🪺 Glimmer Nest: The Realizations of Dissociation
Onward through the fog...
Some of you have asked, "What does dissociation actually feel like?"
Picture this: You're flipping through photos on your phone, and your child excitedly says, "That's when we saw 'Free Guy' for the fourth time at Cinemark in September 2021!" And you're sitting there thinking, "We did what now? Why? Was there popcorn?” That's dissociation for you. It's like your life is a movie, but someone forgot to turn on the subtitles.
My autistic son? He's got a memory like a steel trap. He'll casually mention details about our day-to-day life, and I'm left wondering if I accidentally stepped into a parallel universe where I did all these things I can't remember. Like apparently seeing terrible movies like Paw Patrol multiple times - movies I now know I do not like, but couldn't tell you why or when I formed that opinion. Was I sleeping, catatonic? I still don’t know.
At the peak of this fog, my wonderful husband was caring for my father-in-law with dementia in our home. And there I was, with "don't bother him" on repeat in my head like a broken record. Meanwhile, I'm working full-time as our sole income provider, acutely aware that the money isn't stretching far enough, our son is struggling at school, and I'm trying to remember basic things like when to take a shower or how I got to work.
One terrifying moment (out of many similar ones) was when I emptied an old purse of receipts and saw I had been purchasing kitchen shears at Daiso over and over. What I believe happened is my husband mentioned he loved them and that we could use more around the house. My brain (I’m assuming) said “if you buy more shears you can make things better.” I know that sounds super bizarre but I counted 8 receipts where I purchased the same shears in the span of two months. It’s absolutely triggering when I come across remnants of my past like that. Imagine holding so many crumpled receipts your hands can barely close, each a representation of a moment unremembered, but evidence, nonetheless of a mental breakdown … and the launch of so many panic attacks. Crumpled on the floor was also me, terrified, so confused, and absolutely drowning.
Panic attacks showed up at the most inconvenient times. I do remember pulling over into the same Target parking lot on my way to work as waves of apprehension would come over me. I was no longer able to mask. I would sit in my car and struggle to catch my breath knowing that this wasn’t normal. And let's not forget the high masking at work. There I was, getting lots of praise, being "so kind," for being so brave after my third cancer diagnosis, the picture of professionalism. All while secretly typing "TAKE A SHOWER" into my calendar because otherwise, I'd forget. True story. Time became this weird, stretchy thing that didn't make sense anymore. I DO remember silly things, like all the time forgetting if I ate lunch, saying hello to people more than once in a day and not because I was just being friendly (days were not blending… they were blurred) and being unsure if I even had put on underwear while discretely going into the ladies room to check.
Even when I started therapy again after my breakdown (more about that later) I was not aware of what disassociation was. I just knew I was stressed, depressed and having severe problems with my memory. I didn’t know that many traumas (some mega and some mini) were expertly stuffed down so far away I wasn’t even sure if I believed they existed any longer and I moved on without processing. I didn’t know I was so unsure of who I was. It was as though I was reading memorized lines … oh, this is how a normal person is supposed to act. I masked so much I lost all sense of self. Therapy has helped me recognize how it’s all connected and how to cope in ways that will make life safer for me.
I’ve been learning to recognize when dissociation is creeping up. Now, because I am so much more aware, I can often tell it's coming. If I'm sitting down, my legs start to feel heavy and have this cold sensation running through them. It's not like chills, more like a cool, liquid blanket being slowly drawn over my skin towards my feet... like a creepy slow force pulling me down.
When that happens, I work on telling myself where I am, what is true, who loves me, who I can talk to. Learning to ask for help has become one of the most important projects in my life now. It's not easy, but it’s necessary for my survival.
So, if you're out there feeling like you're watching your life through a foggy window, know this: You're not losing it, you're not alone, and there is a way through. It might involve a lot of therapy, calendar reminders, grounding techniques, and learning to reach out when you need support. But that's just life in the fog. And we're in this together.
Speaking of reaching out, I mentioned earlier that learning to ask for help has become one of the most significant focus areas in my life. It's a journey that's been both challenging and transformative. For someone who spent years being "strong," the one who had it all together (or at least appeared to), learning to voice my needs has been... well, let's just say I’m a work in progress.
Next time, I’ll share more about this journey of asking for help. We'll explore why it's so hard, how I'm learning to do it, and the unexpected gifts that come when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable.
Until then, remember: It's okay to not be okay. I guarantee that many who seem ok, are indeed … not. I know you’ve heard that a million times, but it’s really true. It's okay to need help. And it's more than okay to ask for it. If any of this resonates with you, I'd be honored if you'd subscribe or follow along.
Chat soon,
*Glimmer Nest is a safe space where we respect each other's privacy and experiences. While I'll be sharing my personal journey, please remember that this isn't professional medical advice. Always consult with your healthcare provider for medical concerns.
