Somewhere between dissociation and presence

The middle way of humaneness.

For the past year, I have been locked in a battle between two differing parts of myself.

The one who longs to be present,

And the one who longs to be anywhere but here (Taylor Swift has never met me but I think she wrote I Hate it Here for me).

I spent most of my twenties trying to be here. I tried everything I could to be more present, grounded, and less traumatized. I saw therapists, coaches, I meditated, I did yoga, I practiced breath work. I hopped on every trend I could to better myself, to fix myself. I thought the goal was presence because I spent so much of my life being elsewhere.

I thought if I could get comfortable in my skin, inside my life, I would solve the problem of me.

Some things helped, some things didn’t and then I stumbled upon Zen Buddhism. It helped me break through a ton of wellness bullshit, and even bullshit I accumulated about being present.

Zen taught me to be here and being here is holding space for whatever is.

Hard, but also simple.

Something I could keep coming back to. Being here, holding myself.

Zen has always felt to me like a way to stop striving and just be.

Here, with myself, with the moment.

And in the name of transparency, I brought my striving energy to Zen. I tried to be the best, I tried to mediated right, I tried to put my best foot forward. Which is not very Zen at all, but hey I am still me.

Regardless, practicing Zen is the closest I felt to achieving my longing for presence. It was the most here I felt. I learned how to hold myself instead of fighting myself. Sure, I had moments of being human and trying to be the best practitioner. But I also learned how much it didn’t matter, the point was to hold whatever was there.

So, if that was striving, I could be with that.

If that was anger, I could hold it.

I learned to do the thing I had been searching for in my twenties, I learned to face myself and I taught myself how to stay through the discomfort.

And then, I learned I was autistic.

Everything crumbled. I went into processing mode. I started seeing my life through a new lens and everything looked different. I kept trying to stay the same, keep up with my practice, but I felt different and my presence slipped away.

Burnout followed on the heels of diagnosis and what felt like hard won presence disappeared. And it wasn’t just presence I had been searching for, it was a stable place in my mental health. It was the confirmation I was normal, I was good, I was healthy.

Turns out I am none of those things. I have a disability. And this rocked my world.

It takes a lot for me to name being autistic for what it is, it is a disability. When I first saw

Devon

use those words, I thought fuck no, I am fine. Because all my life I wanted to be normal, but I knew deep down I wasn’t.

I think so much of my grief this past year has been because I always knew I didn’t fit but I never had a name for it. I knew I was different, but I couldn’t articulate why or how. I learned to hide who I was. I learned how to mask.

This past year it all fell apart. For the better.

Uncomfortably, for the better.

And I haven’t been present.

In fact, I have learned how much I have a need to dissociate. Coming into this year, I thought I understood how dissociation is protective. But I am understanding it in a new way.

When things become too much, too loud, too bright, too uncomfortable, I start to float away. Or I choose to go away, I choose to go into a book.

I was shamed for the ways I learned to take care of myself as child, I feel bad when I read because I must have been told (I don’t remember being told) to get my head out of a book. I used to keep a book in my lap at school for when it all became too much.

I have built a different relationship with my dissociation. I see it as necessary, I see it as protective. I stopped trying to fight it. I see it as my body’s response to too much. I try to change my circumstances when I can to take care of myself, but sometimes the too much comes on the heels of my daily life (a loud toddler, a barking dog, background music, tasks that need to be done, etc.)

I haven’t written much this year because I haven’t been here. I have been in various book worlds trying to cope with life. Burnout has meant a loss of skills, energy, and patient. I am just trying to be okay. Well, honestly, most days, I was (am?) just trying to stay alive.

I used to use my free time to sit outside, watch nature, breathe. I used to sit with myself and be with myself. But lately, my nose is in a book. I have kept myself distracted. I have kept myself occupied.

Because it has been too much. Life all around has felt too loud, too bright, too emotional, too confusing. I haven’t wanted to be here much. And I don’t hold shame about that, I have come to feel compassion for myself.

How human of me to not want to be here when everything hurts, when everything feels heavy, when I can seem to do nothing right as a mother.

How fucking human of me to want to be somewhere where it doesn’t all hurt.

The past few months, I have become aware of how gone I have been and I am finding the longing to be here again. Then I forget, and I go elsewhere, then I come back to here. But it seems I cannot stay here for long.

I can hear my therapist in my head - because you are in burnout!

I mean yes, and I see it as a sign of health that I want to find the middle way.

I am not sure I will ever find the presence I felt when I was still hiding behind a mask, and I am not sure I ever want to feel the level of dissociation I experienced this past year.

I want to walk the middle way.

Which for a black and white thinker, I have no idea if I can do. I am certain it exists, I just don’t know how to walk it.

I tend to go to extremes (and “there ain't no in-betweens”). I tend to operate strongly in one mode of being. This is probably why I am drawn to Buddhism because it is rooted in avoiding extremes and finding a balance in life.

I want exist somewhere between dissociation and presence.

I want to be here sometimes, I want to be there other times.

I want both.

Because both are human needs.

I tried to banish dissociation from my life by striving after presence. I thought there was nothing I could not face. I thought I could stay with myself through anything, I thought I would never choose to escape from reality.

But it is human to need a break.

It is human to need to escape.

I wish I could have known that in my twenties. I wish I could have understood how much my body was protecting me, how much it was communicating to me for such a long time.

But too much escape isn’t how I want to live.

I want to be here. But I don’t want to hold my feet to the fire of presence when my body needs a break.

Because dissociation is my body taking the break I am not usually allowing it to have.

And as necessary as leaving my body can be at times, I miss feeling. I miss settling into myself and just being with whats here.

Because feeling things makes us human too.

Both are necessary for the human experience.

It is a delicate balance, one I am trying to navigate.

Gently, with compassion, and without force.

I remember I want to be here, and then I disappear again without knowing I am doing it. Then, I remember again.

I think as long as I keep remembering I want to be present, that there is something healing in being in this moment (when my body feels safe enough to do so), I will be okay.

As long as I listen to my body, which every way it is leaning, I will be okay.

To bring it back to Zen, I never stopped being with what was. I may not be giving all my energy to presencing myself to this moment. But I have been letting myself, my body, do exactly what it needs to do in this season.

That is important. That is healing.

That is its own magic medicine of being with what is.

No force, no striving, just acceptance in the midst of discomfort.

Maybe that’s my middle way.

Emma

Welcome to How Human, I’m human, autistic, a writer and a mother navigating different parts of myself while trying to live a full creative life. I believe offering ourselves compassion for being human is where great change begins.

If you want to support my work, I invite you to buy me a coffee. A one time (or a when you can) payment instead of a monthly subscription.