Living in the Fog: In the Silence Between Who I Am and Who Was There

Those who have known me for quite a bit now know how I always joke about my mental health.

I do so because humor is one of my unhealthy coping mechanisms. I do not do it because I am trying to minimize my condition.

BUT . . . I think it’s time to take things seriously

So here goes.

In 2018, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). My symptoms had actually started way back in 2014, but I brushed them off like most people do—thinking it was just burnout, a bad breakup, or my fault for being “too sensitive.”

Things peaked in 2017. I was barely functioning. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I finally sought help in 2018 and started therapy and medication.

Since then, it’s been a mix of progress and relapses. I’ve been on and off Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (SSRIs) and have tried different kinds of psychotherapy. Some helped, some didn’t, but I kept trying. Because at the very least, I wanted to understand what was wrong with me.

Then recently—something else broke me.

What I thought was just another depressive spiral turned out to be something deeper and more disruptive. I was having severe episodes that didn’t feel like my usual depression or anxiety. I wasn’t just sad. I was gone.

For months, I kept silent.

Not because I wanted to hide it, but because I didn’t understand.

I didn’t have the words to explain why entire afternoons would slip away without memory. Why, sometimes, I would look in the mirror and not recognize myself. Why I would float above conversations, watching myself speak as if I were someone else. Why my world would suddenly feel dreamlike, muffled, distant. And why, despite it all, I kept telling myself: “Maybe I’m just tired.”

Eventually, my therapist and my psychiatrist named it: dissociative episodes.

And suddenly, things started to make sense.

After more clinical assessments and sessions, I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).

What Is Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD)?

Borderline Personality Disorder is a complex mental health condition that affects how you relate to others, how you see yourself, and how you experience emotions. It’s often misunderstood and heavily stigmatized.

People with BPD tend to feel things more intensely. We often struggle with an unstable sense of self, chaotic relationships, impulsivity, a deep fear of abandonment, chronic emptiness, and—for many of us—dissociation.

In my case, the depression and anxiety I’ve lived with for years weren’t the root; they were symptoms of something bigger. The diagnosis didn’t just give me a label. It gave me a framework. A way to understand what was happening inside me.

And maybe most importantly, it gave me the tools to begin building a safety net.

What Dissociation Feels Like (And Why It Terrifies Me)

Most people think dissociation is like daydreaming or zoning out. But that barely scratches the surface.

Dissociative episodes can feel like you’re living underwater: sounds are distorted, faces blur, and your sense of time fractures. One minute you’re walking to the store, and the next thing you know, you’re already home, groceries on the table, and you have no memory of how you got there. Your body moves through the motions, but you weren’t really there.

That’s not just hypothetical. It’s something I’ve lived through again and again.

There are days, or parts of days, that I don’t remember at all. My memory feels like it’s been shattered into pieces, and I only get a few of the fragments.

There were times when I was at home listening to trainees’ recordings, and the next moment, I was standing in line at a convenience store, coffee in hand, about to pay. I didn’t remember leaving the house. I didn’t remember choosing the coffee. But I was already there.

There was one morning I went to sleep at home after a tiring shift, only to “wake up” again in a supermarket later that day—hands on a half-full shopping cart, surrounded by strangers. I didn’t know how I got there, or how long I’d been wandering the aisles.

Sometimes, an entire day will pass like a ghost. I’ll wake up, do something (I assume) and suddenly it’s morning again, and I’m crawling into bed after a shift I don’t remember happening. It’s as if time slipped through my fingers, and I didn’t even get to exist in it.

There have been people—complete strangers to me—who claim they know me. They say we’ve met before, spent time together, even had full conversations. But I don’t recognize their faces. I don’t remember their names. I don’t remember meeting them at all. To them, I’m familiar. But to me, they’re strangers.

That kind of realization is deeply disorienting, frightening. It makes me question my grip on my own life, my own self. Because if someone else remembers parts of my life that I can’t access . . . what else have I lost?

And, perhaps, the most unsettling of all, both for me and my loved ones: I vanished for almost 30 hours.

I went on a dissociative fugue.

The Fugue

July 27, 2025 — Sunday

At 2:00 AM, I was watching Apothecary Diaries on Netflix. I paid my bills around 4:00 AM, made iced coffee and noodles at 5:30 AM, and planned to either jog or hit the gym after breakfast.

That was the last thing I remembered. The last thing I wrote in my journal. A journal my therapist told me to keep, to log the things I do and remember as part of a safety net.

Then I vanished.

A while back, I had set up a crisis protocol just in case something like this happened. I wrote emails addressed to my support circle—emails that would only be sent if I didn’t cancel them on time. These emails explained my condition, what might have happened, and how they could help or find me.

That day, I wasn’t able to cancel the email.

The protocol was triggered.

My emergency contacts were alerted. They went to my condo and found the untouched coffee and noodles I had prepared. My phones were off. I was gone. I was unreachable.

I was missing for over 30 hours.

My friends and family were scared, confused, and mobilizing everything they could.

July 28, 2025 — Monday

At 11:00 AM, I “woke up.”

I was alone in a small hotel room with no memory of how I got there. My phones were dead. All my accounts were logged out.

I called Johst the moment I could. He helped me identify where I was. I stepped outside, read the signs, tried to piece things together.

I was in Dumaguete.

I stayed in the hotel room my other self had apparently booked. I had no memory of arranging any of it. But someone wearing my name had done all of it.

That night, I met Janah at Starbucks by the boulevard. We talked about K-Pop and random things to keep me grounded until Johst arrived at 8:45 PM, flying directly from Cebu to get me.

We picked him up at the airport, had dinner, and went back to the same hotel.

Living With a Disconnected Self

The scariest part of dissociation isn’t just the gaps.

It’s knowing that some version of you is still functioning—replying to messages, going to meetings, getting things done—while the real you is trapped somewhere else, watching helplessly or waking up after the fact

And when you come back, you’re left piecing together your life through clues: CCTV footage, credit card logs, ride-hailing app transaction history, emails, call history, conversations you never remember having.

That’s not zoning out. That’s surviving something invisible.

Diagnosis Wasn’t a Cure, But a Lifeline

Getting diagnosed with BPD didn’t “fix” me.

But it gave me language.

It gave my friends tools.

It gave me a journal, a protocol, a safety net.

I still dissociate. But now, people know what to watch for. And I know I’m not alone.

Why I’m Telling You This

Because I’ve kept this silent for too long.

Because I’m tired of pretending I’m “just being dramatic” when something deeper is at play.

Because I was missing for nearly 30 hours, and if not for my crisis protocol and the people who care about me, I might still be missing.

Because there are people out there going through this without knowing what it is.

Because dissociation is misunderstood, romanticized, minimized, or treated like a quirk.

Because people think it’s about being dramatic, or flaky, or forgetful—when really, it’s about surviving pain your brain didn’t know how to process.

I joke about my mental health because humor helps me cope.

But today, I’m not joking.

I’m living with Borderline Personality Disorder. I’m living with dissociation. And I’m trying my best to stay present, stay grounded, and stay real—even when my mind wants to run.

If You’re Going Through This Too

If you’re struggling with something similar, please know this: You are not crazy. You are not being overly sensitive. You are not broken. You are not alone.

Talk to someone. Document what you can. Build a support circle. Create a safety plan.

You are someone who is surviving something profound, and you deserve care, safety, and clarity.

And when things get too foggy, let the people who love you help pull you back in.

And when the fog lifts, even just for a moment, know this: That moment is yours. That clarity is yours. That life is still yours.

I’m still here.

And I’m holding on to the days that feel like mine again.

Please, do the same.