puppets

sometimes i wake up and i’m not the one who got out of bed.

i mean, obviously it’s my body. my hands making coffee, my fingers typing emails. but there’s this… disconnect. like i’m watching it all happen from somewhere behind my own eyes. like someone else is pulling the strings.

my therapist calls it dissociative identity disorder. a clinical term for what feels more like living in a crowded house where i can never quite see the other residents. dissociation. the brain’s way of protecting itself when reality becomes too much. but what happens when the protective barrier doesn’t come down? when the strings stay attached and i remain the spectator of my own life?

it’s terrifying to realize how much happens on autopilot. how much of “me” operates without my conscious awareness. like there are other versions running the show when i’m not paying attention.

the strangest part is that some other “me’s” are apparently competent. they pay bills, get things done, maintain relationships, advance my career. sometimes i think they’re better at being me than i am. more efficient, less anxious, better at small talk. i once got complimented on how charming i was at a dinner i barely remember attending.

i wonder if the “real me” is the one i can never access—the puppeteer behind the curtain, pulling all our strings. that integration is the goal, not further fragmentation. but how do you integrate with parts of yourself you can’t even see? how do you become whole when you’re never sure which piece is currently in control?

i’ve started leaving notes for the other people. little messages on my phone. i don’t know if they read them. it helps to think we might be communicating somehow.

there are moments of clarity. brief windows where the strings fall away and i feel fully present, where i can also talk to them, where i feel like i’m fully myself.. whoever that is. usually when i’m creating something, or in those rare perfect conversations where time seems to stop.

is there even such thing as a continuous “me” or are we all just collections of moments, memories, and patterns that give the illusion of continuity? maybe everyone is puppets all the way down

they said recovery would feel like coming home to myself. but what if there’s no solid self to return to? what if i’m just a stage where different versions take turns performing, each one believing they’re the real show?

i’m learning to be gentler with all of us. to trust that even the parts i don’t understand are trying their best with the information they have. that maybe the hand pulling the strings isn’t malicious, just protective in ways i can’t comprehend.

still, i leave the notes. i try to document the gaps, the missing time, the evidence of other pilots. not to solve the mystery but to acknowledge it

because the scariest puppet isn’t the one who knows it’s being controlled. it’s the one who believes it’s acting freely while never seeing the strings