Protective Dissociation Disorder
The mind, when cornered by unbearable truth,
Builds walls from silence and locks from sleep.
It learns the art of leaving itself
While the body remains behind to suffer.
There are wounds no language can dress,
No reason can bind.
So the psyche invents distance—
A thin veil between terror and breath.
It begins in childhood,
When love becomes danger
And memory becomes poison.
The soul, desperate to survive,
Steps sideways out of pain.
This is not madness.
It is architecture.
The self fractures not from weakness,
But from necessity.
The mind, like a nation under siege,
Burns its bridges to keep the enemy out.
How bad can it become?
So complete that one no longer knows
Which voice belongs to whom.
So quiet that life feels like watching oneself drown
From the shore of one’s own body.
So distant that joy feels like a rumor
Heard through thick walls.
The person survives,
But the witness disappears.
Yet know this:
Dissociation is not the illness—
It is the scar.
Proof that something once threatened
To destroy the soul entirely
And failed.
For even in retreat,
The mind chooses life.
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