if you could read your own trauma as someone else's story
there something freeing about dissociating. forgetting who you are, the world you live in, just...
walking forward, ever forward, completing the mission you were assigned.
the mind feels like an expanse of empty, windswept caves
the howls in the hollows blowing through
your mind, instead of being a bastion of warmth in the cold, is instead a clean, efficient machine. your thoughts, once jumbled, simply don't appear at all.
I revisit these times, these fragments of memory of places where my life has broken, because even now they do not feel like they were me. Even still, they feel as though foreign memories, as if they are from someone else's head. The strange emptiness of the school courtyard, snow covering the sidewalk, bus letting people off and leaving. My skin cold, but my mind colder, not a second of wasted thought. Memories that don't feel like memories.
And the much closer ones. Ones, just days ago, where I looked at my mother and didn't feel anything. I knew something was different, and after a few seconds I acted as if responding normally, but when I looked into her eyes, I just... Didn't feel anything.
Then there are the much worse times. Times when the stress has gotten so high that it almost constantly makes me dissociate. I remember at FSY, a week long church thing with some hundreds of people, the stress had gotten so bad that I stopped being able to regulate myself. It felt like the parts of me that were inside were outside. My analysis of people was constantly stated directly to them, the thoughts that made up me were now their own, and my mind was uncontrolled. My thoughts, my feelings, my ideas, my mind, all felt alien. Like they were someone else's, forced on me.
Then, the heat would build, ramping up, until it crashed. Everything would stop, crash to a halt. I would retract as far as I could go. I dare not respond to my friends as they interact with me, I dare not lift my head from my arms, I dare not speak, I dare not breathe, I dare not. I was terrified of myself.
But time moves. Eventually I grew. Eventually I rested. Eventually I went home.
Still, though, I remember. I live through memories that are not mine. I watch myself through someone else's eyes. This history of everything that is not me is my history. This history of my life is my trauma. This trauma is someone I will live with forever.
yousharknotpass
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