I disappear.
It’s not always intentional. It’s not out of malice. But it happens. I pull away. I go quiet. I drop off the map. I get overwhelmed, even by love. Especially by love. Because deep down I’ve never quite believed I deserved it — at least not without earning it, performing for it, being perfect first.
My Mum recently told me, in one of our gentler conversations, that when I was younger and even up till very recently and used to zone out, she thought I was just disinterested. Like I didn’t care. That cut deep. Because those blank stares weren’t disinterest — they were survival. I was floating, dissociating, shutting down. Not because I wanted to but because I had to. It was the only way to exist in a world that felt too much.
And that guilt… it sticks. The knowing that people who loved me thought I was just emotionally absent. That I hurt people without even realizing it.
And then there’s my best friend.
She’s the one who never let me disappear completely. The one who knows me — I mean really knows me. She says if she didn’t push, I’d just vanish. And she’s not wrong. I would. Because that’s what I do. I convince myself I’m a burden, that my mess is too much, that I’m easier to love from afar.
But she stayed. She stayed through every shutdown, every silence, every disappearing act. She jokes that she’s emotionally clingy enough for both of us — but honestly? Her consistency is one of the only reasons I still believe in friendship at all. She has seen the worst of me and never walked away. And that both comforts and terrifies me. Because if she ever did? I don’t know if I’d let anyone that close again.
And then there’s my dog.
My ex once told me, “He’s just an animal. Stop treating him like he’s your baby. It’s weird.”
To me my dog isn’t “just an animal.” He’s my safety net. My comfort. My soft landing when the world feels hard. He’s curled up beside me during every spiral, every breakdown, every moment I’ve wanted to scream or disappear or shut the world out entirely. He’s the one who doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t demand words, just stays — in the silence, in the ache, in the dark. Without him… I honestly don’t know what I’d do.
People — even the good ones — confuse me. They say they love you, but they also expect things: responses, consistency, availability. And when I can’t give those, I feel like I’m failing. Like I’m unworthy. Like it would just be easier if I took up less space.
So I vanish.
-
When I feel too much.
When emotions flood me and I don’t know how to hold them. So I shut down instead. -
When I feel not enough.
When I convince myself that I’m too messy, too complicated, too hard to love — so I save people the trouble and disappear. -
When I’m overwhelmed by love.
When someone cares for me deeply, and I panic — because what if I can’t give it back? What if I ruin it? -
When I feel misunderstood.
Like when my mum thought I was disinterested when I was actually zoning out, struggling just to exist. -
When I fight with someone I love.
Conflict feels like a threat to safety — so I leave before I can be left. -
When life gets busy.
It’s easier to say “I’ve been swamped” than “I’ve been drowning emotionally and couldn’t reach out.” -
When I feel like a burden.
When my brain whispers, They’re better off without you, and I believe it. -
When the world is too loud.
When everyone wants something from me and I have nothing left to give — so I go silent. -
When I’m spiraling.
The deeper the pain, the quieter I get. I isolate instead of asking for help. -
When I’m happiest.
Because even joy can feel fragile, and I’m afraid if I share it, it will disappear. -
When someone gets too close.
Intimacy feels like danger. Vulnerability feels like exposure. So I run, fast. -
After I open up.
I feel raw and exposed after sharing something real. The shame creeps in, and I retreat. -
When I think I’ve disappointed someone.
The fear of their judgment — real or imagined — makes me vanish before they can confirm it. -
When I go home.
Because home isn’t always peace. Home is history, triggers, ghosts. So I go through the motions and emotionally check out. -
When I don’t have the words.
When my mouth won’t match what’s happening in my chest, and silence is easier than fumbling. -
When I feel nothing at all.
Numbness is its own kind of vanishing. I drift through days like a ghost in my own skin.
If you’ve been someone I’ve hurt by pulling away, if you’ve ever wondered why I stopped calling, why I went silent, why I shut down — it was never about not caring. It was about not knowing how to stay.
But I’m learning. And I’m still here. Somewhere in the quiet. Trying.
