Disassociation - Blog Posts

When you struggle with identity loss so you just adopt that as your identity.

Imagine a magical modern world where everyones ability is to manifest their personality/mental state/subconscious into a physical thing, and scientists find that theres a pattern within manifestations that allows doctors to diagnose people with a simple examination of their manifestation.

Trigger warning

And everything im about to list off would be traits if their abilities, not the actual abilities themselves

They stack, but are as powerful as the impact they have on the user

Narcs' manifestation would probably have something to do with themselves, or having themselves as the center

DID would probs be the ability to manifest multiple small/weak/incomplete symbolic (or not) things representing their alters or a single materialization of something cracked/split (necromancer except they bring to life their alters)

Id imagine depression would involve an ability with the perk to draw people in, like a siren

Anxiety would involve something to do with an unnerving type sensation, sounds, vibrations, disruptions, the sense of slowed or sped up time

Bipolar, a changing, fast, or sudden type ability

Ptsd/cptsd would probably have a flashing, sudden, or jarring type ability

Schizophrenia would be hallucinogenic, (that one spiderman scene from homecoming with that bastard man showing spidey things that arent real), aoe tyoe ability

Ocd maybe would have something to do with controllingness, intrusive/invasive actions (the itrusive thoughts in ocd becomes the premise of what happens to who ever their using their ability against? Idk ocd that well)

Phobias - depending on the phobia, the way you'd deal with what your afraid of being your ability. Arachnophobia - your ability being pest amd spider resiliant, agoraphobia - your ability having something to do with being able to hide somewhere safe that youve made (small portable inner world? Invisibility??)

ED; makes the person feel the opposite of their disorder (if the user has binge eating issues, then their power would make others feel empty/hungry/hollow; anorexia or restrictive would be like overwhelming the sense with a feeling of fullness, stuffiness, claustrophobia; etc)

Disassociative having something to do with an incredible europhoric/dream feeling or with an incredibly grounding, kind of like "oh yea i just remembered my entire life situation and cant escape" type feeling

ADHD either has something to do with the inability to have others activate their powers, control them well, or consistantly.

Addiction/substance abuse would be kind of like the helplessness, constant incessant need for something, anxiety, etc

I hate disassociating when I’m trying to do things that require active consciousness/control because my brain wants to check out and I’m like “No we have Tasks” and so to be a brat my brain says “fine but you’ll have to think about every little thing you want your body to do”

it's okay. it's over now. they won't hurt you again.     /     @wolfvirago​​

the deathly silent, yet piercing klaxon ring of panic was still racing through chrissy’s every vein and nerve. once upon a time, she used to think she understood pain. on the inside where secrets festered like ulcers, dirty, hidden things that she never dared give volume to, detectable by even to the kindest of eyes. on the outside, where exhaustion’s strains warred against endurance, her body warping to the airborne twists of cheerleading, the rippling jar through her tendons when a landing skewed wrong. 

this pain.... it touched places inside that chrissy never knew she possessed. 

no clocks chimed in any place but her sanguine-dyed memories. no slithering vines attached to a more sophisticated, crueler will. the hollow in the tree trunk she’d huddled against was not molded to the shape of her form crumpled and tortured by the supernatural. nothing touched her but the warming air of early summer trapped close to the ground by moss and pine needles, and the soft-spoken breath of the older girl. 

through it all, the skies had the audacity to be blue. blue like the day in march that she broke. and chrissy wept quietly. 

                     ❝  you can know that? how can you know that?  ❞  

whispered doubt thought it was, chrissy could not manage to hide the layers of unbelief still left despite witnessing a thousand impossibilities. impossible until the beginning of spring break. ( and years before that according to rumours that could very well be total truths for all the cheerleader knew, now. ) among all the strange she was asked to believe, what remained unacceptable was assurance unasked for, unearned. 

help was an allergy. no acceptance without resistance. years of shying gradually away from hands that might stretch in her direction had not released their hold. the upside down had changed chrissy cunningham to her core, but it had not reversed everything.

what she was hearing......there was no way it could be as true as the jut of dry bark against her side. could it? 

                    ❝  the things that are in my head.... i don’t think they can come out. no one has to do anything to me for it to still hurt.  ❞

self destructing to feel in control only to realise you might not actually be in control, and "your actions" might just be someone or something making decisions for you.

All my nd peeps

Me, explaining disassociation to my neurotypical mother:

Her: what?? That’s a thing you do? Are you okay????

Two days later…

Me, explaining disassociation to an ADHD friend:

Her: Oh fuck, there’s a name for that??? Cool

you know?? That feeling like ah, so I’m not the only one, great lmao

I love 'bad' mentally ill people

I love people who struggle with violent thoughts and urges

I love people with no empathy, who can't 'make up' for it in compassion

I love people who's dissociation makes them flakey and distant

I love people who's mood swings get in the way of making friends

I love people with anger issues, and psychosis, and hypersexuality, and everyone who's ever been seen as 'scary' for their diagnosis or symptoms

Okay I lied, I wrote something and hella projected. 

*

The day was cold and drizzly, much like most of England’s autumn weather always was. The sky was grey, the streets were grey, the general mood about the usually bright and lively depths of Soho was grey, grey, grey. Monochrome and bland.

At least it looked that way to Aziraphale. 

He hadn’t opened the bookshop today. That wasn’t generally unusual, especially on the days that he particularly wanted to discourage people coming in and rifling through his books like untame, wild animals. (Honestly, the audacity of some of these people — picking through his beloved books as though they were things to be thrown away instead of appreciated like the treasures they are.) But today it wasn’t for those specific sorts of reasons. Today things were different. 

Today, Aziraphale had woken up with a sort of heaviness that came around once every so often, when he let his guard down and let things get a little too… good. His shoulders ached where his wings would’ve been if he let them. It took him more than two hours to drag himself from his bed to put the kettle on (Crowley had convinced him to sleep every once in awhile, in that sneaky tone he used when he talked Aziraphale into a late night snack or some adventure they were definitely Not Supposed to Do; “Come on, angel, it’ll be fun. Good on the back.”). 

He had protested adamantly at first, but then given in when Crowley had gotten that puppyish, determined look on his face.  (Aziraphale was weak to the wiles of his snake).

When he had settled in with a cup of tea, in his old armchair that had long since deserved to be put out of its misery, the angel noticed things felt… off. 

Simply put, he felt… disconnected from reality. That’s a silly thing to say, Aziraphale had thought to himself, after his tea had grown cold in his hand and the rain had picked up outside. But he couldn’t help but think it was true. After all, it had been hours since he’d made his tea, and it felt like only a matter of moments. Funny how time flew by.

Aziraphale had a list of things to do today — all of which had been forgotten up until the concept of time had been remembered — that absolutely were not going to get done. He had a distant, disjointed feeling of panic about this, but it didn’t pierce through the grey, grey fog that seemed to cling to the angel with a dull sort of determination.

In fact, nothing seemed to get through that fog until a familiar voice filtered up from the bottom of the stairs leading to his flat. 

“Angel?” Crowley calls, poking his head into the apartment and looking around. He seemed to be panicked, Aziraphale noticed with a slight twinge. Had they made plans? Had he forgotten? He couldn’t seem to muster the strength to remember.

“In here, love.” He calls, his voice soft and a little rough from the silence he’d sat in. 

Crowley’s gaze snaps to the armchair, and some of the tension melts from his angular shoulders. “There you are. I waited downstairs for a half hour, I’ll have you know. And you’re always fussing at me about being on time.” 

Logically, Aziraphale knew he was only teasing. Crowley always teased, and he had a reasonable excuse to be miffed at the angel. But somehow, that seemed to cut through the shroud of melancholy that had clung to him from the beginning of the day. A sick, sharp sort of feeling stabbed into him, flashing through his entire body and making him feel sick to his stomach. Tears spring to his eyes and he pushes himself to his feet, suddenly overcome with the need to make this better, make this right again. 

Some nasty voice in his head whispered to him, ugly words that had always lived in him, but had been pressed down and held at bay for many years. 

See what you’ve done? they whispered, adding anxiety to the spike of sickness. He’s angry, now. You’ve made him angry, and he’s going to leave, and you’re never going to see him again. He’ll find a better person to be around, someone more agreeable, someone who doesn’t needle and prod and criticize. 

And just this once, Aziraphale believed them.

He began to rush about, realizing he was still in his sleep clothes and realizing all he wanted to do was curl up and sob and sob and sob until this feeling went away. “I’m sorry, the time got away from me- I’ll clean up, give me five minutes and I-I’ll…”

“Woah,” Crowley steps forward, catching him by the arm. “Angel, hey. I’m not upset, I was only teasing. Calm down, we can reschedule.”

“I’m sorry,” the angel hiccups, ducking his head, suddenly afraid to look Crowley in the eyes and see his own disgust reflected back at him. He wrings his hands, full of anxious energy as all his emotions began to catch up with him again. “I don’t know what happened, I…”

“Hey,” the demon tilts his chin up, and instead of disgust, Aziraphale finds soft concern. 

It breaks him, and a sob manages to choke him before he realizes it was even coming.

“Oh, angel…” Crowley croons, pulling him against his chest and cupping the back of his head, cradling his face against his neck. 

Aziraphale cries, holding onto his jacket as all the tension and emotion and grey bled out of him along with his tears. The demons holds his angel through it all, making shushing noises and nuzzling his hair, swaying from side to side in a soothing motion that slowly begins to calm him down. 

“We can go to dinner another time,” Crowley murmurs against his hair, rubbing his back. “We have all the time in the world, Aziraphale. Just you and I.”

Warmth blooms in the angels chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a shaky breath and allowing himself to relax. “Okay,” He whispers. 

“Why don’t we go put on the kettle and start a fire in that old fireplace, mm? Come on. Cozy night in, just you and I.”

As Aziraphale is led away, his hand in the demon’s, he starts to feel the fog slip away from his mind, replaced with warm company and distraction. Crowley had him smiling again, and the knots in his chest easing. Things were getting better already.

Outside, the sun shines through the clouds.