Some days, I’m in the room… but I’m not really here.
My body’s on the couch, my hands wrapped around a coffee cup that’s probably gone cold, but my mind is somewhere else entirely — floating above it all like I’m watching my own life from the outside.
That’s dissociation.
It’s not a choice. It’s not zoning out. It’s my brain hitting the emergency brakes so I don’t get swallowed whole by the weight of everything.
The World Goes Dim
When it happens, it’s like someone turns the volume down on the world. The edges of things blur. The conversation in front of me starts sounding like it’s coming from another room. I’m still sitting there, nodding, maybe even smiling — but I’m not inside my body.
Sometimes it’s because the news from the doctor was too sharp to touch. Sometimes it’s because the thought of explaining it to someone I love feels like willingly cutting them open. And sometimes it just happens for no reason at all — my brain deciding I’ve reached my limit.
The Hardest Part Is Explaining It
The part that hurts the most isn’t the feeling of being disconnected — it’s trying to explain it to people who love me.
How do you tell someone, I’m here, but I can’t actually be with you right now?
How do you explain that their voice sounds far away, not because you don’t care, but because you care so much it’s unbearable?
I don’t want them to think I’m cold. I don’t want them to think they’ve done something wrong. But the truth is, sometimes my head is spinning so fast I have to step outside myself just to breathe.
Why I Don’t Always Share Right Away
There’s this unspoken expectation that when something big happens — a bad scan, a new treatment plan, a frightening symptom — you’ll immediately tell your closest people.
But here’s the thing: sometimes I can’t.
I need time to let my head and heart catch up to each other.
I need to sit with the weight of it alone before I have to watch it land on someone else’s shoulders.
I need to find the words before I have to watch their face crumble when I speak them.
Because every time I share bad news, it feels like I’m setting off a grenade in the middle of someone else’s world. And once it’s out there, I can’t take it back.
The Space Between Me and the World
When I’m in that dissociative fog, talking feels dangerous.
Saying it out loud means it becomes real. And when it’s real, I have to face it. So I hold it in. I let the words sit heavy on my tongue until they lose some of their sting.
It’s not about shutting people out. It’s about survival.
To Anyone Who’s Been Here Too
If you’ve ever floated above your own life because the ground felt too unstable to stand on — I want you to know you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re doing what you need to do to survive the moment.
It’s okay to check out for a while.
It’s okay to delay the conversations until you can bear them.
It’s okay to let your own heart steady before you hand it over to someone else.
The people who truly love you will understand.
And when you’re ready to come back, they’ll still be there.
Mojo’s POV
Hi. It’s me. Mojo. I know when Mom’s not really here, even if she’s sitting right next to me. I can tell because her eyes get that far-away look, and she doesn’t laugh at my usual nonsense.
When that happens, I don’t try to fix it — I just stay close. I’ll curl up against her side or put my paw on her arm like, Hey, I know you’re somewhere else right now, but I’m keeping your spot warm for when you come back.
I don’t need her to explain it. I just need her to know I’m not going anywhere.
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