In the spirit of the original inquiry, and in respect of the bump, I feel inspired to offer up some random thoughts about PTSD and responsibility. More precisely, MY PTSD and MY responsibility.......

I am always responsible.

I don't distinguish between triggered Lar and non-triggered Lar, in the context of responsibility. I don't see any point in that. It's not as if the people who are interacting with me can tell the difference, so neither may I. It serves me no more than as a book-keeping entry to distinguish between the two.

I am dealing with what is becoming known as complex PTSD. It arises from a recurrent pattern of experience, which may or may not have memorable single experiences attached to it. It arises from the atypical nature of what might be commonly experienced by a specific individual, usually by a child. It's from that "dysfunctional family of origin" stuff.

For example.....I have always viewed myself as being shy. By re-examining my memories of childhood, it is a component of even my earliest memories. In fact, my earliest memory is about the adverse effects of shyness on relating to a stranger. But, I cannot know whether that is a trait (i.e. inborn tendency), or an artefact of my experience up to that point in time. The latter would be because I was already well trained. You see, I was punished for showing any emotion. The echo of these words, "What are you crying for?!? I'll give you something to cry for!!!!"...... I don't know when it all began, as memory does not go back far enough.

I have no recollection, not a single instance, of ever being comforted by either of my parents. Not one hug, not ever. My memory may be incomplete, however. I can conclude that I never got enough, though.

You can imagine, perhaps, that learning how to relate to other human beings has been challenging for me. How do I manage touch? But we haven't even gotten to the PTSD yet. It only emerged upon experiences coming much later in my life. True trauma, but processed through that filter of a distant (in time), atypical (I did not grow up with Beaver Cleaver), impersonal (I lived a scripted role, not a life), comfortless, immature cognitive and emotional framework........and here we are.

It's quite a gap to try and cross, to move from a boundariless powerless terrified child, and become a mature adult. If I could summarize my childhood in one word, that word is "terrified". Not a good start, huh?

About triggers.....they weren't "installed" for my convenience. They exist at the convenience of others. They are external to my self. But they are filtered through me. It's quite a jumble to be sorted out.

When I think of me, the I that I speak of when I am in first person, it doesn't refer to my triggered selves. That is part of my self-education, to recognize that. But, it is still all me. All those other selves are me, too.

I can fully dissociate, and in effect, become someone else. Or, I can partially dissociate, but that rarely happens. Or, I can be triggered in a more simple way, but those are cases where my hypervigilance has turned a molehill into a mountain. It doesn't matter, though, which case it is. It doesn't matter, to someone else, I mean. They're all me. They're all mine.

The idea of amends is interesting. It usually arises in the context of 12-stepping. PTSD is strongly associated with a lot of other superficial disorders: anxiety, depression, substance abuse, violence to others, and such like. I call them superficial only in the sense that underlying them can be this PTSD thing. It's a root disorder. It affects self. It affects identity. The rest is behaviour. 12-stepping is about behaviour. It may or may not help PTSD. It all depends on how you look at things. We've all heard of "dry drunks". Sober, but still messed up. You've got to get to the question, "Why?".

So, yes, amends are a good approach with respect to taking responsibility. You can leave responsibility adrift. That too is a decision. To not do anything is a choice. Not a failure to choose, at all. It's one of the choices.

Apologies? Why are they contentious, in the context of PTSD? There are divergent views in this thread. I reiterate the precaution that was expressed by zh, I speak of my truth. This is my story. I am not comparing my story to anyone else's.

What is an apology? Well, it depends on what it contains.

If I discover that my neighbour's mother has passed on, and I go to him and tell him I am sorry, I am not taking responsibility for that death. I am acknowledging his experience, validating it, and empathizing with him. All in a nice little package of three words. I am sorry (details).

Then there's another kind of I'm sorry, but it contains something else. The kind of I'm sorry that is insincere. How do you tell them apart? I'm not sure how we do it, but people know the difference.

So, an apology, if offered, must reflect something both validating and empathetic, to the recipient. Or it isn't an apology at all.

My experience with PTSD has included some very dramatic triggered episodes. When I emerge from them, I don't know what happened. I feel like I have been kidnapped. I emerge into a strange unrecognizable neighbourhood, with lots of angry faces around me. I don't know how I got there, or what has made people angry. And when I'm told of things I've said, for example, I can't even put those words into my mouth. They just don't fit there. I cannot even conceive of a situation which would have empowered me to have uttered them. And yet, I did. So say the witnesses thereto.

If damage was done, I try to fix it. If a mess was made, I try to clean it up. That's the least I can do. You may wonder at why I post under my real name. It is because I am responsible. That's all there is to that.

As to any apology offered, I must make it contextual, or it doesn't matter. It is hard to apologize for something you don't remember doing or saying. But it can be done. It is not up to me, though, whether or not my apology is accepted. It is what it is. I offer it, in sincerity, and the rest is up to the God(esse)s.

I live by a simple guideline. If my mental health issues affect a relationship, be it work, personal, acquaintance, whatever, I contextualize my investment in that relationship as part of my reply to a situation. An apology is only one form of reply. I may be a challenge to relate to, and that part is mine to negotiate. And the other party would best determine their own strategy with respect *to* me, with an honest reply *from* me, from which to work.

My responsibility is to clarify for another person just what my continued participation might be like in the future, as well as acknowledging what has already transpired.

I am only as trapped by my past as I allow myself to be. I am always left with an opportunity to influence the boundary conditions under which I experience reality. The boundary conditions are where I can change things. The boundaries are not fixed in place. Mine are shrinking, but I think that's because of the way I relate to those boundaries.

Yes, my disorder is responsible, ultimately, but it is filtered through me.

You see, one of my most important operatives, one of the conditionals I place on observations of myself, particularly when I have failed to meet a reasonable standard of conduct, is the word yet.

When I speak to self, when I am assessing my conduct, and I note that I haven't done x or y, or, I have done something I hoped not to do, I always append the word "yet". It changes the whole thing.

Exampla gratia: I haven't been able to prevent dissociation upon being triggered, yet.

Another, in which the "yet" is implied: I'd like to not dissociate again.

My goal has been to reintegrate my dissociative selves. The immaturity and poor coping strategies that those others display are embarassing (hyperbolic understatement). But they are me, too. And as much as I'd like to only ever be the me that I prefer to be, the entity I call Lar, I can't promise I'll never be those others any more. By taking responsibility for them, though, the world knows I'm trying. And, the boundaries on my PTSD are shrinking, because of that trying.

PTSD can't be cured. It can, however, be healed. If you cut yourself, it can heal cleanly, or it can heal with a scar. We don't distinguish between them, though. They both are old cuts, now healed. Healing requires faith. And faith requires hope. I hope for a better life. I place my faith in that possibility. I behave as best I can. And I proceed with healing, scars and all.

Lar