I don't exist. I'm a stranger in my own skin. Count my fingers, they're all there... But who's are they? I drive the car, but it feels like I'm watching tv. I could crash the car, because I'm not really here... It wouldn't hurt. Why go to work today?... I don't exist, but I have a job? What the fuck? Hyper-vigilant. Everything's accounted for... Are the shingles still on the roof? Yes. That's good, that's where they go. I'm floating. I hate people, they always look at me & want to talk. I would like to say to them that I can't talk, because I'm not real. Words sound dumb when I think about them. People are looking at me.

>>>>> That was me for my teens & twenties (sometimes I actually miss it!). I was never a drug user, so it isn't some side effects of a bad bag of little pills. I now take meds that help a lot. Dissociative depersonalization is what the psychiatrist called it. I also have the pills for depression & it helps. I still don't really like interacting & I'm horribly self concious of everything I do. Even with my wife, I have a hard time being naked in front of her. I have a bit of a fear of intimacy... Being too close for too long is hard & I have to get away. I forgot what else I was going to say... Cheers!
The Bluebird of Happiness long absent from his life, Ned is visited by the Chicken of Depression. - Gary Larson