"Dissociation" by Megan Z.

            I remember everything froze. Faces seemed to blur and voices morphed into loud hums, though I realize that things still happened around me: a water droplet falls from the tree above me onto the notebook in front of me, the girl that always makes jokes in the hallway waves at me, the boy holds the door open for the hordes of students that file into their classrooms, the bell rings. The bell rings. Consumed in this separate plane of existence I’m barred from noticing the campus security asking me where I’m supposed to be. Here nothing exists. Jolted from this state by a hand on my shoulder, I notice there’s nobody around but the now irritated guard asking for my I.D. card for what is probably the third time.

            “Lola Manning, grade 11,” he reads aloud. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

            I nod and pack my things, or more accurately shove them into my bag before I’m required to speak. I make my way to class and enter quietly without disruption. The teacher doesn’t even notice. Most of them don’t. The rest don’t care. I spend the rest of my day distinctly apart from all I encounter. The person taking this test is not me, Rosie is not greeting me warmly, and I am certainly not speaking voluntarily in class to contribute to the discussion. This body is not mine. Not the hands that automatically sweep the hair from this face, nor the thoughts that permeate this head, destroying its grip on reality, all demanding immediate attention ranging from due dates to death are able to hold me here.

            Unfortunately, this body misses the bus and has to walk home. Though entirely capable of accomplishing this apparently simple task, it resists with sluggish movements and heavy eyes. I don’t remember the last time I slept, but whether that is a result of denial or delirium I’m not sure. I can’t bring myself to do it. I live in fear of the nightmares that lie in wait. Instead I find ways to distract myself from plummeting back to this body and all that comes with it. But as all addicts know, the high doesn’t last. I look over to the clock that reads 4:37 a.m. I don’t even remember coming home, but I’m in my bed when all at once my head floods with the recognition of abandonment and residual weight of my inner absence. The volume within my head rises almost exponentially with each passing minute. All attempts at silencing it are futile and I hold my breath as I reluctantly accept my fate that I’ve been so desperately avoiding. My lungs scream as my brain tries to over-analyze each piece of information. I feel everything simultaneously and I wonder if this is what it means to be alive. My vision begins to fade as I contemplate the age-old question: “What is the purpose of all this?” As if in a tunnel, I hear my muffled ringtone. It’s Rosie.

            “Hey Lola you seemed off today. Are you okay? I’m worried that you’re not answering.”

            At the last second before passing out I inhale, the pressure releasing from my head and my senses returning. I determine that there is no purpose and everything is fragile, but if you’re observant you’ll find the girl who tells jokes and notice the boy who holds the door and appreciate your Rosie for caring about you, however subtly or clearly this may be shown. You can learn to breathe again.