No passport. No notice. Just vibes and unfiled trauma.
It started with toast.
Or at least, it was supposed to.
I was in the kitchen—spoon in hand, no idea why.
Was I stirring coffee? Cooking soup? Digging a tunnel to escape capitalism?
No one knows. Least of all… me.
One blink later—
I’m standing there like I just woke up in someone else’s life.
Except it’s my life.
And apparently? I missed a billing cycle, a birthday, and a whole ass situationship I didn’t know I entered.
He said,
“We broke up.”
I said,
“Of what?”
Apparently, of us.
See, people think dissociation is dramatic.
Some big Hollywood blackout scene.
Nah.
It’s Walmart lighting. Stale air. A vague memory of needing eggs.
Then—poof.
Consciousness gone like a tab you accidentally closed with 16 unsaved drafts.
I didn’t leave Earth.
I just stopped participating in it.
They call it “maladaptive.”
I call it auto-eject.
My brain?
It’s a survival submarine.
When sh*t gets too loud, it dives.
No itinerary. No Wi-Fi. No forwarding address.
Sometimes it feels like I wake up months older.
Other times, I swear I time-traveled back to the trauma just to watch it again with commentary.
“Here comes the part where you pretend you’re fine. Enjoy!”
And don’t talk to me about grounding techniques.
I’ve sniffed lavender, counted tiles, and rubbed a worry stone raw.
I’ve “just breathed” so hard I got lightheaded.
You know what brought me back once?
A car alarm.
Another time?
A goat meme and an overdue bill.
Welcome to my nervous system: part haunted house, part comedy club.
I’ve had entire friendships dissolve in a haze of
“Oh sh*t, was I supposed to respond to that in 2021?”
I’ve got plants that died waiting for me to reappear.
Pets that look at me like,
“Ma’am, you glitched again.”
But here’s the thing:
Every time I came back,
I was funnier.
Sharper.
More ME than before.
Because dissociation isn’t failure—
It’s a f*cking reboot.
And once I figured out how to narrate it?
I turned it into an artform.
So yeah… I time-travel.
Not with a watch, but with a brain that said
“Nope, not today.”
And you know what?
That makes me a survivor.
With memory holes.
And material.
And a tip jar.
And if that ain’t multidimensional healing?
I don’t know what is.
I Dissociated So Hard I Time-Traveled
I blinked and woke in ‘98,
Still wearing shame and frozen fate.
Skipped some rent, missed two good friends—
Trauma bends time, but never ends.
Now I pack snacks for my brain trips,
Label flashbacks like road trip flips.
I may leave earth, but when I land—
I journal with a lava lamp in hand.
—The Funny Phoenix, time-hopping through triggers in style
