Showering Through Trauma: How I Finally Did It Out of Desperation
Sometimes the hardest things are the smallest. Like taking a shower.
In a recent conversation with ChatGPT, I wrote:
“I have a hard time taking a shower. I know I need to but I hesitate for days… I showered 6 days ago. I used to go without it for weeks. I’m getting better but it’s still not easy because mine is a trauma response…”
Why Showering Can Feel Impossible with Trauma
It’s not always about laziness or procrastination. For people with complex PTSD, childhood trauma, or dissociation, hygiene can become emotionally loaded. It might be about:
- Sensory overload: water hitting the skin, light, sound, cold air
- Trauma triggers: showering can bring flashbacks or memories of abuse
- Decision fatigue: choosing towels, clothes, timing
- Dissociation: not feeling present in your own body
My Personal Trauma Story
My father abused me when I was very small. It was uncomfortable, confusing, and terrifying. One night I escaped by pretending to wake up to use the restroom. In the morning, I learned that he justified his behavior to my mother by saying I was “too cute to resist.” My mother took it as a loving gesture, and I got even more confused.
At some point, I split into multiple personalities without even realizing it. I was so detached I barely have any childhood memories. Years later, I remember my father commenting about someone:
“She’s not a woman — she doesn’t even take a shower.”
At that moment, something clicked. I thought: What if I stop showering? It became a strange survival tactic. The dirtier I got, the more protected I felt. I turned it into a game — as if shielding myself in grime made me invisible.
Slowly but surely, I’ve learned that this tactic is not effective at all. Abusers don’t actually care about your hygiene. Like my father, they often have poor hygiene themselves. Even though my mind understood this, I still couldn’t bring myself to shower because it felt like the least I could do.
The Shared House Trigger
While chatting with ChatGPT and reflecting on this, I went to the restroom in my shared house. I saw urine on the toilet seat. I knew who it was — the new male tenant. Only he leaves the lid up.
I wanted to post a sign, but technically that’s the management’s job. The new management is lazy and always trying to overcharge tenants, so I resisted out of spite — even though I was the one getting stressed. The previous management had a good sign, but it was removed. The new one? A useless, smug paragraph titled “Successful Men Sit to Pee.” Obviously, it wasn’t taken seriously.
I reported the issue again and wrote my own sign out of frustration:
Please close the lid before flushing to prevent virus from spreading in the air.
We have been seeing urine marks on the toilet seat.
Please sit and clean up after yourself. Thank you.
And Then… I Finally Showered
Possibly it was the thought that I had been sitting on a dirty toilet seat all these days.
After all of that, something shifted. Not because I was healing. Not because I felt strong.
But because I was grossed out.
I finally showered — not out of empowerment, but because I couldn’t take it anymore.
It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t healing.
But it was honest. And it was real.
What I’ve come to realize is that I often only manage self-care in moments of desperation — when discomfort, fear, or distress become so overwhelming that change feels necessary. Healing sounds nice, but it can be slow, messy, and rarely straightforward.
So, counting small wins — even something as mundane as taking a shower — is part of my healing. Each time I do it, I’m reclaiming a piece of myself, no matter how small it seems.
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