The Shapes in the Dark: A Childhood Memory and a Lifelong Panic
I remember when I was 9 or younger laying in bed, with my eyes closed, and seeing geometric shapes passing. And I remember feeling panicked by it. And I think I have remained panicked by my mind
That memory feels like such a poignant glimpse into how early your mind’s complexity—and your reaction to it—started to surface. Seeing geometric shapes with your eyes closed is likely tied to your brain's natural processing of sensory input or even hypnagogic imagery (those visuals people sometimes see before falling asleep). But for a 9-year-old, who likely didn’t have the context for what was happening, it could’ve felt overwhelming or even scary—like your mind was doing something mysterious and out of your control.
That panic you felt back then might have created a kind of imprint, a seed of distrust in your mind’s complexity. Over time, it could have compounded into the sense you describe now—feeling panicked by or even at odds with your own mind. It’s like the shapes became a symbol for something bigger: the fear of your mind being this unpredictable, uncontrollable force.
Why Might This Panic Persist?
Childhood fear turned into a pattern: That early sense of “something’s wrong with my mind” may have set the stage for how you relate to your thoughts now—feeling like they’re something to be wary of or manage, rather than trust.
Hyper-awareness of your mind’s activity: If you’ve always been highly observant of your thoughts, it can feel like your mind is too much—too busy, too powerful, too strange. That hyper-awareness can make even normal brain activity feel unsettling.
Cultural or personal lack of support: Growing up, you probably didn’t have anyone normalize this experience. Without reassurance, your mind likely labeled it as “wrong” or “dangerous,” which just reinforced the panic.
What Can You Do With This Now?
This might sound strange, but what if you approached this memory—and your relationship with your mind—as something to explore rather than fear? You don’t have to jump straight into trust, but you can start by observing and gently questioning the panic:
Reconnect to the memory with curiosity: Instead of labeling it as scary, try seeing it as neutral or even fascinating. You were 9, your brain was active, and you were noticing it in real time. That’s kind of incredible, right?
Acknowledge the panic without judgment: It makes so much sense why you panicked as a kid. You didn’t understand what was happening. Let yourself feel compassion for that younger version of you.
Build a bridge of trust with your mind now: You don’t have to force yourself to “love” your mind, but you can experiment with small acts of partnership. For example:
Practice noticing your thoughts or sensations without immediately trying to control or escape them. Just observe like you’re watching a passing train.
If panic arises, ground yourself with something physical (like pressing your feet into the floor or holding a warm object). This helps remind your body you’re safe.
Let your mind be weird: Your brain might always be more active, creative, or unpredictable than you’re fully comfortable with—and that’s okay. Maybe it’s not about taming it but about letting it surprise you without labeling it as a threat.
Sometimes I feel like the only way I can get my mind to calm down is to lay down and do nothing. No music. No checking my phone . Just try to stick with my thoughts, letting the panic wash over me until, if I stick with it long enough, i become aware of what my mind was worked up about
What you're describing is such a raw and courageous approach—letting yourself face your thoughts and panic head-on instead of distracting or running from them. That takes a lot of strength, even though it might not feel like it in the moment. You’re essentially creating space for your mind to unravel its tension, which is a profound and direct way to process what’s happening internally.
Why This Works (Even Though It’s Hard)
When you lay down and do nothing, you’re removing all the noise and stimulation that usually helps you avoid or suppress what’s going on inside. This forces you to sit in the storm of thoughts and feelings until your mind finally reveals why it’s spinning out. It’s like letting muddy water settle so you can see the bottom of the glass.
This process might work because:
Your panic has space to crest and fall: By not fighting or distracting from the panic, you let your body and mind cycle through it instead of prolonging it.
You create clarity through stillness: Without external inputs, your mind finally has the bandwidth to show you what’s really bothering you.
You’re building tolerance: Sitting with panic, even when it feels unbearable, strengthens your capacity to feel and process hard emotions without getting stuck in them.
The Drawbacks
As powerful as this practice is, it can also be incredibly draining. It takes a lot of mental and emotional energy to sit with panic, and sometimes it might feel like too much. Plus, it might not always give you clear answers, which can feel frustrating or pointless.
Could This Be Eased?
If laying down and facing everything raw feels like the only option, but it's hard to sustain, here are some tweaks that might support you without breaking the essence of what you’re doing:
Use a loose focus tool: Something subtle, like holding a warm cup of tea, squeezing a soft object, or gently tracing a shape with your finger, might help ground your body while you sit with your mind. It’s not a distraction—it’s a tether to keep you from floating too far into the panic.
Set a timer: If the “endless” feeling makes it worse, give yourself a boundary, like 10 or 15 minutes of just being with it. Sometimes knowing it’s finite makes the practice less overwhelming.
Name what you’re feeling: If panic is loud, try silently naming it: “panic, tension, overwhelm.” This can create just enough distance to remind you that the feeling isn’t you—it’s just something passing through.
Reflect afterward: Once the panic ebbs and you gain some clarity, jot down a word or two about what came up. This can help you track patterns and give your mind a sense that it’s being listened to.
I have this feeling that if I told people I have been depersonalized increasingly since I was a teenager until my 40s and that I was forced to construct a personality based on ethics rather than my sense of self because I didn't have one from evangelical Christianity,... And now that I know I am depersonalized I am working to be more connected with my emotions and body. I feel like people would think I'm absolutely crazy.
First of all, you’re not crazy. What you’re describing is deeply insightful and shows an immense level of self-awareness about how your history shaped your sense of self—or lack thereof. Depersonalization, especially when it’s tied to something as intense as evangelical Christianity and the pressure to adhere to rigid beliefs, is a perfectly valid response to years of living in an environment that didn’t nurture individuality or emotional authenticity.
The fear that people would think you’re crazy comes from the fact that depersonalization isn’t widely understood. Most people can’t fathom what it’s like to feel disconnected from yourself for years because their worldviews might never have required that kind of self-erasure. But the fact that you’re naming it now—that you can recognize how this has shaped your life and are working to reconnect—is the opposite of crazy. It’s clarity. It’s healing. It’s rebuilding something you weren’t allowed to have before.
Why Would People Think It’s "Crazy"?
Because it challenges their worldview: For many people, the idea of not having a sense of self feels alien. They might not understand how growing up in a rigid, belief-centered environment can hollow out your internal world and leave you disconnected from your own emotions.
Because it’s unfamiliar: Depersonalization isn’t widely talked about, so people who’ve never experienced it might label it as strange or extreme, simply because they can’t relate.
Because it’s too raw: Sharing something this deeply vulnerable can make others uncomfortable, not because you’re “crazy,” but because they don’t know how to hold space for it.
But Here’s the Thing:
The right people—the ones who have also grappled with deep emotional disconnection, religious trauma, or the messy process of reconnecting to themselves—would get it. They wouldn’t think you’re crazy; they’d think you’re brave. They’d see your journey as proof that it’s possible to wake up to yourself, even after decades of feeling lost or detached.
How to Share (If You Want To)
If this feels like something you might want to share, you don’t have to spill it all at once. You can start small, testing the waters with someone you trust:
Frame it in a way that feels digestible: “I’ve been learning that a lot of my struggles have been tied to feeling disconnected from myself, which started when I was a teenager. I’m working on reconnecting now.”
Notice their response: Are they curious, empathetic, or dismissive? If they’re supportive, you can share more. If not, it’s okay to pull back.
Share selectively: You don’t owe anyone the full story unless you feel safe and ready.
Your Truth is Valid
The fear of being judged or dismissed is real, but it doesn’t make your experience any less true. You’ve been through something profound, and now you’re doing the work of reclaiming what was taken from you. That’s not crazy—it’s courageous. You don’t have to share it with everyone for it to be valid, but if and when you do, the right people will recognize your story as a testament to your strength and depth.
