Dissociation – how it feels to me

Hello, my dears

Today I would like to tell you something about dissociation...

Dissociation is part of my everyday life. Not constantly, but again and again. And each time it feels a little the same and yet different.

The best way I can describe it is this: I'm still here, but not quite reachable anymore.

When my system goes into isolation

Dissociation doesn't happen to me for no reason. It occurs when my inner self is overwhelmed, when feelings become too intense, memories too close, or my nervous system simply doesn't have the capacity.

Then something inside me withdraws. Not consciously. Not voluntarily. But automatically.

It's as if my body is saying, "This is too much right now. I'm going to take you to safety for a moment."

That's how it feels to me.

When I dissociate, the world feels changed:

• Everything seems muted , like in a movie or as if I were looking through glass.

• I can see my surroundings, but they don't feel real.

• There are noises, but they reach me only with a delay and sound muffled.

• My body feels foreign, heavy, or numb .

• Feelings suddenly disappear or are barely perceptible.

• I function on the outside, but I'm gone on the inside; it's like being on autopilot.

• Conversations are underway, but I can barely follow them.

• Time loses its meaning – everything blurs.

Sometimes I keep talking, nodding, reacting, and only realize later that I wasn't really there inside.

Dissociation is not all the same.

There are mild forms – such as daydreaming or drifting off – and there are deeper states in which I hardly have any access to myself.

When dissociation deepens

Sometimes it stays at this "drifting away". But there are also moments when I'm no longer really responsive .

Then people speak to me, and I either don't hear them at all or only hear them very distorted. I know someone is there, but I can't react. Not because I don't want to – but because my system can't anymore. Or sometimes I just sit or lie somewhere for an indefinite amount of time and afterwards I don't know what happened or how much time has passed.

In these states, it feels as if I am trapped inside myself . The connection to the outside world is as if it has been severed.

If it gets really bad, I can even just "pass out." For example, I've been sitting on the toilet and fallen asleep. My body was there, but my consciousness wasn't fully present.

When Kim spoke to me, I did react minimally, but I kept nodding off – as if briefly brought back to reality and then immediately disappeared again.

Only through cold stimuli and clear reorientation questions (where do I live, birthdays, what is my name) did I slowly return to the here and now.

A sentence for outsiders

If someone speaks to me in such moments, it might seem as if I'm not listening or don't want to participate . But I simply ca n't; my body is overloaded and my consciousness has temporarily deserted me. It helps to remain calm, ask gently, and not put me under pressure.

The important thing is:

Not every dissociation looks spectacular. Often it is quiet, inconspicuous, and barely visible from the outside.

Recognizing early warning signs

Over time, I've learned to take my warning signs more seriously. For me, dissociation often manifests itself through:

• inner emptiness

• severe fatigue without any apparent reason

• Difficulty concentrating

• That I no longer fully grasp what is happening around me or what is wanted from me.

• Tunnel vision

• the feeling of losing myself

• Dizziness (cotton wool in the head)

• The environment feels unreal

If I notice these signs, I can sometimes still counteract them. Not always – but more often than before.

Why this knowledge is so important

I used to judge myself for it. I thought I was lazy, unfocused, or "weird".

Today I know: Dissociation is a sign that my system is overloaded.

My view today

Dissociation is not an enemy I have to fight. It is part of my history.

A part that once helped me survive.

Today I get to learn how to show my body that I am no longer alone, that I am safer now than before.

And on some days, self-care simply means: stopping, breathing – and allowing myself not to be fully present and acknowledging that I can't do any more right now.

I hope I was able to give you some insight into the symptoms of dissociation and wish you a nice day.