Sometimes I speak fluently. Other times, words vanish midair. It’s not inconsistency — it’s trauma physiology. My PTSD and agoraphobia can cause nonverbal spurts — moments when my brain locks up and my voice just stops responding. I’m still aware, still processing, but language drops offline. It can last seconds or minutes. It’s not a choice, it’s not defiance, and it’s not the same as silence.

🗣️ Why It Happens When I’m overstimulated or frightened, my nervous system shifts into survival mode. The speech centers go quiet while my body focuses on safety. Forcing speech during those moments doesn’t help — it actually worsens the freeze. If I’m pushed to keep talking past my limit, I may scream or yell out of overwhelm. It’s not anger; it’s panic energy spilling out. If that keeps happening, I lose my voice entirely.

📞 How I Communicate Instead I use IP Relay — a service where I type, and a live operator voices my message over the phone. It’s discreet, professional, and federally protected communication for people who are deaf, hard of hearing, or speech-impaired. If I go nonverbal, that’s my fallback. I might also type, text, or show a message card that says: “I’m nonverbal right now. Please give me a minute. I’ll communicate in writing.”

⚡ When ADHD Enters the Picture Sometimes my ADHD stacks on top of all this. That can cause outbursts — fast, loud, emotional bursts of frustration or overstimulation. They look messy, but they’re not dangerous. They’re my brain releasing pressure before it resets. If you’re nearby when that happens, the best help is: • Stay calm. Don’t match my volume. • Give me space and a minute to regulate. • Don’t touch me unless I ask. • If I pace or rock, let me. That’s my self-regulation loop.

⏳ What’s Normal for Me If a meltdown lasts less than five minutes, please don’t panic or label it a crisis. That’s part of how my nervous system resets. I’ve trained myself to decompress quickly — it’s a sign of coping, not failure. If it lasts longer, or if I can’t speak again after an hour, then it’s time to check in gently.

❤️ How to Help Loved Ones Understand Share this post with them. Let them know that I can’t always warn people when I’m about to lose speech. Support isn’t forcing me to talk; it’s trusting that silence is communication too. I’m not broken. My voice just travels differently — sometimes through text, sometimes through sound, sometimes through quiet. #PTSD #Agoraphobia #ADHD #Accessibility #NonverbalCommunication #IPRelay #madamgreen #RosieWrites

Most people measure productivity in hours. I measure it in bandwidth. Living with PTSD, agoraphobia, ADHD, and a print impairment means every task carries an invisible surcharge. What looks simple to someone else — sending an email, catching a train, navigating a loud room — costs me triple. That’s not weakness. That’s the math of living in a nervous system that has to do extra processing just to stay safe. So I treat energy like currency.

💰 The Budget Every day starts with a finite amount of emotional capital. Some days I wake up with a full account; other days I start already in overdraft. I ask myself: • How much does this conversation cost? • Can I afford this sensory environment? • If I spend my focus here, will I have enough left to cook, to write, to decompress? It’s not anxiety — it’s accounting. The trick is learning that rest is not reward. Rest is investment. When I nap, go silent, or cancel, it’s because I’m rebalancing the books.

⚖️ The Interest Rate of Overextension When I overspend my energy, the debt collects fast. I lose words, coordination, patience, and warmth. The interest compounds as sensory input increases — noise, crowds, bright lights, conflicting tasks. Most people pay fatigue with a nap. I pay it with full nervous-system shutdown. The cost of overextension isn’t tiredness; it’s regression. Recovery might take a day or a week, depending on the size of the deficit.

🧮 The Math of Guilt The hardest part isn’t saying no; it’s believing I have the right to. Trauma taught me to equate worth with endurance. Disability taught me endurance can kill you. I’ve had to unlearn the moral weight of rest. Now I ask: Am I declining this because I don’t care, or because I care enough to stay functional tomorrow? That question saves me from guilt almost every time.

💡 Energy Conversion When I build a workflow or automation, I’m not chasing efficiency for bragging rights — I’m converting scarce energy into reusable form. Voice Control replaces strain. Markdown replaces clutter. Boundaries replace burnout. Each system is an energy converter that buys me more life for the same cost.

🌙 The Dividend When I pace myself, I earn peace. When I rest on purpose, I gain capacity. When I refuse guilt, I stay kind. That’s the emotional economy: spend where it matters, invest in recovery, forgive the deficits, and audit often. I may not have as much energy as others, but I’ve learned to manage it like a portfolio. And that — not stamina — is what keeps me thriving. #DisabilityLife #Neurodiversity #PTSD #ADHD #Accessibility #madamgreen #RosieWrites

view

Living with PTSD means my body is always one step away from full-on shutdown. Chronic fatigue isn’t laziness—it’s my system crashing after I’ve spent hours (or days) in fight-or-flight, just trying to keep it together. Most people never see the trigger, because I’m good at looking composed. But when the wrong environment hits, I can get triggered multiple times a day, every day. Each flare can take up to a week to recover from, and it stacks.

Here’s what a bad flare really looks like: It might start with a text or a call that brings up a bad memory, or being around people who don’t respect boundaries. My whole body tenses, and adrenaline dumps like I’m about to run for my life. I can feel shaky, dizzy, sometimes nauseous or outright sick. My muscles get weak, my head pounds, and thinking straight is impossible. Even basic things—like standing up to shower, making food, or answering messages—feel like climbing a mountain. Sometimes, I can’t even talk without effort.

The energy drain is so bad I can barely move. Showers get postponed, and I have to use adult sanitary wipes until I have the strength to stand up long enough. Cooking and cleaning can feel impossible. I do what I can—Effexor, Wellbutrin, and collagen protein in tea help, but nothing is perfect when my body is running on empty.

On top of it, I’m much more prone to dehydration, especially in hot weather. If I get overheated or miss a meal, I might start vomiting repeatedly. It can look dramatic—people think I need a hospital, but usually what I really need is electrolytes, cooling off, and time for my body to stabilize.

Most people don’t realize when I’m triggered because I keep it together on the outside—I’ve had years of practice at composure. But the truth is, the wrong environment can trigger me over and over, sometimes multiple times a day, every single day. The impact adds up. What looks like “functioning” on the surface can actually mean I’m spending all my energy just holding it together. Sometimes I’m still dealing with the aftershocks days later.

It’s hard, because the struggles are invisible to most people. On the outside, I look like I’m just tired or maybe not trying hard enough. On the inside, it’s a war to keep going, one that nobody else can see.

If you know someone dealing with this: • Believe them • Offer practical help (sometimes, that means electrolytes, not ER trips) • Understand that “composure” can hide a lot of pain

This is what surviving actually looks like—messy, exhausting, and very, very real.

#PTSD #ChronicFatigue #InvisibleIllness #SurvivorTruths #Dehydration #SupportMatters