Let’s talk about depersonalization – a topic I’ve covered before, where as a teenager and in to my early 20’s, I took on forms of myself – that weren’t real – to cope with my day to day life. It’s safe to say that that particular mechanism is no longer at the forefront, but I still experience depersonalization/realization regularly… in fact, any moment where I am able to completely shut off, I do. I let my mind take a backseat, put my body on autopilot and just let time pass – completely empty.
Since starting this blog I’ve had to come to terms with a lot of things, things that, until this point, I haven’t really spoken about – I’ve recognized myself dissociating in the middle of conversations, my brain tries to power off at random instead of under my controlled conditions. Maybe it’s because I’m frequently digging around in memories I actively try to repress, and have repressed for many years.
Below is a poem I wrote as a way to “talk therapy” myself into releasing these things I’ve kept under lock and key for so long… it isn’t great or well thought out – but that is kind of the point.
this is going to get dark, gritty and graphic – there are going to be parts of my life spoken about that maybe you don’t want to know or you don’t want to accept – take this as your warning.
Sometimes, I look at my hands and forget
which heart and brain are attached to them –
My surroundings are surreal and I am
awkwardly placed center stage for a show
I don’t remember auditioning for.
but there I am,
a girl believing a parent would love her
more if she had been born a boy,
a young girl,
sitting on the back of an older mans body,
when mom leaves the room he asks
the young girl for a “Saturday” massage
stands up from their bed and turns to face her,
a younger girl and her mother
abandoned at a gas station, night time mid winter
over a pack of cigarettes,
Fast forward –
she sits in a closet that would normally frighten her
it’s dark, but she feels nothing,
belt is looped around a clothes rack
she’s written her note, said her goodbyes.
there’s footsteps, someone yelling her name,
she takes pain killers daily to
numb the never ending
that wraps itself around her mind
Full stop – step back.
I open my eyes and I’m part of an audience
watching a school dance,
teachers and students pass by
a girl pinned to a wall by a boys arm
and body language
he’s saying he likes her, touches her shoulder,
the music is loud, so are the hallways
she says she’s not interested, she says it politely
he pushes her back-
she’s searching for a friend
but no one meets her frantic eyes, he’s moving closer,
she can smell his breath-
moment of opportunity, slip under his arm
back into the crowd.
The adult version of herself will experience this
again, by a multitude of men.
watching her early relationships
with boys who saw her figure,
an object, with which to use as they please.
she faces away
every time he decides he wants some – sometimes he goes for hours,
she stares blankly at a wall.
a warm body to hold and to fuck
an unstable mind to demand stability from.
Center stage again,
The lights are hot and I’ve forgotten my lines –
Men surround her
“You’ll never make it in the city –
we’ll give you 6 months to lose all your money
and come crawling back here to serve us our
Now she’s behind a desk,
being told that her mental illnesses
make her useless,
that she should quit her job and go on disability
like it’s something to be ashamed of,
but she should be ashamed.
She is a product.
A product of malicious words and
A product of sexual and emotional abuse-
of men who, still, try to lay claim to her body.
A product of constant anxiety,
of burning hot showers, just to bring her back to
but beneath the baggage and the barcode…
she’s just me.