Depersonalization - Blog Posts

fray to free.

The world moves around my body, sensations ghosts on my empty form. I hear the sound of life, of people, anchored in the here and now. Their world in colour, vibrant touch, souls as light as feathers. Webs of feeling stretch between, emotion, taste, (felt, not unseen).

My world I see in black and white, my anchor cut, all light unfelt. Inside my mind a world of dreams, of light and colour, (touch, all seen). My comfort, it bleeds thin. Too many layers, broken webs, foggy eyes with my too-full head. This world it feels too much for me, heavy soul, all in 2D. Inside my mind I find recluse, running free in vibrant stories. I watch it all as I move through, webs twist around, trap me apart. This life it is not meant for me. People ground. And I cut free.

🖤

It takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart.

Finnick // The Hunger Games

Growing up neurodivergent coupled with abuse (mainly emotional) definitely shaped the way I see myself gender wise and existing in general.

I felt like a frankenweenie of a person. A stitched up creature in the shape of a dog that wore a shirt and pants.

It felt like my main abuser, my creator, didn't want me to be a human. That for some reason other children were stitched up with love and fresh flesh in the shape of a human while I was stitched up and patched together with wooden screws and dead flesh in the shape of a dog. And when people asked what the smell was she always pointed to me as if I'd chosen to wear a rotten suit.

I sat stuffed with organs that didn't belong at the table with my creator and others like her and tried to pretend I was made up of the same stuff. Everyone tried to pretend too. But there's a difference between a human's company and a dog. My tail always hit the table in loud thumps until it fell off and I would crank my head to chew while everyone else ate normally. Something always ruined the already horrible disguise. And then the whole table would point out how truly horrible the disguise was. I would retreat to the ground with my ears folded in.

My creator wasn't afraid of telling me how the green mold and cracking of bones were becoming too much of a problem. Most days it felt like she had given up on even looking at me. She had a dog for a child and I knew myself that I was in no way better than a real child. I was a dog. No dog made up for a human. And no human wanted a dog for a child.

I see myself in the mirror and try to imagine a version of myself that's human. A womanly me, a manly me. But I still end up poking and shoving that dead flesh back into its stitch before I get dressed. I know I'm human. I know I'm human, but here's a disconnect between the words me and human.

(Most of my posts have been me talking about my experience with being neurodivergent and having cptsd since Tumblr for me is a place where a bunch of skrunkly humans join and be skrunkly humans for however long this site stands up so here's another post about that.)

Anyways, that's it for tonight I got to scroll all the way back through my last searched tag since my Tumble crashed.

Sometimes I look back at my memories and think "Yeah no, my childhood wasn't that much it was pretty normal."

Cue someone asking me what it was like and the complete dread that passes through me as my brain intentionally tries to sift through the river for normal memories because you don't share some messed up shit with most strangers unless ya' want to and everytime it comes up really blurred or practically nonexistent. And that makes me realize that yeah, my childhood wasn't actually normal. Does someone with a normal childhood need to search every nook and cranny of their memories for a single memory that they can comfortably share with someone and come up short each time? Probably not.

Alone I can convince myself of having a normal enough childhood but that's because my brain accepts a single moment out of hundreds that was relatively normal enough to count and then immediately takes it as a "Yeah that works, it was a good childhood."

Hell my brain can barely remember most of my childhood not because of a lack of memory but because it just won't show up. I search and search and it's all a blurry mass of "Yeah I was alive at that point." But like, that's not what I'm looking for. I'm looking for what I did when I was alive. But yeah, brains are flippin' weird.