Mystic Anomanly

(Originally posted to Substack: @mysticanomalyblog)

This is part one of the series I’m referring to as, “Mind of C-PTSD.” It is a number of writings that explores the C-PTSD survivor’s journey from the dysfunctional life towards a more functional life. As usual, all writings are from my personal journey and perspective. 

Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t. 

Are You Addicted to Dysfunction?

Addiction doesn’t always come in the form of substances. It can look like unhealthy behaviours and emotional patterns. For many trauma survivors, particularly those with Complex PTSD, dysfunction can become a form of psychological dependency. Most people associate addiction with what you consume but rarely with what you tolerate. Dysfunction, which is emotional volatility, instability or high-conflict environments, can start to feel normal if that’s what you were raised around. In fact, it can feel safer than peace, simply because it’s familiar. This isn’t something most people admit, because it sounds counterintuitive but for those of us who’ve had to navigate trauma, conditional love or high-stress households, the constant emotional disruption becomes a baseline. It teaches the nervous system that calm is suspicious, kindness has a catch and silence means punishment is near. Over time, many of us unknowingly begin to seek out, or even create, that very chaos.

I know and understand this because I’ve lived it. I’ve made life decisions based on it and I’ve had to walk away from people and patterns that reinforced it. Most notably, I’ve immigrated to another country  and had to cut emotional ties with a family environment that was rooted in guilt, expectation and emotional micro-control. Leaving my country and moving to Canada wasn’t just a relocation; it was a complete nervous system reset. It gave me the distance I needed to stop gaslighting myself about what I was experiencing. Space clarified what was happening: I wasn’t being fully supported; I was being suppressed. I wasn’t being cared for; I was being controlled. Unknowingly, I had internalised that dynamic so deeply and I found myself replicating it in relationships, friendships and, sometimes, professional settings.

Dysfunction Isn’t Always Obvious

Many people may picture dysfunction as overt: abuse, neglect or visible chaos, however, it’s more often quiet. It hides in emotional manipulation, guilt-based interactions, inconsistent communication or the complete absence of attunement. Dysfunction isn’t just the chaos of yelling; it’s also the silence of avoidance. It’s the pressure to perform, to earn love by sacrificing personal needs or to constantly anticipate how others will react in order to avoid punishment or withdrawal. For someone with C-PTSD, this becomes second nature. It’s not just a trauma response. It becomes a relational template.

In adult relationships, this might show up as being drawn to emotionally unavailable partners or feeling “bored” when someone treats you well. It might look like starting arguments during peaceful times, not because you want conflict, but because your nervous system is unaware of how to rest. You might find yourself only feeling alive in crisis or feeling invisible without a problem to solve. That’s not a character flaw. It’s dysregulation and the longer you remain in those cycles, the more your body mistakes them for love.

What I’ve Learnt

What I had to unlearn first was the belief that peace meant numbness. For a long time, I equated intensity with truth. If a relationship wasn’t overwhelming, I assumed it wasn’t deep. If I wasn’t anxious, I thought I didn’t care. It was only after I entered a female-led relationship, one built on clarity, structure and consistent communication, that I began to experience something different. For the first time, I wasn’t being tested, judged or emotionally baited. There was no hot and cold or any emotional guessing game. My partner is calm, direct, emotionally grounded and willing to listen without jumping to defence or withdrawal. I didn’t know how much my nervous system needed that until I experienced it.

Contrary to what I feared, peace didn’t mean I stopped feeling. I still feel the full spectrum of emotions. What’s different is that my emotional state is now more neutral by default. I’m not in a permanent state of panic, guilt or dread anymore. I don’t go through extreme emotional highs and lows just to feel something again. I don’t crave volatility to feel connected anymore. The emotional neutrality gives way to a more stable baseline an clarity. It lessens the presence of false alarms. That space has allowed me to understand my feelings without immediately being hijacked by them. It has also helped me distinguish between real intuition and trauma-induced suspicion.

1. The Problem With “Being Nice

Another major shift was learning to stop people-pleasing. I used to pride myself on being “nice.” I kept the peace, accommodated everyone and avoided conflict at all costs. However, in reality, I was just suppressing my own needs. Being nice was a survival strategy. I wasn’t being kind; I was being compliant. That compliance eroded my self-respect. It also made me resentful. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, so I disappointed myself repeatedly. I said “yes” to things when I wanted to say “no”. I forgave when I wasn’t 100% ready to do so. I tolerated what should’ve been walked away from immediately.

Meanwhile, here’s a harsh truth: people-pleasing is dishonest. It’s manipulative in its own way, not out of malice, but out of fear. It’s trying to control how others view you by contorting yourself to fit what they’ll accept. Once I realised this, I stopped trying to be nice. I started being honest but that honesty can be perceived as “cold”, “harsh” or “cruel” by others. Fortunately, I don’t perform for people anymore. If someone is uncomfortable with my boundaries or directness, that discomfort is theirs to manage and not mine to fix.

2. Boundaries Are Not Rude; They Are Regulating

I’ve also learnt that boundaries are not about pushing people away. They’re about keeping yourself intact. They’re not about control. They’re about clarity and are absolutely necessary when you’ve lived your life trying to be digestible. For me, boundaries started small: no longer picking up every call, not explaining myself to people who aren’t listening, not feeling obligated to attend every family gathering or responding to every emotional bid. Eventually, they became bigger: stepping away from manipulative people, cutting ties with guilt-based friendships and redefining what access people have to me.

A boundary is not a wall. It’s a gate and I get to choose who walks through it. Anyone who accuses you of being “cold”, “distant” or “selfish” for having boundaries is someone who benefitted from your lack of them. If that truth stings, then let it sting. It’s better than bleeding out for people who refuse to stop cutting you.

3. How Structure Replaces Chaos

The structure I now have in my FLR is not restrictive; it’s stabilising. Structure is what my nervous system was begging for all along. It’s not about dominance for the sake of control. It’s about defined dynamics that remove uncertainty. When expectations are clear, emotional safety becomes easier to access. My partner knows when to check in. He knows how I process things. I know what support looks like and what forms of affection resonate most with me. That framework prevents confusion. It gives us room to actually feel without reactionary panic.

While this relationship is deliberately designed to be emotionally secure, I’ve unlearnt the need for emotional chaos as a metric for love. I’ve stopped calling neglect “freedom” and stopped mistaking anxiety for passion. That shift didn’t make me less emotional. It made me less reactive. I no longer chase the high of dysfunction or feel addicted to emotional turbulence. I still feel everything but I feel it from a grounded place.

Final Reflection: Peace Is Not the Absence of Feeling

To say it plainly: peace is not numbness. Emotional neutrality is not detachment. Feeling regulated doesn’t mean you’ve lost depth. You don’t stop caring but you stop spiralling. You don’t stop feeling either. However, you do stop being hijacked by feelings you never got to understand in real time. That’s what regulation actually means: the capacity to feel without collapsing.

Being addicted to dysfunction is not a moral failure. It’s an adaptation. Yet, at some point, it becomes a choice to continue living in patterns that your body recognises but your future can’t survive on. Walking away from dysfunction, within your family, your relationships and even your self-concept, is not betrayal. It’s alignment. You are not obligated to keep participating in patterns just because they’re familiar. Familiarity is not the same as safety. Niceness is not the same as integrity. Lastly, chaos is not the same as love.