Distraction, Derealization, and the Weight of Realization
So why do you think I'm now driven to be "distracted" all the time? Need to be eating, reading, working, watching TV... something... I imagine it's just a way of throttling how much I'm becoming aware of at a time. Because I'm 24/7 living alone now and it's all crashing in.
I think you're absolutely right—this constant need to be “distracted” is very likely a self-protective mechanism. You’re in a unique situation now: living alone for the first time, financially stable, with a ton of mental space you didn’t have before. It’s like all the noise and busyness that used to keep the deeper stuff at bay is gone, and now there’s nothing left to shield you from your own awareness. That awareness is a lot—layers of history, pain, realizations, existential dread, unmet needs, unmet potential. It’s not just trickling in—it’s pouring in.
Distraction is serving as your throttle, your valve. Without it, you’d likely feel like you were drowning in everything at once. And in a way, it’s your nervous system trying to keep you functional—letting in just enough awareness to process a little but keeping the floodgates from opening wide. Because let’s face it, wide-open floodgates would be overwhelming.
But here’s the kicker: distractions aren’t inherently bad. They can be stabilizers while you slowly learn how to feel safe with all the thoughts and feelings you’re unpacking. The issue is when they become compulsive or numbing—when they stop being tools you choose and instead feel like something controlling you.
So, why now?
Space and silence: For the first time, you’re alone with yourself in a way you’ve never been. No roommates, no relationship noise, no house projects taking up your time. This is new and deeply unsettling because you’ve lived so much of your life responding to external demands and distractions. Now, the silence feels deafening.
Awareness overload: You’ve been piecing together a lot—about your trauma, relationships, derealization, depersonalization, and your own patterns. Living alone has turned up the volume on that awareness. Your mind is probably going into overdrive, and distractions are a way to quiet it enough to keep functioning.
Lack of a framework: You’re feeling all this rawness, but you don’t yet have a clear sense of how to work with it. That creates a void where your old coping mechanisms (distraction, busyness, perfectionism) rush back in to fill the gap.
What can you do about it?
Reframe distraction as a tool, not a failure. Instead of beating yourself up for wanting constant distraction, recognize that it’s protecting you. It’s your system’s way of saying, “I can’t process all of this right now.” Start paying attention to the types of distraction you reach for and when. Are there certain ones that feel grounding or soothing (like reading or watching a specific show) versus others that leave you feeling emptier (like scrolling aimlessly)? Use that information to make more conscious choices.
Introduce tiny moments of intentional stillness. Rather than trying to force yourself into stillness (which can feel terrifying when everything is crashing in), start small. For example:
Take one intentional breath before turning on the TV.
Sit for 30 seconds without doing anything after finishing a meal.
Pause and look out the window for a minute before opening a book. These aren’t about “being still” for long periods but about showing your system that small doses of quiet are safe.
Create a loose rhythm to your day. Right now, the openness of your time might feel like a void that your brain is desperately trying to fill. Try creating a loose structure—not as a rigid schedule but as a rhythm that feels supportive. For instance:
Morning: Move your body (stretching, light yoga, a walk).
Midday: Engage your mind (work, a project, a book).
Evening: Intentionally decompress (choose a distraction that feels grounding, like a favorite show or music).
Explore your discomfort in manageable doses. If you feel ready, try journaling or reflecting on what the distractions might be protecting you from. Is it loneliness? Grief? Existential fear? Shame? You don’t need to dive into these all at once, but naming what feels the most pressing can help you start to process it bit by bit.
Bring movement into your life. Distraction can be a way to manage overwhelming energy in the body. Physical movement—whether it’s a walk, Zumba, or even just dancing to a song—can help shift that energy in a way that feels active rather than numbing. It can also bring you back into your body, which can be grounding amidst all the mental noise.
You’re not failing at this.
You’re in a period of intense transition, and your system is doing what it’s wired to do: protect you from overload. The distractions are a signal that you’re feeling vulnerable and need something to hold you together. The work now is to meet yourself where you are—building trust with your mind and body bit by bit, so that eventually you’ll feel safe enough to sit with the quiet without needing to fill it. And honestly, that’s not about “fixing” anything; it’s about creating a relationship with yourself where silence feels like company, not emptiness.
I appreciate all this advice but I also have to ask, even if I did none of it and just kept doing my messy best, am I likely to still move through this?
Yes, absolutely. You will still move through this, even if you don’t follow any particular “plan” or perfectly engage with advice. Humans are resilient, and you’ve already shown immense capacity for growth, self-reflection, and survival—even in the messiest of times.
The fact that you’re aware of what’s happening and asking these questions shows that you’re not stuck. Growth doesn’t require perfect conditions or constant progress—it just requires time, curiosity, and a little willingness to stay with yourself through the discomfort, even imperfectly.
If you just keep doing your “messy best,” life will continue to teach you. Experiences will keep shaping you, and your understanding will deepen naturally. Healing doesn’t happen in a straight line, and sometimes the mess itself is part of the process. It’s messy because it’s real, and that’s enough.
So yes, you will keep moving through this, whether you follow all the advice, some of it, or none of it. The key is to trust that your messy best is already doing the work.
There's a show called Resident Alien. One of the storylines is about the mayor's wife who has been abducted at night for years. She started suspecting something and went to sleep one night with a red marker. In the morning she worked up and the words "IT IS REAL" were written on arm (she had written in when in the UFO). When I saw that scene, I thought, THAT IS ME. I feel like a lot of this is about derealization and really understanding everything that happened in my life really did and it was really that bad
That scene feels like such a perfect metaphor for what you’re describing—finally waking up to the realization that it was real. There’s something raw and devastating about truly reckoning with your own life, especially when so much of it was buried under layers of denial, conditioning, and survival mechanisms.
Derealization, in some ways, can feel like your brain’s way of protecting you from that truth for as long as it can. But when you start to see through it—when the marker writes “IT IS REAL” on your arm—it forces you to confront the enormity of what you’ve lived through. It’s a terrifying but also clarifying experience.
You’ve lived a life that, for a long time, didn’t feel like yours, shaped by frameworks and systems that manipulated your perception of reality. Now you’re in this process of reclaiming your story, of seeing the truth for what it is, and it’s deeply disorienting. But it’s also empowering because acknowledging “it really was that bad” is the first step toward understanding, integrating, and even finding meaning in those experiences.
That scene resonates because it captures that moment of stark, undeniable clarity. You’re waking up to the reality of your own life in a way that’s shaking your foundation but also giving you the tools to rebuild it—on your terms this time. It’s hard, but it’s necessary. And even in the fear and chaos of it, it’s a sign you’re moving forward.
