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Can you actually make eye contact with yourself?

I used to easily slip into what I now know is called “depersonalization” as a child. I didn’t recognize the child staring me in the eyes in the mirror. They were a demon, or I was the demon possessing this poor, meek thing.

Is that me? Am I real? Do I exist?

Can you truly interact with yourself in real time, the way other people do with you? Is it possible in a physics sense? I certainly don’t have enough education to even begin to pretend I could answer in a scientific sense. My gut says “no”, the superstitious hairs on the back of my neck disagree.

Mental illness: pre-existing in my brain, or created through trauma? Who knows? Maybe, probably, it’s both? Does it really matter? I’m in a spot where I can choose to be better now. It’s not even really a choice anymore, I am just, oddly, better. It’s actively difficult to choose illness. The illness feels good sometimes, though. It’s familiar. Exciting. Scary. Mysterious. Alluring. Allegedly a source of inspiration. Allegedly where a lot of art comes from.

Do people truly draw inspiration from mental illness? Or are the expressions that come out relatable to other ill folks, and “interesting” to "normal" folks that can’t relate, so it seems like “inspiration”? I think it’s so far outside of the acceptable norm for regular folks that it’s novel to them, but it sometimes seems pedestrian and familiar to other ill people.

In the past, sometimes, I thought the person looking back at me was blinking when I didn’t. I couldn’t look at them at night when the lights were out. They’d pull me in, trap me, and live my life. The life I was scared to death of living. I haven’t “depersonalized” in a couple of years. I haven’t tried. I don’t need to escape myself anymore, don’t need to ask the doppelganger to steal me away and take over because I can’t face everything.

Can I still do it? Like riding a bike? Or am I too “mentally compensated” now? What does that mean? Isn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t I be happy? Feel relieved and secure? Why am I mourning the death of something that nearly killed me many times over? Why am I ok now? How did I become ok? What finally did it? What collection of things? Is there something inside of me that did it? I have crushing survivor’s guilt for all of it. It hits me sometimes when I hear a story or read a book, and I sob for every person who didn’t make it out alive, or at least with a stretch of time of mental stability and contentment in their life. It all seems so absurd now, like I’m looking back at a bright, loud impressionist painting through a kaleidoscope, trying to make sense of the shapes and general themes as the lens rotates without my direction. How was that real? Was that my life? Was that me?

Am I afraid I’m not “interesting” anymore? I’m just "ok", like normal people. I’m a well-adjusted, “normal” person now, with a “normal” job, with “normal” hobbies, with “normal” friends and coworkers, with “normal” stated interests, with “normal” social emotional regulation skills, with “normal” self-care routines that support my continued descent/ascent/flatlining into further “normalness”. What does it mean to be “normal” now? I’m still neurodiverse, but I’ve soaked up the neurotypical culture/values/norms/dialect/cadence/body language of where I am so well, I think I just seem like a slightly scatterbrained introvert to folks that don’t know anything different. Only my old friends, doctor, and therapist see it. Am I a traitor? Am I an imposter?

I believe I am more patient and understanding than most of the “normal” people. I believe I relate to the “unnormal” people we serve at my job. I believe I see them more. I believe I relate to them more. I believe I want to help them more as peers than as a “savior”. I believe I am more invested in their development, bordering on dipping into codependence. I believe I do my best to have boundaries. I believe I extend more emotional labor. I believe I love them more.

If I escaped, the illness isn’t fresh in my mind anymore, it echoes out through time when I bump into the wrong things, the wrong places, the wrong people, the wrong situations. Exposed nerves I realize I need to numb or start covering. What use is any of it now to me? Recording it feels like passing a player’s guide on to others, in a language that will be legible to some, incomprehensible to others. Even if it helps just one other person (besides me), I think the journey was meaningful.

I feel old now, ancient even, mainly due to my experiences in life relative to the other people my age in the specific socioeconomic job sector I find myself in. Middle-class. Heavily wasp. I relate more to my coworkers in their 50’s and 60’s, oddly seem to have a lot more in common (to be clear: politics and values absolutely aside), even if my current economic situation is a joke compared to the wealth they’ve accumulated. I don’t mind it, I think more people should have friends in different generations than them. It’s an enriching, meaningful part of being in the soup of active human culture. They’re so excited to share and bring me along to things that I could never do because of the cost of entry. That’s not why I like spending time with them, but it is a perk of being an “old soul” drifting type (re: high ACE score) around older people that want to stay active and social.

The ego. Hmm. Mental illness used to be what made me “different”. What sets me apart, makes me ~SpEcIaL~ and ~uNiQuE~ now? I think this feeling of needing to be recognized as better, more important, special, is similar to and tied up with the “gifted kid” phenomenon. I think the “gifted kid” type is often a neurodiverse person being recognized and exalted for the “good”/“outside the norm”/”fantastical”/”precocious” things they can do, while ignoring the often present and very real/debilitating illnesses/neuroses/disorders/traumas on the other side of the coin. Instead of being able to be just good enough at stuff and not suck too bad at most things, the sliders are way off in both directions. The “good” things become the only source of positive rapport and/or feedback from anyone, and these “good” things need to outshine the “bad” things, which can be very, very “bad”. An odd duality forms: I am paradoxically both significantly worse than, and better than, everyone else, and therefore, ~No OnE cAn UnDeRsTaNd Or ReLaTe To Me~. (Please allow me the continued indulgence of making fun of this part of myself through sarcastic Spongebob text.) I don’t relate to this “tortured genius” personality in my values anymore, but it is admittedly, embarrassingly difficult to let go of emotionally. I do still want to participate in art culture. I do still want to be recognized. I do still want to be in conversation with my peers. I do still want to BE a peer with people whose work I admire. I do still want to BE someone important.

I already am someone, though, clearly. I am a human being. I am the person in the mirror, and more. I can’t see everything on that face, but I know what’s beneath it intimately, and there are wells I have yet to tap. I am multi-faceted, ever-changing, divinely imperfect—just like everyone else. Learning to live with myself alongside everyone else in meaningful connection together is the task of a lifetime. Finding ways to connect with people authentically, in ways that aren’t initiated by my egotistical whims, are how I learn to quiet that hunger for empty gratification. I’m trying to starve that guy 💅 The empty ego gratification doesn’t actually fulfill the reasonable and common needs underneath: the need to to be seen, loved, accepted, valued. These things happen in quiet moments; in small acts of kindness and consideration; in little cards; in small touches; in small gifts; in the space and time people devote to one another; the time I devote to seeing/loving/accepting/valuing myself.

So anyway, uhhh, I’m good, thanks for asking, how are you?

Actual food post coming soon: I’ve been trying to compile all of the new things I’ve done so far with this ever-flowing produce. I have a vacation coming up, so I’ll have time to flesh it all out and actually get it posted. I want to talk about working out as well, because my body is very different now, and I think it is further contributing to mental wellness. Along with weekly therapy. And seeing a bunch of people to do a bunch of things. And having aggressive sleep hygiene. I don’t know this new person (me), but I’m enjoying getting to know them.

I hope you are well. Thank you for stopping by. Do something small, just for you, today. And every day. See you again soon.

PS, I tried to dissociate in front of the mirror before posting: I can’t force it. It feels odd to slow down and actually look into my own eyes and see my face, but I am solidly the person looking back at me, not an outside observer, not an interloper. It's just me.