They say that the cause of depersonalization starts from depression, anxiety, or trauma that wasn't completely tended to. And not everyone with depersonalization always remember how exactly those even began. Life was simple before the mess. My favorite song was playing while I was doing homework for my English class. My biggest trouble was wondering if my crush at the time was interested in me as I was in him. My mom was preparing dinner, telling me about her day. This was routine. Wake up, go to school, come home, talk to my family, do homework, eat, shower, go to bed, repeat. I had troubles here and there like every person does, but nothing so significant.
Looking back at it, I didn't know how lucky I was to not have this syndrome; to be able to smile, laugh, cry, hurt, scream, everything a normal human being could do without questioning if it was really me doing it. I had complete control of who I was, but I still didn't know who I was as an individual. It's not an easy thing to figure out when you're a teenager. It's hard to even remember such a time when I was my own person. But there was a time, and I wanted it back. You lose a piece of yourself while picking up the rest of the broken ones you try to mend.
Then came the case.
A case had been filed by me, by accident, of sexual abuse. The reason is because it was not intended towards the person it affected. At the age of six years old, I was molested by my step dad's friend's friend for about a month or two. At the time, I had no idea what was going on. I felt that it was okay because my parents had trusted him with my brother and I. I had no choice but to put up with it, but there came times where I felt extremely uncomfortable. My brother never saw because the friend made sure he didn't. He distracted him with games to play in his room while he snuck me into another room and did as he pleased. I'd start asking my mom if I could stay home because I didn't like going over to his house. One day, I finally bursted into tears and told my mom what had been going on. I said that I didn't like it and that even if they were okay with it, that I wanted it to stop. My mom was devastated. She blamed herself for not knowing or catching on sooner.
The next day, I went to school and when I came back home my mom told me that I'd never have to see him again and that she'd taken care of it. Years later I found out that she brutally beat him, my stepdad and his friend having to hold her back, till he confessed what he did. She said that he had a choice to leave and never show his face to our family again, or she'd call the cops on him.
You might be wondering why she hadn't already; well, my mom herself had been abused when she was a child, but unlike me, her mom didn't believe her. She was put through so much as a case was filed against the man and was constantly asked the same questions over and over again, by countless social workers, never letting her deal with the trauma she had faced. It emotionally and mentally scarred her and she didn't want to put me through that, especially at such a young age, but deep inside, she knew that I'd need someone to talk to. Someone that wasn't her.
It wasn't easy to simply go up and cry to my mom about how I felt because she'd cry harder. She wasn't feeling sorry for herself, she was mentally shaming herself in tears that never dried. It was as much as tough for me as it was for her. I've never blamed my parents for not catching on because the man was full of deceit, and he played his cards right. Years later we found out that he ended up in jail after being caught molesting another young girl, but this time, the punishment was worse.
Even after he left, I was still delicate towards people. I hadn't even noticed till I saw a picture of my cousin hugging me when we were around six. She held me tightly to her chest, grinning from ear to ear while my arms simply hovered around her waist and a fake smile plastered across my face.
Again, being in a delicate situation made me more cautious of people. With a hazy memory, I recalled that around the age of the abuse, I was nude under the sheets with my stepdad. I immediately considered it abuse and freaked, causing the case.
I had held in that memory for so long that one day after school, while I was ranting to my music teacher, it came out. I hadn't meant for it to, but I was so upset about the constant arguing in my house between my parents and I that I blurted it out without thinking. It's no wonder people say, "Think before you speak," because that accusation began nine months of a living hell.