My Dissociation Disorder

This isn’t happening.
This isn’t real.
I’m not here.
(Cue heaving breathing)

This feeling is horrifying, every morning it’s a dance with the Devil.
But I suppose I will have to adapt.
I am becoming unwilling complacent not knowing if I exist.
I’m waiting for mortality to prove itself to be truthful, or not.

I check the door a hundred times, every time before I go.
It’s an excuse for me to stay inside. I refuse to leave.
Years pass and still no change. I just want to turn it off.

This is all so tiring.

There is a constant, lingering void,
a lack of answers from a lifetime of painful questions.
I start to doubt myself, let alone the old and new testaments.

I wait patiently to see if life lessons from grandma, dad, and my fourth-grade
religion teacher will come true as promised.

I over indulge myself with false emotions to the non-existing world in which I live in.
Irrational and irrelevant,
I’m wrapped up in life’s facade, completely confused and lost,
but I do enjoy the abnormality in which doctors casts me as.

I romance the idea that one day I could truly be happy.
I know that I am only panicking.
This is only a terrible state of mind that I’m trapped in.

But for now, I suppose, I’ll enjoy my sadness.
I’ll seduce my anxiety because although debilitating, it reminds me that I’m alive.
I will suffer silently in my solitude. It’s savage, but it saves.

And just to play it safe, in case that I am not here with all of you,
I will continue to check the door a hundred times, every time before I go.

Photo Credit: NeoGaboX Flickr via Compfight cc








Richard DeFino

Ricky De Fino grew up in New York City and currently resides in Buffalo NY. When he isn’t writing about his anxiety and his crazy Bronx upbringing, he enjoys watching countless hours of television with his wife Andrea, cat Bebe and dog Zeke. Two years sober, good coffee and veganism keeps him sane.

His work can be found in Two Cities Review, tNY Press, Purple Pig Lit, Dialougal and Cycatrix Press.

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