Therapy Bits

There are days when the world seems glazed in a strange, translucent film, as if reality itself has retreated a step away from me. I reach for it, groping through the fog, but my fingers close on nothing but air. This is what struggling with intense emotions, anxiety, and dissociation feels like—a continuous oscillation between overwhelming sensation and an eerie absence of it. It is living both too much and not enough, trapped in a body that refuses to find equilibrium.
The Tidal Wave of Emotion
Intense emotions arrive, uninvited and unannounced, like sudden storms on a summer’s day. The sky is bright, and then—without warning—it cracks and pours torrents I am helpless to contain. Anger, sadness, fear, shame; they swirl together, indistinct and yet each carrying their unique, bruising weight. Sometimes I know the trigger: a harsh word, a memory, a disappointment. Sometimes there is no discernible reason; I am simply swept away by an undercurrent I cannot see.
These emotions are not gentle visitors. They slam through me, rattling every fragile bone, every hidden nerve. My heart pounds as if it is trying to outrun the pain. My skin tingles and tightens. I feel exposed, naked beneath a rain of invisible needles. I tell myself: “Breathe. This, too, will pass.” And sometimes, I believe it.
Other times, I do not. The feelings coil tighter and tighter, until my thoughts tangle and I am reduced to ragged breaths, clutching at the hope that I will not break entirely. I try to name what I feel, to draw neat borders around the chaos, but the words slip away. Anguish. Panic. Hopelessness. I cycle through labels, none of them precise, all of them insufficient.
Anxiety’s All-Encompassing Embrace
If emotions are storms, anxiety is the air I breathe—thin, electric, always humming with tension. It is a thousand questions, each one sharpening itself on the next: What did I forget? Who did I upset? What disaster is lurking behind the ordinary? Anxiety is the fear that the world is not safe and, worse, that I am not equal to the task of surviving it.
It is not only the mind that suffers. My body is its own echo chamber for dread. My chest tightens, my vision narrows. My hands tremble, my jaw aches from being clenched. I try to reason with myself, to apply logic to the absurd: “You are safe. You are okay. Nothing bad is happening now.” But anxiety is immune to logic. It feeds on uncertainty, magnifies it, twists it into elaborate, inescapable knots.
In these moments, the outside world becomes unbearably vivid. Sounds are too loud, lights too bright, the press of bodies too close. I feel myself shrinking, desperate for an invisibility cloak, a hiding place. My mind races, replaying old fears and rehearsing new catastrophes. I cannot simply “calm down.” I am an engine revving in place, burning fuel, going nowhere.
Yet anxiety is rarely acknowledged as a survival strategy. It is, in its way, a desperate bid for safety—a warning system perpetually switched to high alert. My mind scans for danger, trying to predict what will hurt, hoping that with enough vigilance, I can avoid it. But the cost is exhaustion, and the world grows too heavy to carry.
The Chilling Distance of Dissociation
When the storms and the relentless hum become too much, I slip into a peculiar numbness—a dissociated state. It is as if my mind, overwhelmed by pain, flips a hidden switch and detaches from the world. I watch myself from afar, a silent observer to my own life.
Time loses its rhythm. Minutes stretch into hours, or vanish in the blink of an eye. Faces blur, voices become muffled, and my body feels foreign, as if it belongs to someone else. I float, untethered, somewhere above the present moment. There are times I cannot recall what I have just done or said. I run on autopilot, performing tasks by rote, disconnected from meaning or pleasure.
Dissociation is both a curse and a mercy. It dulls the pain, grants me respite when emotions threaten to annihilate me. But the relief is temporary and comes at a cost: I lose touch with myself, with others, with life’s small joys. I become a ghost in my own story, haunted by the sense that I am not really living, only surviving.
Navigating the Unseen
Living with intense emotions, anxiety, and dissociation is a journey through shifting landscapes—storm and calm, presence and absence. It requires patience and self-compassion, qualities I do not always possess. I have learned, slowly, to recognise the warning signs: the restlessness in my legs, the prickling in my scalp, the urge to flee my own skin.
Sometimes, I remind myself that emotions, even the fiercest, are not permanent. They crest and fall. I have learned small rituals to anchor myself: the feel of cool water over my hands, the weight of a blanket, the steady cadence of my breath. I turn to gentle music or the comfort of a familiar voice. I ground myself with details: the pattern of shadows on the wall, the taste of peppermint on my tongue.
I have also learned to reach out, though this is never easy. There are people who care, who listen without judgment. Sharing my struggles does not always make them lighter, but it renders them less lonely. Sometimes, simply being heard is enough to draw me back from the edge.
The Quiet Strength in Suffering
I used to believe that struggling with such intensity was a sign of weakness, a flaw to be corrected. Now, I see it differently. To feel deeply is to be alive, to be human. Anxiety and dissociation are not failures but responses to pain, to uncertainty, to memories too heavy to hold. My mind and body do their best to protect me, even when their methods are imperfect.
I try, when I can, to be gentle with myself. To acknowledge the courage it takes simply to endure. To find hope in small things: the warmth of sunlight on my face, the laughter of a friend, the quiet hush of the world before dawn. I am learning that healing is not a straight line but a winding path, full of setbacks and unexpected grace.
Looking Forward
There are days the storm still rages, days when anxiety crowds every thought and dissociation dulls the edges of reality. But there are also days of clarity, of peace, of genuine connection. I collect these moments, stringing them together like beads, reminders that life is not only suffering but also beauty, resilience, and growth.
If you, too, struggle with intense emotions, anxiety, or dissociation, know that you are not alone. Your pain is real, and so is your strength. There is no shame in seeking help, in reaching for comfort, in resting when you must. You are worthy, not because you endure, but because you are here—still trying, still hoping, still alive.
In the quiet that follows the storm, I find, again and again, the possibility of beginning anew. No emotion lasts forever, and even in the darkest moments, there is a spark—however faint—of light ahead.