Change is Gonna Come

This song get me pumped. I know I'm going to get better one day. Looking forward to it

Depersonalization Disorder Definition

"Symptoms, although quite specific, may sound vague or metaphorical rather than clear subjective experiences, such as “feeling dead,” “everything is unreal,” “I don’t feel I’m the one doing anything,” “it’s like I’m watching a movie” etc. The symptoms are typically extremely distressing, at times crippling, and are associated with major morbidity and some mortality. The affectively flattened and robotic demeanor that these patients often demonstrate can also fool the clinician into not recognizing the extreme emotional pain of the condition. It is not uncommon, for example, for patients to wonder whether it would matter if they died. A relative high rate of suicide attempts was associated with DPD; however, given the high rates of comorbid depression and other psychiatric disorders in DPD, the relationship between suicidality and DPD remains unclear [6,13]. (See 'Comorbid conditions' above.)  

Two factor analytic studies of the core symptomatology have reported five discrete symptom clusters common in patients with DPD [35,36]:

• Unreality of self, defined as feeling detached from one’s physical body, mind and thoughts

• Perceptual alterations, which encompasses visual, tactile, and somatosensory distortions

• Emotional numbing, characterized by blunted affect, pain & volition

• Anomalous subjective recall, which consists of disrupted experiences of time and related imagery

• Alienation from surroundings, which comprises symptoms of derealization."     Daphne Simeon, MD

Introduction

Through the Looking Glass

Preface

I told my psychologist recently that when I was previously, seriously contemplating suicide that I would have left him a handwritten letter. It would have asked him to speak at my funeral. I would have asked him to let the congregation know my deepest thoughts. I would have wanted those who cared about me to know that the thoughts I thought and told my psychologist hung from me like lemons on branches, that they bounded into the atmosphere, even if only one fisherman was there to catch them. 

He would have squeezed my lemons and spray-painted them over the world. Then I, and everything inside me, would be ratified. My thoughts would not just be whispers to myself like schizophrenics words to benches, but they would be scribbled on the walls like sketches on bathroom stall doors. The scribbling would say, “John was here,” and whoever saw those words as they took a shit would know I existed. That I was here. That I thought things, real things, meaningful things, ugly things, beautiful things. That even though I did not tell the world those thoughts, they still coursed through my blood like magma. That people could not hear me because they were too busy sticking cotton in their orifices in order to keep their conversations about iceberg lettuce. But I was here.

After telling him my previous, fantasized request, I looked at him under his gray eyebrows and said, “But I have decided that I will not kill myself.” He scrunched his nose, and looked at me medically. “I promised myself that I will stick around until I am thirty years old. At that age, if I still want to kill myself then, I’ll do it.”

I am far from thirty, which means I am still alive. And I’m already happy about that. And I am supposedly standing on this gigantic ball of matter spinning madly in circles around a gigantic ball of fire. And I am trying to figure out what it means to be human again. I seek desperately to find myself, or become myself, or become someone else, or just became “I am that I am.” I long to be again. I am ready to move on from this sickness called depersonalization disorder.

Not only is this book a barbaric yawp to the world to let them know I am, but it is a barbaric yawp to myself, beckoning myself to be me again, the real me. Whatever that means.