Of The Wretched

Dissociation

(Trigger warnings include: dissociation idealization, suicidal idealization,  thoughts of self-harm, implied/referenced self-harm)

And I am walking. And there is nothing around me. There are people, to be sure, hundreds, in fact. Screaming, shouting, cheering. And there I am, in the middle of it all, and there is nothing.

And I am walking. And the pavement turns to grass turns to asphalt turns to pavement again.

And I blink and a gun is against my head, wrapped under my own hands. And a bullet pierces my skull and- I blink again. And a knife, this time, beautiful, ornate, silver and ivory and gold. And my hand is curled around it, and it is facing me. And it hovers, for a moment, but it does not waver. And it plunges, deep between my second and third rib. And then it pulls out again, only to go back in, somewhere new. And it just continues, over and over and-

I blink and hands wrapped around my throat, my own. And they press hard and it is heavy and it is hard to breathe. And is it possible to snap your own neck? Is it possible to strangle yourself? But I always retract the hands after a minute or two, because I can't die, and I don't want there to be bruises, and I don't want anyone to know. And it is such a small thing, really. So small, and insignificant, and it hardly ever happens. And who cares if it is growing in frequency? Who cares if the desire is getting stronger? Who cares if I press down a little harder, for a little longer? But never too long, never long enough to bruise because they can't know. No one can know that I wonder what it would be like to no longer breathe.

I blink and I am walking. I am floating and weighted all at the same time. It's wonderful. Here, nothing can harm me. I can't feel anything and nothing can harm me. I can think of nothing and nothing can harm me. Not my past, not my present, not my future.

Floating in a space between existence and void. A pleasant nothingness. A way to escape and be free and feel nothing. Because feeling hurts me. And nothing can hurt me here.

It is pleasant and kind and all encompassing, all consuming. Like water, a lake, floating and held up by nothing but the will of the water below me. And it is so peaceful here, to feel nothing. And- is this what drugs are like?

And I am walking. And I am wondering. And I know this isn't healthy. And I know this is bad. But how can something so good be bad? It's not all that bad, really. I wish I could stay here forever.

And I am walking, and I am floating, and I am in bliss. Because I don't feel anything. And nothing can harm me. And I fear nothing, because nothing can harm me. And if nothing can harm me, and I am safe because nothing can harm me, and I feel nothing because nothing can harm me, then I can continue like this, surely.

A cycle that feeds into itself. If feeling nothing makes me safe, if feeling nothing means I can't be harmed, then why would I want to feel anything?

And it is safe, and it is cold, and I want to stay here in the nothing. And I want to go to sleep and never wake up and always float in the nothing.

And is it suicidal to want to feel nothing? Is it suicidal to want to drift off and stay in the nothing? Is it suicidal to want to make the nothing a reality? Is it suicidal to want to make the nothing permanent?

Because this is cold, and comforting, and familiar, and nothing. And it is so peaceful here, how could this ever be bad? Nothing can hurt me here. Neither myself nor anyone else. And I can be here. Not living, but not dead, but certainly not being harmed either. And isn't that all that matters? That I can't hurt anymore?

And I am no longer walking. And someone is talking to me. And I am floating, and only half processing. Because if I focus it will stop. If I focus I will lose this peace, lose this nothing.

And I am responding, and I am being honest, and the pain is creeping back in. And my heart hurts and my eyes begin to blur and I desperately push it back down. Desperately reach back out for the nothing, and it gently takes me back, and wraps around me. And I am safe, and I am nothing.

And I am walking. And I am in my room. And I am alone. And I want to write and I want to continue feeling nothing.

And I am sitting. And my phone is buzzing. And my sister is calling. And she wants to see me. And for a second I want to push her away. Because then I can continue to feel nothing. But I want a hug. And I am tired. I am growing tired of the nothing and I want to feel. I want to be hugged and I want to feel the hug. Because I am drowning. And maybe it's not so comforting, actually. And maybe it is suffocating. And maybe I am too far gone to notice. Too far gone to care. Too wrapped up in the bliss of nothing to hear the scream of agony deep inside me.

And I am walking. And I am downstairs. And I am with my sister. And I am talking. And I am in pain. And it is too great for the nothing to keep at bay. And I am crying. And I am weeping. And the nothing is gone now, and I can't get it back. And maybe I don't want it back. Because my sister is here, and she is holding my hand, and she is running fingers through my hair, and she is listening so attentively, so carefully, and I feel grounded and real. And maybe it's okay to feel, and maybe the nothing is bad after all. And maybe it's okay to feel the pain because maybe I have to go through it to change it. Because maybe nothing will change when you aren't willing to feel. And maybe the nothing is keeping you from changing, and maybe it keeps you from realizing what is wrong. And maybe the nothing is comforting at first, but is exhausting. And it will abandon you just as quick as anything else.

And my other sister comes and sits beside me. And both are holding my hands now. And I feel warm, and I feel real, and I feel like feeling is good. And I am okay with feeling. And I am okay because I know that I will be okay. And I know that the nothing is less helpful than the feeling. And the feeling feels nice. And the hugs feel nice. And the warmth feels nice. And I don't want the nothing anymore.

And I am free. And I am real. And I am here. And I am not hurting myself. And I am not okay, not yet, but I know I will be. And for now, that is okay.

And I am walking. And I am back in my room. And I'm not alone. And I can feel. And it is nice. And it is good.

I am not nothing. Nothing hurts more than feeling, in the end. And, if the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of changing, you change.

And I am real.

And I am feeling.

And it is good.