The Quiet Rebel: Essay on Dissociation
By. Nica Selvaggio
Get up. Rise from the chair. Move. Breathe. Leave the apartment. Walk. Human. Connect. Nourish. These are the thoughts that motivate me to finally take a deep breath and let the rise of my inhale propel me out of my bright teal armchair and into the world after an indiscernible amount of time spent only in the company of my plants and my dog and my books. My apartment is a magical safe haven that I have created and is just my own. Splashes of color in every corner. Objects from travels that hold story. Art covering every wall. Crystals, tarot, incense. The beauty helps my ever alert body relax. The beauty helps my body be on the planet. For my mind to come back into my skull. The clouds always beckoning for escape.
The army green of my coat swathes my arms and the jangle of my keys greets me as I prepare to disembark. Not sure where I want to go yet, but I know I should interact with people. Even if it’s just ordering a coffee from a barista. Move.
I read somewhere that social connectedness is important when feeling chronically disassociated. Looking someone safely in the eyes activates the ventral vagus nerve, which is largely responsible for the human specimen’s ability to relate and engage with other people. The ventral vagus nerve is part of what’s called the “social engagement system” which also includes the eyes, mouth, face, heart and belly. The ventral vagus nerve runs all the way from the base of neck, where the gap between skull and spine slips, descends through the front of the abdomen, creeps through the viscera, and meets its final resting place in the gut. This nerve is connected to the heart, lungs, and digestive system. Vagal tone, or vagus nerve health, largely impacts the function all of these major organ systems. Vagal tone is largely determined by our ability to connect with other homosapiens. The ability to form strong social bonds is a tool of survival and well-being on the physiological level. The organ level. The cellular level.
It impacts everything.
So it would follow that if the development of a person’s social engagement system is interrupted, by say abuse or neglect, or even the simple misattunement of a primary caregiver, then that person would struggle with a whole host of somatic and bodily issues.
Like disassociation. The lack of ability to stay present in the body and grounded in reality. Or depersonalization. Feeling as if you don’t exist or aren’t real. And definitely derealization. Feeling as if you are in a dream even though you are awake.
Bright acid coats the inside of my mouth. I can taste the color orange as the tomato that bursts happily between my teeth snaps me out of my intellectual reverie.
Shit. It happened again.
My feet have brought me to the Sunday farmer’s market, to which I can’t remember deciding to visit. I’ve just accepted an unwashed tomato from a stranger. I’m not upset about it and let go of my worries about sanitation and the trustworthiness of the produce person. The smell of earth, wet grass, flowers, food and bodies floods my nose and I can feel my fingertips again.
Woah, that’s weird and new. Haven’t lost sensations in my hands before.
I tighten my grip on the smooth blue rope somehow clenched in my right fist.
It is common for entire body parts to go “off the map” when disassociating. Everything is connected through the nerve network.
Never mind, brain. No need to intellectualize everything. Don’t go away again.
I’m grateful for my dog and her sweet brown eyes in this moment. She serves as a great buffer between me and all of the people I find myself suddenly feeling overwhelmed by. The familiar feeling of being utterly alone while simultaneously being excruciatingly connected to every energy system nearby engulfs me.
I do not belong. I can feel what everyone is feeling. This is too much.
The urge to float away shimmers nearby, but I’m trying to work on staying. My therapist says it’s important to stay tethered. I believe her. My body folds to lean down and meet the soft warm of my dog attached to the end of the blue rope still clenched in my fist. I put my face near her face and focus on the smell of her happy puppy breath. This helps me remember to let my lungs inflate before rising again to meet the expectant gaze of the produce merchant before me.
Orienting, or entering the present moment via the senses, activates the ventral vagus nerve and helps alleviate disassociation. Pay attention to the earth. Feel your feet on the ground. Don’t go.
I find it difficult, but nod and smile. This buys time to remember what exactly is expected of me in this interaction. I am practiced in the art of appeasing others and following normal social codes of behavior and don’t want to deal with the awkwardness and discomfort associated with not obliging.
“Oh my god, these tomatoes are incredible! So sweet! I’m totally going to use these in some pasta! Thaaank yooouuu, I’m so excited!”
Even I don’t believe me.
But I’ve passed the test and the merchant contentedly bags the pretty sunburnt tomatoes and attempts to flirt. He doesn’t know you can’t flirt with someone who’s not quite there.
“I think I’ve seen you here before, you seem very familiar.”
Oldest line in the book.
“Oh no, I get that a lot. I think I must have a doppelganger.” A low giggle creeping from my throat right on cue.
The truth is he might be right. The truth is I don’t know all the steps I tread. Memory is a loose thread.
When the development of a healthy vagus ventral nerve is interrupted through trauma. Trauma meaning any event that is overwhelming to the nervous system and causes it to subsequently become stuck in an activated state. Fight flight freeze fawn disassociate. Especially if that trauma involves another human (most do). Then a person develops a problem with people. The root of trauma is disconnection. The inability to be present. Thus robbing a person of the ability to experience joy in what is. Because the body is stuck in what was.
A good therapist question. When is the first time that you realized that other people could hurt you?
I’m annoyed with what seems like my reciprocated flirtation. I am not attracted to this man. And yet I automatically go into fawn state and give him what he thinks he wants from me. To avoid confrontation. To stay safe. I walk away from the interaction mostly unscathed but feeling kind of gross.
Why do I always feel like people want something from me that I cannot give them?
Chronic disassociation can lead to a sense of separateness. Alien. Disconnect.
“Thank you, sir.”
The misgendering snaps me back into my body as I confusedly accept the red plastic debit card being returned to my clumsy hands. I don’t know what to say or how I feel so I give a confident nod and thank the cheese merchant for the ball of mozzarella now accompanying the happy orange tomatoes clutched in my hungry palms. Sir. Sir? The word does not upset me in the way that culture has taught me it should. It’s validates a long silenced part of me.
I feel a strange mix of pride and disgust as I walk aimlessly away from the farmers market and the two disorienting experiences, allowing my dog to lead the way. She knows the way home. I have my earbuds in, and the sounds of jazz harpist Dorothy Ashby is the perfect accompaniment to the thoughts now swirling like a school of silver sardines in my crowded head.
What about me looks like a dude? I have a very delicate and feminine face despite my shorn hair and lack of makeup. Maybe it’s the overalls? I have been told that I have an intimidating energy. Something that is endlessly fascinating to me because I often feel so small. Isn’t this what I wanted when I cut my hair? To be seen as something other than the vulnerability of my feminine body?
The ventral vagus nerve is intimately connected to the gut system. This is where many believe the phenomena of “intuition” lives. I had a “gut” feeling.
I feel prickles on the back of my neck and I don’t know why. Somewhere I hear distant shouting. Somewhere I hear hate. Somewhere is right next to me. Someone is now screaming in my face.
I’m a million worlds away from the farmer’s market. I’m in my own neighborhood. I should be safe.
“You fucking faggot! You think you can just walk with your earbuds in and ignore me? How many dicks did you have today, faggot? How many before you choke and die on all the cock that you suck? All you faggots deserve to die! You think you’re better than me, well you’re not. You’re just a disgusting faggot.”
My vision sharpens. Concrete. Sidewalk. Neon signs. People walking with eyes downcast. Quickly passing by. Heads forever turned. Lips forever pressed. I’m on Broadway avenue. There is a man about twice my size wearing a red hat following three feet behind me. Don’t look. Muscles tense. Fists clench. Prepare to run or fight. Eyes dart. Looking for a store to escape. There. Umbrellas and wrought iron café chairs. Espresso vivace has a line. Get near others. He is less likely to attack. Breathe. Fucking breathe.
When danger or threat is perceived, the nervous system enters into sympathetic arousal, otherwise known as fight or flight, and loses access to the vagus ventral nerve. The prefrontal cortex (the area responsible for abstract thought) goes offline and the amygdala, otherwise known as the reptilian brain, takes over. It is the body’s brilliant system designed for survival. If the body perceives that fight or flight are not the safest option, then it will revert to freeze, or overwhelm. At this point, the dorsal vagal nerve, the shadow twin of the ventral vagus nerve, makes its debut. Dorsal meaning “behind.” It is a secondary branch of the vagus nerve that runs parallel to the ventral vagus nerve in the back of the body. Through the spine. Your backbone.
When someone goes dorsal, they lose contact with reality. The brain has assessed that the experience is quite literally too much and opts to rocket launch you out of your body instead. Freeze. A gazelle collapses to escape the hungry jaws of a lion.
What if the lion is everyone? Anyone?
It takes me a minute before I can unhook my jaw and speak. Quite literally, I can’t move my face. My eyes are now large marbles. Unblinking. Unmoving. The threat is gone. I spot the man, still shouting a block ahead of me. I have escaped. From what? I will never know. The threat of violence is violence.
“What can I get you, ma’am?”
Speak. Damnit. Speak.
I blink. Shake my head. And respond to the barista with tired eyes at the espresso stand that I’ve used as my safe haven.
“Small oat milk latte, please.” The words shake in the air between us as I swallow the tears threatening to slide down my face.
Slowly the blood pours back into my fingers. Slowly the weight of gravity hits my bones. Slowly my chest starts to move again. But now it feels like I am walking through mud. Like my body is full of sand. It is difficult to open my small brown leather wallet to pay the cashier who also has blank eyes.
When the body has assessed that reality is too overwhelming, the dorsal vagal nerve will take over and highjack the ability to socially engage with others because the ventral vagal nerve is no longer online. When in a dorsal vagal state, it is common for vision to blur to feel floaty spacey foggy heavy numb unfeeling numb tired so tired disconnected not real disassociated nothing matters numb.
This is to protect you.
It also makes it impossible to connect. The only way to come back is through activating the ventral vagus nerve again. Bring it back online. Orient. Orient. Orient.
I pay for the iced latte that I didn’t know I needed and take a sip. The cold hits my teeth and tongue in the most delicious way. The creamy fullness of the oat milk satisfies my need for nurture in this moment.
“Oh honey, you just have the cutest dog!”
A smiling humanoid greets me. Catches my eyes. Sees. Keeps contact. Is kind.
My neck bristles. People. But they keep on trying to reach me. I oblige.
“Tell me about this magnificent creature you’ve got here. They have the most soulful eyes.”
“Their name is Sasha Fierce and they are the best creature I know. Did you see that man screaming at me? Did you see?”
The words tumble out faster than I can blink and I wish I could swallow them right back in. I feel so completely humiliated and confused and sad and afraid and overwhelmed. I am bleeding. I am water. I am a puff of smoke. The panic rises in my chest again and I feel as if I might collapse but I know I’ve got to hold it together. Don’t collapse here on this street. Don’t let them see the gazelle frozen in fear. I must be the lion now. I keep speaking.
“There was a man screaming faggot in my face and saying that I should choke on dicks and die. It was really scary. I feel so overwhelmed.”
My softness gathers gently in my lower lids. Salt drips down the rims. I can no longer hold it in.
The human seems to grab my chin by the face with their gaze. They hold my eyes tightly for a moment. They don’t look away. And this small tiny blip of a moment is why I am able to walk away from this whole experience ok.
The kindness of a stranger willing to see in the midst of many who simply cannot bring themselves to look.
The way to bring the ventral vagal system back online is to activate the social engagement system through feeling safe and seen with a compassionate witness. To be joined in the overwhelming experience. And safely guided through.
We live in a world that has taught us to look away from pain. The human brain is quite literally wired to avoid pain and go towards pleasure. This is how so many are able to completely disassociate and walk right past a homeless person who might be dead on the street without acknowledging their existence. Without so much as a backward glance.
Being invisible can kill you. Loneliness can kill you. Being oppressed can kill you. Being shamed for your existence can kill you. On a nervous system level, being disconnected can kill you. This is why so many people hide who they truly are. Because the cost of losing acceptability and safety in our culture is too high of a cost to pay. And this is why hatred and violence is perpetuated against people who choose to live free in a world that does not want them to. Anger. Fear. Disgust. Shame. To be free is to live with all of your shadows and idiosyncrasies and fault lines on full display. To be free is to be real. To be true. And there will always be those who want to silence the truth because they haven’t come to it in themselves. They too are traumatized. They too are simply trying to escape the pain. They too are humans who need and are wired for connection. They too have a ventral vagus nerve that seeks safety through belonging. Even the man with the red MAGA hat screaming for my demise on a random city block in Seattle.
“You can’t take these things to heart, dear. Let it roll of off you. Don’t let them win.”
These are not necessarily the words I need to hear in this moment, but the human in front of me does their best to comfort me. They stay and validate that I am not in the wrong for simply existing in a body that does not conform to cultural expectations of gender and sexuality. This human validates that what happened in the violent exchange is not ok. This is enough for me to shake the experience off, literally.
In order to move through a trauma, the nervous system must discharge the energy that has been activated in fight or flight. This happens through literal shaking or trembling at times. The same way a dog shakes after meeting another dog it doesn’t like.
My lips tremble, my hands shake, and I let them. My feet move in synchronicity to the jazz rhythms still pulsing in my ears. I never took my earbuds out. I thank the human for their encouragement and depart. Make my way off of Broadway and onto a tree lined block. The sun glints flirtatiously through the leaves. She has been hiding for the past few days and has chosen this moment to unveil and shine her beauty on the damp of Seattle. My head stays focused ahead, held high and alert and relaxed. I refuse to let hate rob me of my birthright of presence. The enjoyment of the small details. The yawning sidewalk. Purple fireweed behind a chain link fence. The tip tap of my dog’s claws on the concrete. The breeze kissing my face. These are mine to enjoy. My pleasure and presence are the “fuck you” to the man who wanted to rob me of safety. The earth is still here for me to enjoy. Even trauma can’t rob me of that. Besides, I have this unexpected boost of caffeine and an interesting experience to write about. Something to say to help others reignite.
Coming back to the earth is hard work for those who have experienced trauma. The body is where the pain remains stored. In the nervous system. In the brain. The body is also the place of healing. The place of profound creativity and joy and light and connection.
It is ok to collapse. It is ok to stand back up. It is ok to fight or to run or disassociate. It is ok to numb. Or to be so overwhelmed with anxiety you don’t know what day it is. Whatever your brain determines will help you survive.
But do not stay there too long. Do the vulnerable work of shaking. Of releasing. Of getting it out of the body. So that survival is a verb left behind. And thriving becomes the body’s new home.
Do not let others rob you of your right to be free. The more of us willing to do the work of staying. Standing in our truth. Whatever that may mean. The more we can help others do the same. The more safety and belonging we can create. This is medicine. The blueprint is there in the ventral vagus nerve. Connect.
I sigh a deep sigh of relief as these last few paragraphs exit my body. The process is complete. I am alive and awake and joyful and creative and back in the safety of my apartment. I have made it home. And I have documented my experience in a way that helps me make meaning from the pain. And that act. Of using my voice. Provides a sense of deep satisfaction. My bones are happy. My body back in the bright teal armchair. Fingers tired from dancing across the keyboard. And it is now that I finally feel totally back in my skin. Back in the company of my dogs and my books and my plants.
I stretch my arms above my head and my body decides to move towards my tiny European kitchen. There are organic orange tomatoes and fresh mozzarella calling. And I am so so grateful for the meal that my Italian hands are about to make with no recipe to follow. Only the knowing passed down from generations before me to guide me.
And I smile for the first time all day. This is my quiet rebellion. Let them eat pasta.
Grit. Depth. Shadow. Resilience. Pain. Hope. Healing. Writing is the portal through which Nica Selvaggio explores the intangible and visceral experiences of being human that are too often kept silent. The messy bits that are difficult to put words to. Never one to be accused of sugar coating, Nica brings raw honesty to her work, exploring themes such as grief, adoption, trauma, sexuality, race, relationships, gender dynamics, power, and voice. Poetry and essay are her medicines on days when it all seems like too much. In sharing her work, she hopes that you, the reader, can find bits of yourself and connect to the healing alchemy of storytelling. Nica’s offering in the pages of For Women Who Roar takes readers on a journey through the four elements found in nature as they relate to the saga of her four names. You can find more of her work on her Instagram at @nicaselvaggio or her website nicaselvaggio.com