Why would someone return to pain, again and again? That question haunted me for years before I understood the answer.
I stayed connected to people who hurt me. Partners who tore me down. Friends who twisted the truth. Family members who played both sides until I couldn’t tell what was real. Even the mental health system, including both psychiatrists and psychologists who were supposed to help me heal, became part of the cycle. I kept going back to appointments even when they left me feeling unheard and abandoned, because when you are trauma bonded, the people who hurt you often feel like the only ones who can fix you.
I told myself I was walking away, and I meant it. But somehow, I always ended up back where I started, holding onto hope that something would change. I wanted to leave, but the pull to go back felt stronger than anything I could explain.
No matter how much pain they caused, I found myself excusing it, reaching out, forgiving things I swore I never would. It wasn’t about logic. It felt like survival. At the time, I thought maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I didn’t know what love was. Walking away felt like dying inside, even when staying was tearing me apart.
Later I learned there was a name for it. Trauma bonding. Trauma bonds happen when your mind and body attach to someone who harms you. It doesn’t happen overnight. It’s created through a cycle. They hurt you and then comfort you. They scare you and then pull you back with kindness, guilt, or love bombing. That mix of fear and affection gets into your nervous system. You start believing the calm moments are signs of change and cling to them, even when the chaos always returns.
Understanding trauma bonding changed everything. I could see how it worked, not just the other person’s behavior but how my own past had wired me to expect it, normalize it, and even confuse it with love.
My experience with psychiatry and psychology became another kind of trauma bond. I was getting therapy for complex PTSD when I was misdiagnosed with ADHD. Because of that mistake, my trauma therapy with my psychologist was cut off halfway through. When the misdiagnosis was corrected a year later, the psychiatrist, who was the head of the clinic, refused to resume my therapy, even though I was struggling with ongoing PTSD symptoms. They insisted I continue seeing the psychiatrist, who could not provide the support I truly needed. I remember telling her I was still struggling, still having nightmares, and still experiencing panic attacks. She said, “Yeah, that’s normal. That’s basically part of your life.” When I asked why she couldn’t do anything to help, I felt invisible and unheard. She also told me she didn’t want me to be too dependent on therapy.
It’s another level of heartbreak when the people who are supposed to help you betray you. There are so many others who are misdiagnosed, prescribed medications they don’t need, numbed instead of being given the actual help they require.
And yet I still kept going back. I even wrote a letter explaining my pain and the experience of being cut off from care. In the letter, I said that being discharged from their care was a huge disappointment for me, not just because I was still needing help, but because it made me question whether anyone truly cared about my well-being. When I reached out during a difficult time and was told I couldn’t even be answered, it shattered something inside me. It made me doubt all the decisions we had made together.
I wrote about how the experience had shaken me deeply, made me feel like I was just another file to close, another person to move on from. I asked how I could be discharged when I was clearly still struggling, left without access to proper help, waiting over a year for another appointment. I explained the long, sleepless nights, the despair, the moments when I felt I didn’t want to be alive. How all I could think was: how could people who were meant to help me, who I thought were genuine, just leave me like that? I said that while I was grateful for the support I received, it wasn’t enough. We were only halfway through the work, and being discharged while still struggling was not fair or right.
The sad part is that even after all of that, writing the letter and expressing my heartbreak, I kept going back. When you are trauma bonded, you keep returning to the people or systems that hurt you even when you know they cannot provide the help you actually need.
What made it harder was how long I tolerated these cycles in my life. I stayed silent, accepted mistreatment, and kept hoping for change, not because I wanted to be hurt, but because survival sometimes means adapting to what’s around you, no matter how damaging.
There’s a deep confusion in these patterns. Part of you knows the situation is unhealthy, but another part clings to small moments of kindness like a lifeline. The brain creates bonds not because it’s rational, but because it’s trying to keep you safe in an unsafe environment. This rewires your body’s responses. Your fight or flight system is constantly activated but also confused by the cycles of abuse and calm. That’s why setting boundaries or breaking away can feel like unbearable risk, even when it’s exactly what you need.
I remember the day I finally called out the pattern, my exhaustion spilling into rage I’d held for years. It was terrifying, but also liberating. Even after speaking up, the internal battle continued. Guilt whispered that I should have stayed silent. Fear crept in about what might happen next, the retaliation, the loneliness. Breaking free from trauma bonds isn’t a moment. It’s a process of doubt, pain, and courage. It’s learning to trust yourself again after years of confusion.
Every time I walked away from someone who mistreated me I felt relief mixed with loss. Relief because I was protecting my peace. Loss because I was walking away from familiarity, even if toxic. But with every boundary, the space grew for healing, for trust, and for reclaiming who I am outside those cycles.
Healing for me meant studying myself and paying attention to my own patterns. It meant recognizing the cycle before I was pulled back. It meant practicing how to resist the urge to reach out to the person who hurt me. Those urges felt unbearable at first, so I found ways to ground myself. I’d go for walks, text a trusted friend, or reach out to a safe person instead. Over time, that practice helped me stay away from what hurt me.
Some days were brutal. Over time, I started to feel more like myself again, trusting my instincts instead of doubting them. This is still a work in progress. But every step away from those toxic ties has made space for something quieter. Something steadier. Something that feels like peace, even when it is unfamiliar.
If you’re reading this, I hope you find your way to it too.
