Dissociation “Hate,”
Dissociation “Losing Father,”
Dissociation “What Did I Do to You,”
Dissociation “Out of Body”,
These are the series of dissociations I clearly remember over the past few months. They came with flashbacks and drained my strength. For the past week, I’ve been fighting tirelessly. I’m battling the feelings these dissociations leave me as a gift and they are constantly whispering in my ears “we’ll come back”. The gift they leave consists of many parts: a Milkshake of fear and anger mixed together to be consumed in the mornings, which then makes my body paralized and depletes my strength to get up. But it also gnaws at me from the inside, refusing to come out.
“Endure, you!,” the demon inside me laughs. This is the anger that fills every cell of my body. This is the anger that refuses to come out, not through sports, crafts, conversation, or silence. It grows and grows, threatening to erupt again. Anger from nowhere. Anger that sneaks in silently and settles. Anger… anger… anger…
I pathetically try to dig through the drawers stored in my unconscious to find the source. But does the demon leave me with the strength to do that? Still, I crawl, collapsed on my hands, bracing my elbows against the floor, dragging one hand forward with great effort, and after a big exhale, the other elbow follows, moving perhaps a centimeter. Oh, I’m exhausted, but now it’s time to crawl on my knees. Somehow, I manage to reach the first drawer. Ah, my father’s anger is there, carefully folded with hatred and fear. I had hidden it with a love that his death left me, supposedly beautifying his face. Even this delusional love doesn’t help me.
What did he leave for me to live on this earth? What did he teach me so I could create something on this earth? Nothing, except hatred and fear. So, I tore out this piece of love and threw it aside. I saw another old piece, but I couldn’t recognize it. I picked it up, touched it, turned it over, brought it to my face, hoping my skin would remember its feeling, but nothing… It was black. These drawers were full of black pieces. Which one was it? I wondered. I didn’t give up and, while crawling back, I pulled it out of the unconscious with my hand. The demon standing nearby kept laughing and enjoying my torment. “I will find it,” I gritted through my teeth, and then I realized the fear of the demon had disappeared. How scared I was of demons in my childhood, calling angels to protect me from them. Now, where have those angels gone? Facing this demon directly, they seem to watch from afar as if I’m being tested and they are scoring me. But you see, angels, you brought me here, face to face with it, and I will defeat it.
That evening, they sent me home. I got ready to go out with friends. A kind friend brushed my hair like a child, and my sister helped me with my dress.
– Have fun – my sister said.
– Yes, – I said loudly, but quietly laughed along with the demon, knowing it wouldn’t happen today…
On my way to meet my friends, my breathing quickened, and anxiety came. “How will they meet me?” “What will they think?” “What do I represent to them?” Thoughts raced through my mind. I entered, fell on the sofa, and asked for water. Others came… It seemed I returned to that room and saw… that black piece I had taken from the drawer was gently swaying. It seemed to gather strength, ready to rustle uncontrollably. Then I remembered… This was a piece left from my father saying: “you are a ghost!”
Weren’t you the one, dear father, who came into the room and didn’t look at me? Weren’t you the one who taught me that it didn’t matter whether I was sitting there or not? Weren’t you the one who taught me how to be a ghost, colorless, voiceless, motionless, frozen… Wasn’t it you who, if this ghost slightly moved, would roar for it to take back its transparent state and shut up? Here’s what’s written on this black cloth you left me as a heritage: “You are a ghost, no one sees you, no one values you, no one cares about you, and you’re not worth appearing to be seen. Always be transparent and don’t bother others with your presence.”
Cursed be you, the giver of this, the thief of my value given at birth by the universe, the self-proclaimed parent who never parented. Did you forget how to be a parent? Or did you never know…
This black cloth was raging, darkening my eyes for my friends to see. Everything came through this cloth to me, and exhausted from the battle to remove it and see my friends properly, I gave up and went to the window. I took out a cigarette and lit it, hoping it would help somehow. I still remembered seeing my friends without this cloth, knowing they were different than with it. I tried to recall their old faces to be able to interact with them. In my consciousness, the distorted image continued to exist, where I, in the corner, transparent ghost, watched with envy as my friends rejoiced and loved each other without me.
My body mechanically continued to function. Friends decided to continue the fun at a bar. My body mechanically followed them. I entered a noisy bar, or rather, a bar full of roaring men whose masculine energy was heightened by watching rugby. I realized I had entered the wrong place. I carefully looked around to find a chair just in case. I grabbed it and sat down. Here’s where I made the mistake, sitting with my back to them. I forgot that the enemy should always be within control and sight. I naively turned my back, inviting a knife strike. Five men behind me roared and cheered, celebrating a goal.
My body didn’t delay. Reflexes “saved” me immediately. It jumped, muscles tensed, trying to hide and protect, instantly lowering and bending forward. The body was more occupied with hiding, so blood didn’t reach the voice to shout, and it fell silent. Position secured, body frozen, now it’s time for tears, the brain thought, and didn’t forget to release the waterfall from my eyes. This was a reaction, my body had learned well from my father. Good training. Logical, isn’t it? If you hear a roar, it threatens life, and you freeze in fear. Thanks should be given for this legacy you gave me, father. Your roar was a good training program to prepare for real life.
They revived me with lemon juice and ice water after 5 minutes… I got home and fell asleep, not caring how they continued the fun. What could I regret, that black cloth still covered my eyes, and I didn’t think they missed me there.
This cloth is still on my eyes today, 6 days later… I can’t remove it easily. I’m sitting, shaking, and writing. My fingers barely follow to type letters… I thought transferring it to paper might take off this black cloth, but I still feel no relief.
Nearby, a fellow patient is sitting, talking to himself, worrying about something. His head is on the table, using his hand as a pillow. He’s worrying and talking… moaning and talking… Next to him, the demon is still watching me, laughing and enjoying…
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