It’s a tricky thing, dissociating. Especially when you don’t recognize that it’s happening. One minute you’re listening to the conversation around you, and then you’re not. Someone says something to you, and you realize you have no idea what the conversation is anymore. Sure, this happens to everyone, once in a while. Everyone zones out. It’s the constancy that’s different. The constant hijacking of the brain, where you no longer know where you are, or, even, who you are. The black spaces where there is nothing. Not knowing how you got to where you’re going. Or why you’ve even gone there.
Then there are the triggers: a touch, a frangrance, some random piece of conversation and you’re transported back to a not so safe place. Staring off into space, in your own personal hell. This happened to me at therapy this week. We weren’t even talking about anything overtly triggery, and yet, there I was. Gone. And when I came back, my ability to talk was gone. I couldn’t even really grunt. My poor therapist. I couldn’t even write down what I was suffering. I could sort of draw stick figures, like a four year old. Trying to communicate how lost I felt was impossible. Fortunately, I had my art book with me, and could point out on my drawing of “The Pit” who I was (which she had already figured out), and where I was in relation to everyone else. Now comes the difficult part: how to tell her one of my emotional parts (EP) self-harmed. Not me, my skin is still intact. But my EP did. It’s a weird thing, to close your eyes to have a pep talk with yourself, and to see yourself with bleeding arms. Obviously, this was very distressing to me. But I had already gone over my session by forty minutes. I wasn’t about to bring that up. But I will this week. Young One self-harming and Angry Dude drinking and smoking. Sigh. Doing what I really want to be doing. It was so strong that Friday I even bought a pack of cigarettes. Gave them to Josh Friday night, and was really craving them Saturday morning. So I’m glad to have given them up.