I Didn’t Know I Was Dissociating Until I Wasn’t

I used to think I was just forgetful. Or tired. Or dramatic. But the truth is, I was gone. For years.

I don’t remember the first time I dissociated. I only remember the moment I realized I’d been doing it all along. It wasn’t a flashback. It was a slow, aching return. Like waking up in a room I didn’t know I’d left.

Healing in real time means I write from the middle. Not the end. Not the insight. Just the blur.

Some days I parent from muscle memory. Some days I cry in the car and call it progress. Some days I feel everything at once and nothing at all.

This post isn’t a beginning. It’s a breadcrumb. A fragment. A breath.

If you’re here, maybe you’ve disappeared too. Maybe you’re still disappearing. Maybe you’re learning how to come back.

I don’t have answers. But I do have this moment. And I’m writing it down before it slips away.