My Own Flying Monkey — Understanding C-PTSD and the Inner Critic

How could I let this happen? With time to reflect, I blamed myself. Walking around feeling all the small wounds on the little boy inside me, the outside shell looking older and more fragile. It was the defenceless little boy who got hurt, bruised and cut. I found him sitting whimpering, holding his knees to his chest, paralysed by the darkness and solitude. He stutters, "it was my fault."

Above him circles my own flying monkey, mumbling insults with malicious intent. Sweeping down at the little boy like a magpie, instilling fear and dread.

***

The realisation that this flying monkey was part of me is a heavy burden to hold. The years when this monster was created — not by me, but nonetheless hosted and entertained by me. The work I am doing now, moving past a BPD diagnosis and learning about C-PTSD, is helping me understand how this unfolded. C-PTSD isn't built from one bad night — it's built slowly, from years of small erosions that never got the chance to heal. That's exactly how it happened to me. The self-talk wasn't mine originally; it was part of my castle walls being eroded, many small attacks and undermining, numerous setups to bring me down, leading towards the end to devastating isolation and, finally, parental alienation. Losing access to my children was the final blow that shattered what was left of my defence. It has brought my nervous system to a state where getting through the day is an achievement — waking with a pounding heart at four in the morning is my new normal, and any raised voice sends me to hide, to cushion my overly aroused nervous system. I didn't think this state existed.

Clarity came with understanding the existence of the other flying monkeys first, before I discovered my own. Tracing his origin honestly — years of being undermined, gaslit, isolated. A voice that was once an abuser became internalised, and now runs on autopilot, with no one needing to say a word.

Seeing this for the first time — how this little boy was attacked by a flying monster — my instinct was strong and resolute. I was going to clip his wings. I wanted to cripple him. I wanted to shut him down, silence him, and be done with him. I wanted to hurt him.

***

With insight comes healing. And with time comes insight. Understanding my inner flying monkey brought a shift. I can now see him as young, scared, doing a job he was trained for rather than acting out of malice. Weak, not evil. He would do better if he knew better. No one inherently wants to do bad, and I carry that in my heart. Understanding myself — my ADHD, my addiction — my problems are here to be solved, not clipped. Seeing the monkey circling in this new light gives me peace. I will nurture him and teach him a new way. I will show the boy, and him, that friendship can grow in the strangest form. Where there is a will there is hope, and with hope comes the willingness to change.

If I can heal, so can this flying monkey, and so can the little boy. The fear of a magpie swooping, clicking its beak, is only as real as you make it. Befriending it, seeing its distress for what it is — that is the shift I need.