My heart is racing and my mind is spinning. My eyes dart around to grasp the objects near me, and I eventually shake my head to connect the pieces and disorient my thoughts. I can’t stand too close to someone because I’m afraid my mind will convince me to hit them, or say something heinous. Not because I want to, in fact I’m terrified that I will. My therapist told me that having thoughts this strong, makes me the least likely person in the room to do what they’re saying. I see the logic, but in those moments it doesn’t always feel that way.
Regardless, I’m relieved to leave the situation. I walk along Forbes to get home. The lights and traffic match the energy of my mind, but sometimes I wish my walk could be quiet the way it was last year before I moved. The walk was long but I kind of liked that. Crossing the boulevard is a common indicator that the walk to campus is too long, but seeing the buildings downtown was peaceful to me. They are so far away but their size and shape are familiar, especially when the sun is setting behind them. When there were no cars waiting at the stoplights, I would stand in the middle of the road and examine them. I could feel the breeze and the air smelled familiar.
I do like Forbes, I love being so close to campus and other restaurants and stores. CVS is a two minute walk off of Coltart, where there is a mini mart two more minutes away from there. No one seems to know about it, I’ve only been inside once but it was very enticing. Though there is a giant wall of vapes behind the desk that the cashier will try to convince you to buy no matter your age. The whole place is basically a hole in the wall, maybe that makes it less inviting than it seems.
Sometimes when it is really late at night, or should I say where the night meets the morning, I walk home and stand at the end of the street. I look down Forbes where there are no cars to be found. It’s quiet and still. My eyes glaze over and the soft smile fades from my face. My mind is exerting a soft buzz and I don’t feel as cold anymore the more my body relaxes. I don’t think this is a normal relaxing stare, yet I’m thankful for it. It feels like a break.
Dissociation is your brain trying to protect you. It shuts down when your nervous system is overwhelmed, and I honestly think it’s a pretty cool response. It can either happen against your will or you can welcome it in times of need, which for me, is fairly often.
But unfortunately people do notice, I am either on or I’m off. I’m checked in or I’m simply not there at all. If you were to ask me what I was wearing yesterday, I would not be able to tell you. I have trouble focusing in class and retaining information. I feel guilty not being able to remember a single thing I learned in classes I took in previous semesters, and not because it was a long time ago, but because there was nothing to remember at all. You could hand me the syllabus and it wouldn’t ring any bells.
This semester has been better but in an odd way. I am actually enjoying my classes and I’ve started being more intentional about participation. I’ve been applying to grad schools, I’m doing well on the Speech Team and I started painting again. I found old paintings that I shoved under my bed years ago because I thought they were bad. She painted so many faces because she was good at it. Practice was still art to the untrained eye - even a rusty one.
I can see my past more clearly now. The younger versions of myself feel closer, I’m succeeding and have direction in my life. Younger me would be so happy to see herself now. She would think I’m really cool, artsy and almost a little too far out there. But that’s what makes her cool. Her face is interesting and she looks like she knows who she is.
But despite feeling more connected to myself, I still have those moments where I shut off. Yet, I’ve been more happy about it than usual. I get home after a long day, turn my soft lighting on and lay in my bed. My blankets and pillows are warm and inviting. My room smells sweet and refreshing for no particular reason, and it makes me happy that it’s a natural result of my living space. I go upstairs and sit in the living room with my roommates. I see my plants that I love; I started putting baby spider plants in empty diced tomatoes and Dr. Pepper cans. The flowers are growing a bit slowly, I’m not sure how long they will take to sprout up higher and bloom.
I’m able to lay on the couch and stare into space. My phone gets overstimulating and at some point I just get tired of looking at it, something that hasn’t really happened before. The room is still and my roommates are calm. My heart doesn't start racing when someone walks in, and there has yet to be any conflict. I’m able to turn off and stare.
I have a boyfriend who is actually calm and consistent, and after five months I’ve finally started to truly relax. Alarms that never needed to go off in my head have quieted down, and I’ve started accepting the support he wants to give me. My mind and body will shut off around him too, especially when we’re in my room. I’m able to lay there and let myself detach. He just holds me.
“You’re so loving,” I tell him. A formation of soft confusion and persistence coexists on his face. “Because I love you,” he says.
I must’ve forgotten how simple love is meant to be.
Life has turned good again, and it’s odd to look at where I was last year. I felt trapped in the situation I was in, and I would’ve never thought I would be where I am today– let alone be able to choose my own future. There is joy in feeling secure again, but the farther away I am from that time, the more clearly I can see what actually happened. How many “what actually happened” moments I’ve already had…the event I convinced myself didn’t even happen at all, suddenly can’t be denied anymore. I want it to be number two but the number is three - I’m still processing one and two I am not ready for three, three simply does not exist. Three is not real and you don’t get to tell me that it is. And that’s when the dam will break. All the things my mind has tried to protect me from gushes out into a giant flood. The world feels like it’s grabbing me by my clothes and forces me to look at things dissociation helps me look away from. I panic thinking I’ve done something wrong and that I’m destroying other people's lives for feeling this much. Nightmares flare up again and I wear extra compressing clothes and layers to feel safe and calm. The first wave of anxiety hits, until the wave of raw hurt comes next.
No more anxiety, no more dissociation– pure hopelessness. Crushed by the weight of continuous traumatic experiences, my bright future suddenly fading from view. I walk into my room to smell and feel good things again, but it’s empty and silent - number three really did happen. The walls are white. The carpet is brown. The blanket is red. My thoughts aren’t racing anymore. All the pieces are right in front of me, and there’s nothing to do about it except look at them.
I finally cry.
I feel my body pushing me towards moving forward; moving on. It doesn’t force, it gently opens the door and waits for me to take the opportunity.
And fortunately, I am able to do so. I will feel relatively disabled for a few days when this happens but it doesn’t last forever. I become terrified that I am hurting others with my spiral, pulling away because I feel irritable and sad. When I go to apologize, I’m shocked when they tell me they didn’t even notice– I’m walking on eggshells for no reality driven reason. One barely noticeable shift in my mood isn’t going to ruin someone’s whole life, and I don’t realize that until someone points it out. Instead, they point out positive traits about me instead of using every minor change in my mood as proof of moral failure.
The people in my life now then say the most shocking yet grounding thing that I’ve finally accepted that they mean.
“I know who you really are, Mia.”
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