Isabella Wacaser

Birds Eye View

I am here, but I'm not really here. Feeling out of your body is like being homesick about a place you’ve never been. The knot in your stomach grows more and more with every conversation and the lights seem dimmer wherever you go. “It’s like a bird’s-eye view,” I said to my mom when she asked me what was wrong. Her brows furrowed and an uneasy smile rested on her face, not quite understanding or being able to empathize with how I was feeling. “Just breathe,” she says, trying her best to understand, but I don't blame her for not knowing what to do because I haven't even figured that out either. But this sinking feeling doesn’t go away with just a breath; it can take hours or even days just to get back that flicker of meaning.

I remember sitting at a dinner table in Rome; I had been looking forward to this trip for months and while I was breathing in that cold November air, I could feel my brain shutting down. I didn't understand why, but I knew that there was nothing I could do to stop it. After all, I was surrounded by all of the things that were supposed to make me feel alive. Echoes against the stone walls, the scratching of silverware and toasting of glasses, combined with bursts of loud conversations rang like sirens in my ears.

Dim lights flickered across my family’s faces as they belly laughed and smiled until their cheeks were sore. As they spoke over one another, their voices turned into a hum that felt so distant. With eyes glazed over, I watched them the way you watch strangers through a window: close enough to see but obviously separated by something.

My plate sat untouched in front of me, the pasta I was dying to eat just a couple minutes ago now seemed totally unappetizing. I didn't eat it; it felt pointless to do so when I wasn’t even sure I was there enough to even taste it. I nodded when someone spoke to me, but my voice hid somewhere behind my throat. When their eyes left mine, the tears began to well in my eyes. For a while, it was as if my body had taken the trip without me, and I was hovering just above the table. Like watching myself playing the role of someone else completely.

Dissociative disorders are mental health disorders where one loses the connection to their memories, surroundings, emotions, and identity. But no definition can fully encapsulate the quiet fear of feeling like you're missing out on moments and possible memories right before your eyes. And no words can explain how exhausting it is to pretend you’re okay—and knowing you're not—while desperately searching the map of your fears trying to find your way back to yourself.