By Allison Jonergin
Content note: This essay contains references to suicidal thoughts.
I first began disassociating after the car accident that left me with a traumatic brain injury and PTSD. Disassociating is when part of your mental functioning shuts off while others remain active.
It feels like watching your life unfold around you without having any direct control over it. You may still continue to speak or act, but it feels like you’re in a dream. In the same way that we sometimes do things in our dreams that we wouldn’t do in real life, it was terrifying to be stripped of my personal autonomy like that, afraid of what I might say or do. Sometimes I’d be aware of what was happening around me while I disassociated. Other times, I wouldn’t know that I’d zoned out until I woke back up and was confused about where I was or what I was doing.
For a long time, my life consisted of short bursts of reality, wherein I was overwhelmed by every single detail to the point where I’d freeze like a computer screen. Eventually, after being frozen for long enough, or after freezing over and over again with no end in sight and no ability to “wake myself up,” I had relentless urges to unplug that sucker from the wall while it was still turned on. I felt desperate for control and utterly helpless at the same time. Like a cognizant coma patient, I longed to unplug my own life support. To end my life. To end my suffering. To wake up from this horrible nightmare.
My whole life felt like driving in dangerous, white-out conditions. You can’t see a thing and you’re straining to make out any possible detail that might guide you. You feel lost and afraid and powerless and overwhelmed.
Envisioning the sweet relief of ending it all provided a momentary rush higher than anything I’d ever felt before. Imagine riding a roller coaster and feeling the euphoria of being lifted slightly out of your seat, trusting you’re protected by the restraints. Fantasizing about dying was like unfastening my restraints at the highest peak and leaping off. The gruesome consequences never came to mind. They didn’t feel real to me. My own life didn’t feel real to me. At times, it still doesn’t.
I still find myself disassociating often, sometimes only for a moment. Other times I can’t seem to wake myself up. Reality gradually blends in with my disassociated state, until suddenly I find myself fully conscious, not knowing how I got there, or what I’ve done in the meantime. Early on, this realization terrified me. I fretted over what I might’ve done in my depressed, self-destructive state.
As it has been over three years, I’ve grown comfortable with, or at least accustomed to, the feeling of not knowing. I’ve learned to trust, to let go of my fears, and to face whatever consequences I may as a result of something I’ve done in a disassociated state.
I now allow this unconscious defense mechanism to be just that. When life feels too overwhelming, I free fall into numbness, trusting that when my brain regroups, I’ll be allowed to actively participate in life again. I resist the urge to believe dying would be the only satisfying sensation when all I can feel is static. I remind myself that my life is full of personal choices now. I don’t need to resort to suicidal ideation to feel a sense of control.
I will wake up. And when I do, I’ll find a life worth living.
Allison Jonergin is a SUNY Plattsburgh alumna and North Country native. She suffers from multiple chronic illnesses including fibromyalgia, CFS/ME, endometriosis, irritable bowel syndrome and degenerative disc disease. She also has post-concussion syndrome, anxiety, depression and PTSD.