Two Tracks
Childhood dissociation is a strange beast. In ways most who haven’t lived it won’t ever intuitively grasp.
I lived two lives, running alongside each other but never touching.
On one track was the ‘me’ who went to school, did homework, showed up at appointments and playdates.
That version of me didn’t know what was happening. Not really. They were built to keep going, to keep smiling, to stay innocent of what we couldn’t bear.
On the other track, other parts carried everything.
Why we woke screaming in the night, sweating through sheets.
Why we knew closets and mirrors weren’t safe.
Why we knew what adults did.
That was the one who curled on the floor instead of the bed, who vomited from terror in the dark.
These tracks ran side by side. They leaked into each other all the time, but never met.
I felt wrong, dirty, ruined, without knowing why. I didn’t understand what made me different, only that I was. Every cruel twist of social rejection because of this just deepened the barriers.
That’s the paradox of childhood dissociation.
It shields you enough to keep living, but it also leaves you fractured. The unknowing self stumbles through the day, while the knowing self is hidden but still screaming.
Both are you.
Neither is whole.









