The Paradox of Depersonalization & Derealization.

Have you ever felt like your consciousness was slipping away, like you were no longer the one in control of your body? You could still see, hear, and feel everything around you, but it was as if you were just a spectator — watching your own life unfold from behind an invisible wall.

That’s exactly what happened to me.

2011: The First Signs

The earliest episodes of dissociation started when I was a child. I was around 9 years old. Growing up in hardship, my family struggled financially, and our environment wasn’t exactly safe. Sumpak (homemade guns eg. icepick) and riot fights were common adding another layer of stress to my childhood. But despite everything, I adapted.

Yet, my mind decided to protect me in its own way.

An experience I will never forget happened at a busy shopping center, filled with people and loud chatter. The noise was overwhelming, and at some point, I got separated from my mom. Panicked, I saw my cousin and followed him so I wouldn’t be alone. I stepped onto the escalator, thinking he would do the same. But when I looked back, he had already gone down a different way.

Suddenly, the escalator looked longer than normal, stretching far ahead. My chest felt tight, my vision blurred, and my body wouldn’t move. But at the same time, it felt like I was watching myself from the outside — like I wasn’t really there.

People were staring. I wanted to move, but I was frozen in place, tears running down my face. A kind adult helped me, but instead of taking the escalator again, we used the stairs. I just sat there, crying.

I had never been afraid of heights before, but after that day, something changed.

2013: The Fear Took Over

By the time I was in middle school, the detachment was happening more often, and it terrified me.

One time, I was in school, preparing for my last subject — then suddenly, I was already at the town proper, standing at the jeepney stop. I could still see how I got there, but it felt like I was just observing, not really present. A 20-minute walk had passed in a blur, as if my body had moved on its own while my mind drifted elsewhere. I only snapped back to reality when a friend called my name to say good bye.

“Wait… how did I get here?”

At first, I dismissed it. Maybe I was just too tired. Maybe I was just deep in thought. But as the years went by, the episodes became more frequent.

I had no idea what was happening to me. Psychological issues weren’t talked about in my household, so my first instinct was religion. It was Mahal na Araw (Holy Week), and I started visiting a shrine in our neighborhood, praying as if my thoughts were sins being planted by the devil.

Eventually, my guardian took me to the hospital — but not to a mental health specialist. Instead, I was brought to a pediatrician.

“Gawa-gawa niya lang ‘yan para magpapansin.”

(“She's just making this up for attention.”)

That was what the doctor exaclty said before prescribing my mom vitamins for me, as if everything I was experiencing was just my imaginatio. Maybe the doctor didn’t refer me to a specialist due to a lack of awareness, the stigma around mental health, or simply because I was still a child and they thought it was just a phase. It’s also possible they didn’t fully assess my symptoms or just wanted to avoid a psychiatric referral.

I was dismissed. My guardian was afraid to bring me to a psychologist, believing mental hospitals were only for “crazy” people.

So I had to deal with it alone, I need to figure out what's happening to me.

2016: Learning to Cope

That year, we finally got internet access at home. Before that, I had to go to a piso net (public internet café) where people would hover and watch what you were doing on computer, leaving no privacy. For the first time, I could research what I was going through. That’s when I discovered the terms Depersonalization and Derealization (DPDR), and suddenly, everything made sense, I felt seen and heard knowing that other people also experienced those. It wasn’t the devil, and I wasn’t “crazy” — it was a real psychological response to stress and trauma.

So, I decided to learn how to control it like a power by developing a system:

✔ I’d stop whatever I was doing and focus on my surroundings.

The moment I felt the detachment creeping in, I forced myself to pause. What sounds could I hear? What textures were around me? How did the air feel on my skin? Grounding myself in the present was the first step.

✔ I’d tell myself, “Wake up.”

A simple but powerful command. Saying “Wake up” — even just in my head — created urgency. It was a verbal jolt, reminding me that I was still here.

✔ I’d look for colors — especially green.

Green became my lifeline. Whether it was trees, leaves, or even a street sign, locking onto the color helped me reconnect with reality. It reminded me that I was still part of the real world.

✔ I’d read words on signs, forcing my brain to engage with reality.

Reading required conscious effort. I made myself process words — street signs, posters, even random labels — so my brain had to focus. It pulled me away from dissociation and back into structured thought.

✔ I’d shake my head lightly — not to the point of dizziness, but just enough to “wake up” my senses.

A small action, but enough to send signals to my brain. Sometimes, I’d tap my wrist or rub my fingertips together — anything to create a physical sensation and re-establish a connection with my body.

At some point, I started understanding that my brain was doing this to protect me. It was shutting down my awareness because it thought I was in danger — even when I wasn’t.

2019: Reclaiming My Presence

Little by little, I regained power over my mind. The episodes of detachment became less frequent, and my brain no longer had the ability to shut me down whenever it wanted.

Now, I look back and realize — I wasn’t weak.

I was strong.

My mind wasn’t my enemy. It was doing what it thought was best for me — trying to shield me from pain. DPDR wasn’t a failure; it was a defense mechanism, a way to keep me safe.

While there are still moments when I feel DPDR creeping in, I’ve learned how to manage it. It no longer controls my life.

If you’re going through something similar, let me tell you this:

You’re not alone.

You’re not powerless.

You can take control again.

If you ever need someone to talk to about DPDR, my inbox is open — I know how isolating it can feel. However, I want to emphasize that this is just my personal experience. If DPDR is affecting your daily life, please consider reaching out to a mental health professional. There’s no shame in seeking help, and you don’t have to go through this alone.