Irondad Oneshots

being alive

A Memoir I Wrote For Class 

TW: Depression, Dissociation, Graphic Depictions of Mental Illness

*

It's 2:07am.

I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, tiles cold under me, eyes staring blankly at the reflective surface of the fridge, a blurry reflection staring back. There's an empty glass by my feet, bare and goosebumped from the winter air. The tiles are blurred too, but there's no tears in my eyes, everything always feels out of focus like I'm wearing a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription.

I stared at the girl in the silver reflection. Still a child, but far from it if you count the decades of pain stored in tired eyes.

She looked about as messy as I feel. A half-assed bun of probably greasy hair from having gone one too many days without a shower, strands of hair in every direction. Pimples on a pale face like mountains on a landscape. Picked at scabs leaving marks of dried blood. Dark circles beneath her eyes like someone has stepped all over her, leaving behind dark shoeprints and sunken skin. An emptiness behind dark eyes like an abyss hiding too much underneath for someone so young.

Her hands are shaking, just barely noticeably so.

This is dissociation, she says to me in the reflection, this is the answer to that question you've been asking yourself.

And I stare back at her, this reflection of a girl I don't recognize, a person I don't know, a pair of eyes, a window to the soul that isn't mine.

I don't know what to tell her.

Go to bed, she says, voice so far away.

She morphs into the girl I do know. The ten-year-old me with flowers in her hair and smile curving up her cheeks, eyes sparklingly bright. Skin endlessly clear with little freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheekbones, smile lines crinkling the corners of her eyes. She looks like the version of me I last remember seeing the world clearly as. She's so wide-eyed and innocent to the world of truths she'll face soon enough. She doesn't need to think twice, doesn't dwell on mistakes, doesn't overanalyse every little word or action, doesn't need extra motivation to crawl out of bed in the morning, doesn't need to put effort into things like breathing or being in the simplest form. She laughs, clear and bell-like, so easy, so simple, for her. Sees the world as something beautiful still, picks dandelions and wears them in her hair with skirts down to her ankles and hair braided down her spine, dancing through fields of grass and giggling into the endless nights when it was a mystery to stay up so late.

I feel like I've let her down.

She would be upset to hear of who she's become, who I am, if she knew, maybe things would be different, maybe there would've been a chance for a different outcome, a new scenario, a version of life where I didn't exist and in my place, some version of that old me would be there.

She wouldn't be sitting on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, apologizing to a younger version of herself, world blurring and mind wandering far and wide to the darkest corners of the universe. She wouldn't sit here like this.

I wonder what she would say to me.

Find the little joys, I think she'd say, focus on the parts you can, you can do anything, I believe in you.

But I don't think it changes anything.

Why did you start to care? She'd ask, small and young and powerfully innocent in comparison. Why did you change to please others? Why did you stop listening to me? Why did you break our promise to stay young and sweet and wonderful forever? Why did you grow up? What changed?

I don't think that changes anything either. It's not like I can tell her the answers. She won't ever know.

The refrigerator hums as though it understands just as well and the reflection blurs away.

It feels like I've had too much to drink.

This floaty, untethered, disconnected feeling is like being drunk except it's not the warm, giggling, sleepy floating that comes with drinking, this is cold and quiet in a way that's simply wrong.

Feeling drunk goes farther than just the floating. I'm forgetful to a scary extent. I lose trains of thought more often than I finish them, if I don't write a to do list every day, things won't be done, if I'm not reminded, I won't eat or drink or shower. It's a part that goes hand-in-hand with the dissociating, the forgetfulness.

I almost forget my old therapist's name, sitting on the kitchen floor, spacing out.

Craig.

It's a weird thing to be upset over. I panic for a few moments, searching my head for anything. A pivotal moment in my life deserves a clear memory, I think.

There are little things, like I remember the only chair I sat in and the only sweater I'd wear at the appointments. I remember the window behind his desk, books stacked everywhere. I think I remember him wearing neutral-colored cardigans, but even that's a little spotty.

I remember two conversations I had with him out of the six hours I spent in that room.

One was when he was asking me questions to determine a diagnosis. He asked me if I had a history of toxic relationships. I said yes, still reeling in the aftermath of Jesse and Dakota and Zachary.

I remember telling him 27 in response to him asking if I'd done anything since the last time I'd seen him.

Craig.

I try to log it away, knowing it's bad that I nearly couldn't remember, but it's fruitless. My head's too far away to catch, I haven't felt real and connected in years.

I feel like cough syrup, I send to my friends. It doesn't make sense, it doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the way I feel, sitting on cold tiles and staring into eyes that I can't remember or recognize.

It's a scene in a TV show that none of them have seen, they can't understand. They don't.

Okay?? They reply, confused and uncertain by what I mean and what I'm trying to do. What's up?

I don't reply. I'll tell them I didn't see the text in the morning. It's easier than trying to remember.

Blurry.

Empty. Floating. Untethered. Blurry. Disappearing. Not Real. Fuzzy. Blurry. Gone. Blurry.

I don't know.

Things are complicated. It's impossible to explain exactly what it's like to be in this headspace, to dissociate to this level for so long, it's hard to remember how everyone else sees the world let alone being able to discern the differences.

It's like waking up in a body that isn't yours and trying to learn the ways of this person that doesn't feel like you or talk like you or live like you. Every step feels like so much effort, like you have to think about every muscle in your body and concentrate to make sure they do as you want them to. Every breath is like running a marathon, reminding yourself to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

It's like dreaming. Everything around you is fake, nothing has consequences, you'll wake up soon enough, you're sure of it.

It's like being drunk constantly.

It's like being a ghost. Invisible, floating, untethered from the real world, on the outside looking in.

It's just the way it is.

It's a part of me, this blurry filter, this untethered mind, this floating soul.

It just is.

Presently, I drag myself up to my feet.

It's 4:29am.

Another night gone.

_____

i know this isn't a fic or an irondad oneshot but i wrote this for class and was kinda proud of it so I figured I could share it with more people 

Lyss