user-7bKgdf1
New Here
I think I now know why i dissociate.
A hazy flashback of a scene with my mom from when I was a child came to mind today while in my parents house. She started yelling and hitting me, and i knew that as long as I was still me - this living, breathing organism with its own opinions, thoughts, and desires - I might continue to trigger her. And I knew that nothing I could say would stop her from hitting and yelling at me, on the contrary - my attempts at defending myself increased the intensity and longevity of the hitting and verbal abuse. So I intuitively did something that would make the yelling stop - I checked out. I stopped moving, breathing, I made sure there was no hint of a living soul in my eyes. I think i felt that’s what she wanted. She seemed to be beating the ‘will’ out of me because the more I writhed and screamed and protested, the harder she hit. But when I dissociated; played dead; gave in - she would stop.
So now, several years later, as an adult, when I enter into my parents house, I still check out. This time, it’s in a form of hiding. I deaden who I really am to put on the mask of who I know they want me to be: a smiley, happy-go-lucky girl with no complicated emotions, sensitivities, or trauma.
A hazy flashback of a scene with my mom from when I was a child came to mind today while in my parents house. She started yelling and hitting me, and i knew that as long as I was still me - this living, breathing organism with its own opinions, thoughts, and desires - I might continue to trigger her. And I knew that nothing I could say would stop her from hitting and yelling at me, on the contrary - my attempts at defending myself increased the intensity and longevity of the hitting and verbal abuse. So I intuitively did something that would make the yelling stop - I checked out. I stopped moving, breathing, I made sure there was no hint of a living soul in my eyes. I think i felt that’s what she wanted. She seemed to be beating the ‘will’ out of me because the more I writhed and screamed and protested, the harder she hit. But when I dissociated; played dead; gave in - she would stop.
So now, several years later, as an adult, when I enter into my parents house, I still check out. This time, it’s in a form of hiding. I deaden who I really am to put on the mask of who I know they want me to be: a smiley, happy-go-lucky girl with no complicated emotions, sensitivities, or trauma.