The sun is setting. That dark blue hue to the sky, the omnipresence of street lights stains the road with an alternate shade of world. A disconnect between time and place. A rupture disorients and multiplies, I am cast adrift. I return to my car, the passage now foreign. This was the past. When I parked this car, when I drove the distance to this place I was a different man. Something is wrong. I have the feeling of coming unstuck. As if I’ve been cast adrift from whatever linear mooring our lives might offer. I think back, I can visualize that drive, my feet on pedals my hands on the wheel, upon witnessing the concrete reality of my car, slumped, one wheel on the pavement, one wheel off, I am aware of the existence of the seemingly inalienable fact of my transport, but the connection to these events, the sense that I, a consciously existing being, was party to them, is somehow lacking. I know for an absolute fact that I left my house at 8:27 and drove from Knaphill to Cobham in my car. I parked my car on Leigh Road. At 20:17 I walked from my shop to collect my car and begin my journey home. Perhaps two or three minutes into my walk back to that parking place I began to experience the unsettling feeling that this was not my car, this was not my life. The man who had parked that car, who had strolled into work with the best intentions of existing another day? He was dead. I now occupied his corpse. I have his body, I have his memories, I have his life.
I hope in some ways that this blog is an educational resource to some. This is my experience of disassociation. It is frequent and often times seemingly trivial, in a sense I’ve become so used to this particular symptom of my depression that I’ve chosen to ignore it in favour of the more glamorous bullshit like suicidal ideation and self harm. In this instance I was blissfully alone, and in a sense that was perfect, it can feel freeing, I’m prepared, nostalgic even for a bleak and harrowing past of emptiness and near psychotic breaks from reality. In truth, Disassociation is one of the most pernicious symptoms of mental illness because it can lead to acceptance of almost anything.
For all my bleak posturing. I’d never want anyone to experience what I have and for anyone that has I only hope that I can offer support. I feel it’s important to state, that no matter how distant you feel, how utterly disconnected, I’m here for you, if you need me. This pointless document of my misery is intended to shine a light on my own despair, to make some worth of my suffering, but also, to offer some degree of hope? When I’ve felt no hope I’ve probably struggled with that.
I believe that going forward, I should probably write about mental health in positive terms and offer some positivity. Fuck knows. I’ll try. We’re all struggling and I’ll try my best.