How Does 'The Way I Used To Be' Handle Trauma?

What makes 'The Way I Used to Be' stand out is its refusal to soften trauma’s edges. Eden’s experience isn’t packaged as inspiration porn; it’s ugly, relentless, and at times frustrating. The book mirrors how trauma warps identity—early Eden loves band tees and messy hair, but post-trauma, she performs a hyper-sexualized version of herself, like she’s trying to outrun her body. Her self-destructive phases aren’t romanticized; you cringe as she pushes away the few people who care. The timeline jumping between high school years subtly shows how trauma freezes and fragments time—one chapter she’s numb, the next she’s explosive. Small moments wreck you, like when she compulsively checks locks, a detail that screams hypervigilance. The lack of a villain monologue or courtroom drama feels intentional—real trauma often lacks narrative justice. Instead, the focus stays on Eden’s internal battle, which is where the real story lives.

'The Way I Used to Be' treats trauma like a shadow—always present, changing shape. Eden’s avoidance of her own reflection hit me hard; it’s such a visceral metaphor for dissociation. The book’s strength is in its patience—it lets Eden be unlikable, because trauma isn’t pretty. Her sarcasm and bad decisions aren’t flaws but survival tools. The way music and art become minefields for her (things she once loved now tied to pain) is a detail that stuck with me for weeks.

Reading 'The Way I Used to Be' felt like holding a shattered mirror—each fragment reflecting a different facet of trauma. Eden’s journey isn’t linear; it’s messy, cyclical, and achingly real. The book doesn’t glamorize healing or offer tidy resolutions. Instead, it lingers in the dissonance—how trauma distorts time, relationships, and self-perception. The writing mirrors Eden’s numbness early on, with sparse, almost detached prose, then gradually gains intensity as her anger surfaces. What struck me most was how her silence becomes its own character, suffocating yet familiar. The way she pushes people away isn’t just self-sabotage; it’s a survival tactic gone rogue. The novel’s brilliance lies in showing how trauma isn’t just the event—it’s the aftermath, the way it rewires your instincts. Eden’s relationship with her brother, for instance, is a quiet tragedy—he’s close enough to notice but powerless to help. The book’s raw honesty about the loneliness of trauma hit harder than any dramatic confrontation scene.

I’ve read countless stories about assault survivors, but few capture the dailyness of trauma like this one. Eden’s coping mechanisms—sex, drugs, lies—aren’t framed as moral failures but as flawed armor. The ending isn’t cathartic; it’s just a step forward, which feels truer to real healing. It reminded me of how societal expectations often pressure survivors to ‘get over it’ on a timetable. This book rebels against that notion, letting Eden’s pain take up space without apology.