The Heavy Air of the Consultation Room
In the suffocating silence of a doctor’s office, the question eventually comes: “How was your relationship with your parents during childhood?” or “Was there any physical or emotional trauma you’d rather not remember?” For many, this is the moment they freeze. Some stammer in confusion; others fall into a defensive silence or react with flashes of anger. Mental health professionals describe this as an “instinctive defense mechanism to protect the ego.” Shame, the fear of re-experiencing the pain, or a fundamental distrust of others forces them to raise their shields.
Trauma as an Answer, Not an Attack
My reaction, however, was different. I walked into that office burdened with Type 2 Bipolar Disorder and a long list of nameless psychosomatic symptoms—all rooted in CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). To me, questions about my past were not an “interrogation” intended to expose me. They were the decisive clues needed to explain the agonizing physical pain and emotional volatility that had haunted me for years. I knew something was fundamentally broken in my life, and because I had spent every night in a private hell trying to find the reason why, I saw no reason to be defensive.
The Desperate Reason Behind the Shields
Of course, trauma is excruciating. Just bringing it to the surface can feel like losing your breath. The “defense mechanism” that experts speak of was likely a vital tool that kept these individuals from crumbling. Behind the panic of being asked about abuse, there might be a hidden shame—a belief that “it happened because I was unworthy.” Or perhaps it is a desperate struggle to protect their world from collapse by convincing themselves that “it was just normal discipline.” To them, these questions don’t feel like the start of healing; they feel like a threat to a world they are barely holding together.
From Shame to a Sense of Liberation
But I have decided to lay down my shield. Acknowledging that my body’s unexplained pain and my heart’s wild fluctuations are not flaws in my personality, but rather “scars” left by past events—this was not shameful. It was liberating.
I didn’t react defensively because I was finally ready to face the source of my agony. Realizing that “there is a problem” wasn’t an act of self-flagellation; it was the beginning of the hope that I could finally be repaired.
The Quiet Process of Reassembling Myself
Even today, I lay out my painful memories in the consultation room without filtration. This isn’t an act of self-exposure. It is a process of decoding the distress signals sent by my body and mind to reassemble a better version of myself for tomorrow. While these wounds may be something others wish to hide, for me, these questions are the precious sentences that are finally completing the manual of who I am.
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