you need to. I’m here, and I’d be honored to continue the conversation whenever you’re ready.

With warmth and respect, Anita

Dear q: I will read and reply to you Mon morning (it’s Sun night here).

Anita

I can almost hear that whoohoo myself through you. Will write more Mon morning.

Anita

Dear Honesty55:

You are very welcome! You asked a powerful question: how to deal with people who scrutinize, dispute, or misreport what you share. The pain in that question is clear, and so is the self-awareness behind it. You’re not alone in this—so many people with CPTSD find themselves oversharing not because they want to, but because it feels like the only safe option.

Sometimes oversharing becomes a way to feel in control. When you’ve been gaslighted, misunderstood, or punished for withholding the “wrong” thing, it can feel like the safest path is to reveal everything, immediately. That way, no one can accuse you of hiding, lying, or contradicting yourself.

Here’s a metaphor that might resonate: It’s like someone who’s lived through sudden, violent storms learning to open all the windows in advance. Not because they want the storm, but because if it’s going to crash in anyway, at least they won’t be caught off guard. It gives a sense of control in a world that’s often felt dangerous and unpredictable.

But as you’ve experienced, this strategy can backfire when others misuse your vulnerability. When people twist your words or manipulate your honesty, it reinforces the fear that your truth isn’t safe with anyone. It’s devastating—and you never deserved that.

So what might a gentler, safer path look like?

* Go slow with disclosure. You don’t owe your whole story to everyone. Share in steps, and see how someone handles the little things first.

* Tune in to your own needs. Ask yourself: Am I sharing this because I want connection? Or because I’m afraid not to share?

* Watch for signals of safety. Does the person listen without judgment? Do they hold your truth with care? If not, that’s about them, not your worthiness.

* Build safe spaces elsewhere. Journaling, therapy, creative outlets, or spaces like this one can hold all of you without judgment or misuse.

Your honesty is not the problem. The problem is that too often the world didn’t meet your truth with the safety and kindness it deserves. But that doesn’t mean you have to silence it—it just means you get to choose where, when, and with whom to share it.

If you’d like to share more or keep exploring this, I’m here and would be honored to listen. You’re already doing something powerful by asking these questions, and you deserve support every step of the way.

I’d like to close this post by sharing a bit of my own experience with C-PTSD and oversharing—

As a young child—like any young child—I’m sure I was honest and open with my mother. But after so many times when she scrutinized, disputed, and misrepresented what I said—when she gaslighted me and accused me of trying to hurt her feelings (which was untrue!)—I stopped sharing anything with her. I learned to hold everything in.

Fast forward many years, and I realized I had internalized her behavior: I was now the one scrutinizing, disputing, and mistrusting my own thoughts. A part of me constantly defended itself against an inner “Scrutinizer”—correcting my thoughts, choosing more precise words, worrying about misunderstandings (even within my own mind), and trying to be 100% exact. I lived in fear of making a mistake, even something as small as using the “wrong” word.

Looking back, I see now that my mother wasn’t reacting to my words because they were wrong—she reacted because she was unwell. But as a child, I couldn’t know that. So I adapted. And I carried that adaptation into adulthood.

Only recently has the Inner Scrutinizer begun to grow quiet. What a relief.

As far as oversharing- I generally under shared because I didn’t feel safe to share with anyone, but when I did share, I had to be exact, had to give the person ALL the information so that they could understand the situation. Problem was people were not interested in viewing the situations from all angles that I presented, too much work! I overshared with the idea in mind that the person I was oversharing too had the motivation and the ability to understand a complex situation and I was mistaken. Now when I share in real-life, I do it in small portions, understanding that people are limited in their attention span and also, understanding that while I talk to a person, the person may be hearing their thoughts louder than the words I say.

Hearing one’s own thoughts instead of what a person is actually saying brings me back to my mother. I want to share one instance, from when I was around 5 or 6 years old. (Telling these stories helps me process the past).

Trigger Warning

My mother and father were fighting—it was nighttime. She announced that she was going to kill herself and left the apartment. I started crying very loudly. To silence me, my father beat me with a belt. I stopped crying. He then left the apartment too, and I was alone.

Scared, I walked down the stairs and out into the street in search of my mother, afraid with every step that I’d find her body. I finally made it to the street, where I saw my mother—and neighbors who had heard the shouting were there too. When I saw that she was alive, I was so happy. I was ecstatic. I ran to her in joy, shouting: “Mother, you are ALIVE!”

Her response: an angry, accusatory, “And why wouldn’t I be alive?”

What I meant to say, in essence, was: Mother, I love you so much. I’m so happy you didn’t kill yourself.

What she heard seemed closer to: Mother, I’m going to tell all the neighbors that you said you’d kill yourself, so you’ll feel ashamed. Your pain is my pleasure.

What she heard wasn’t even close to what I felt. But that misinterpretation fit a pattern—many times, she “heard” me as if I were trying to hurt or shame her. I wasn’t, of course, but whenever I tried to explain that to her, she insisted I was.

Back to you, Honesty55: the people you talk to may not be as mentally unwell as my mother was, but they still have their own mental chatter—stories, fears, and assumptions—they listen to every day. So before sharing more with someone, it might help to ask for feedback on what you’ve already said. That way, you can see whether they’re truly hearing your words, or if they’re mostly responding to their own inner dialogue, which may have little or nothing to do with what you actually said.

With warmth, Anita