#dissociation

#dissociation

Scroll through any wellness feed, and you might notice the same whiplash-inducing pattern. Dissociation is either a dangerous sign of pathology or "a protective intelligence that deserves reverence." Trauma responses are framed as evidence of brokenness or badges of resilience. Anxiety is either a disorder to eliminate or an intuition to honor. We've flattened the rich, complex reality of the nervous system into a binary: demonize or romanticize. But neither extreme helps us understand ourselves-or decide when we actually need support.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself crying in the park. It was supposed to be just a typical summer day. I was enjoying my usual stroll with my dog, Boni. The sun was shining, and the shade of the trees provided a very welcoming shelter from the burning sun. Children were running and laughing, and their joy drew me in. Two of them, tiny three-year-olds, were squealing, all happy, wearing Hawaiian-style skirts and flowers around their necks.

Dissociation is ... a way of protecting oneself that most organisms can do when they're in a state of acute threat,

Her madness seeps into the everyday: a shower caddy's arrangement becomes proof of conspiracy, and breakdown coexists with term papers, hookups, and trips to TJ Maxx. Avoiding romance and melodrama, deBoer writes in an affectless register that mirrors Alice's dissociation. The novel's power lies in its relentless banality-the mind churning while life's machinery grinds on. During a halting recovery, Alice develops "deep intuitions" about her medications, which, she suspects, interact "like hot-tempered roommates in the shabby apartment of her brain."