Today something happened that I wasn’t prepared for — not because it was dramatic on the outside, but because of what it stirred inside of me.
I was leading the coworker I call lunch lady to a restaurant she’d invited me to. She didn’t know the way, and I was trying to keep both of us safe by waiting for traffic at the stop sign so she wouldn’t lose me. I hadn’t even pulled off yet — I was literally still waiting for cars to pass — when she drove right into the back of me.
Her immediate reaction?
Not “Are you okay?”
Not “Let me make sure you’re safe.”
Instead, she jumped straight to inspecting her car and asking if the tiny scratch on mine was her fault. She even tried to blame me, saying she “didn’t know which way I was going to turn,” even though I was positioned to turn right and there was nowhere else to go. It was bizarre, unsettling, and revealing all at once.
But the real story wasn’t the bump.
It was what my body did in that moment.
The Moment Everything Went Pins and Needles
The instant she hit me, my head rattled — not painfully, but sharply enough to shock my system. Then came the strangest sensation: a wave of pins and needles that wasn’t in my skin, but almost above me.
It felt like something inside me shook loose.
Like my spirit moved half a step outside my body.
Like I was watching myself from somewhere slightly above and behind.
A therapist once told me that the strongest thing a trauma survivor can do is dissociate — to mentally leave the unbearable moment and protect themselves until safety returns. I’ve done it in dreams, in nightmares, and during moments of overwhelm … practically all my life. It’s not something I consciously choose; it’s something my nervous system does for me.
That’s exactly what happened today.
I started to dissociate.
I couldn’t fully move.
I could feel tears welling up without understanding why.
I kept touching the back of my head like I was trying to physically hold myself inside my own body, trying not to float away.
And at the same time, I felt this desperate need for comfort — a reach toward support — but I didn’t trust the person involved. And that made the whole experience even more disorienting.
When Shock Opens Old Doors
This wasn’t just about a minor fender bump.
It stirred old memories — the season after my trip to Paisley Park when déjà vu followed me like a shadow; the year I felt like life was folding in on itself; the period when I was being heavily gaslit by a mob of narcissistic individuals calling themselves my friends and my grip on reality felt slippery.
It echoed past moments when my mind had to leave my body just to get through the day.
Today, the same mechanism turned itself on again. And honestly, it scared me — not because I didn’t understand it, but because it reminded me of how close dissociation sits beneath the surface when something shocks me unexpectedly.
The Strange Clarity That Followed
After the accident, something else opened my eyes.
The lunch lady immediately prioritized her own fear — fear of consequences, fear of blame — over concern for me. She offered insurance but tucked it away as soon as she realized I wasn’t making a scene. She wanted the accident to disappear more than she wanted to make sure I was okay.
And that realization hit me harder than her bumper.
It reminded me how she acts around the bully, how people changed their behavior toward me when the bully was present, and how different they suddenly become now that the bully is gone. (Yes! The bully is gone … not gone gone … just transferred gone – but comes back for meetings once a month … gone just enough that the environment has shifted in my favour.)
Today, even the friend of the bully — the same person who barely spoke to me for months — suddenly felt relaxed, talkative, even friendly. Because without her there, they’re not being monitored, manipulated, or controlled.
It’s odd how people can be perfectly capable, perfectly competent adults — until someone else’s fear, power, or influence shuts them down.
Today made that clearer than ever.
And Now … I’m Just Tired
I’m processing all of this: the shock, the dissociation, the strange emotional floatiness, the sudden shift in the workplace atmosphere. My head doesn’t hurt like a headache; it just feels like the echo of everything that happened is still vibrating inside me.
Honestly?
I think a nap might be the only thing that makes sense right now.
Because sometimes the body remembers, reacts, and protects us faster than we can even understand what’s happening. Today my body went into survival mode before my brain even had time to form a thought.
And all I can do now is honor that, listen to it, and let it settle.
My Voice Unchained 