When the Edges Blur: Writing Through Derealization.

Some days, the world feels like a watercolor left out in the rain. The edges blur. The colors run. I know I’m here, but everything around me feels like a memory I haven’t lived.

Derealization isn’t loud. It doesn’t scream. It hums quietly beneath the surface, like static in a room that used to feel familiar.

I move through my day. I speak. I smile. I do the things I’m supposed to do. But something in me whispers, This isn’t real.

And then comes the moment of awareness. The part that hurts most. I realize I’m in it. I know I’m disconnected. I try to wake up, but I can’t. It’s like watching your life through frosted glass, knowing there’s warmth on the other side but not knowing how to reach it.

I reach for what’s real.
I hold my mug with both hands.
I trace the rim with my thumb.
I name the color of the sky.
I read scripture aloud, just to hear my own voice.

One of the hardest parts is memory.

When the world feels unreal, my memories start to feel that way too. I question whether things happened the way I remember. I reread old journal entries and wonder if I made them up. I scroll through photos and feel like I’m looking at someone else’s life.

It’s not that I forget, it’s that I stop trusting what I remember. And that makes everything feel even more fragile.

I start second-guessing conversations, moments of joy, even the softness of my own healing. Did I really feel that? Did I really say that? Was I really there?

So I write.
I write to reclaim my story from the fog.
I write to remind myself that even if the edges blur, the core is still mine.

My memory may feel shaky, but my voice is steady. And every word I write becomes a thread back to myself.

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. But it reminds me: I am here. I am real. Even if the world feels like a dream.

If you’ve felt this too, this quiet disconnection, I want you to know you’re not alone. Your story is real. Your voice is real. Your presence matters.