Complex PTSD and dirty dishes

Many of us who live with Complex PTSD were taught as children that having needs was wrong—or worse, dangerous. We were either punished for expressing those needs or ignored until we learned to silence ourselves. I internalized this message early: my needs would not be met, so why bother voicing them? I learned to keep my thoughts, feelings, and desires tucked away, hidden like dirty dishes no one wanted to see.
Now, in my adult life, I am no longer in that abusive environment. I’m married to a safe and loving spouse who genuinely wants to support me and meet my needs. It’s a beautiful gift, and I am grateful. But here’s the hard truth: for the first 25+ years of my life, I was conditioned not to have needs. So even now, when something is bothering me, I still feel like speaking up would be a burden. Instead, I stack that unspoken need—like a dish—into the sink of my soul and carry on.
At first, this didn’t seem like a problem. I have prided myself on my self-reliance. I thought, I can handle it. I’m strong. I do not need help! But every little unspoken thought, every swallowed hurt, every unmet need became one more dirty dish tossed into the sink. A mental plate here, an emotional bowl there. Some come clean easily; others are caked with dried-on pain and resentment. And I just keep stacking—telling myself, Just one more. I’ve got this. Until the sink starts to overflow. What was once a manageable pile becomes a precarious swaying tower. One more insignificant fork could send it all crashing down—grimy plates, milk-crusted bowls, baked-on casserole dishes shattering across the floor of my life. And I start to panic.
I don’t need anything from anyone, I tell myself. That’s what makes me strong... right?
I’m learning. Actually, I’m unlearning. Unlearning the conditioned belief that self-sufficiency is the only way to stay safe. It took me years to build these walls, and now I’m slowly, painfully dismantling them. I’m learning to “practice” sharing—offering a dish or two to someone safe. It might sound simple, but to someone with Complex PTSD, this kind of vulnerability can be terrifying.
I had to start small. Every once in a great while I hand a dish to my husband. He receives it gently, without judgment. Last week, I called a dear friend on a hard day and offered her a dish. She gingerly turned it over in her hands and said, “I’m so sorry. That must be so painful.” She didn’t throw it back in my face. She wasn't annoyed. She simply held it for a few minutes. She was safe with my dish. Every time I’m brave enough to share, and someone proves to be safe, a little piece of me heals.
I am realizing these dishes were never mine to carry alone. They were never meant to stay piled up inside me. The more I practice giving away a dish or two, the more I build the courage to hand over a whole load. I’m learning what it means to be loved—and it is one of the most courageous things we can do as survivors.

You can be brave too.
Start small, I mean really small.
Hand over a dish to someone safe.