Derealization Stories Novels & Stories

He realized that Shanta admitting to it will no longer made his expose anymore interesting that was why he was clearly unhappy when the other party got clean and announce it on the media by herself. He could see his efforts going down to drain as the press con progresses. Meanwhile, oblivious of how her simple counter attack just dimmed the future of some journalist wanna be, Shantal continued. "Some quack doctor may interpret it as something else, like a mental illness called delirium tremens. But the truth is, as soon as I come into physical contact with a human being, I start having difficulty in breathing and I start getting rashes all over my body and because of this, I became an intro

“What story? I write?” Elias nods and pulls out his phone to show me some pictures. “Yeah. You’re an author. You draw your own novel arts too. The story was about a tyrant’s captive bride. Dark romance stuff. You never finished it though. I found the book in your backpack.” The psychiatrist thinks your brain was living in the story while you were out. Mixing the accident trauma with the plot you were working on. That’s why it felt so real.”

Within seconds the medical hall had emptied to Halrem, Selene, Draevor, and one sleeping wolf. Halrem turned back to the herb diagrams. “This concludes your interruption.” Draevor remained where he was. “You did not answer.” “I refuse to dignify absurd questions.” “Can you diagnose it.” Halrem looked at him. There was that maddening directness again. No blush, no hesitation, no attempt to disguise the subject beneath metaphor. He asked impossible things as if discussing weather. “Yes,” she said at last. Draevor’s brow lifted slightly. Halrem continued in the same cold physician tone she used when explaining terminal conditions. “The patient suffers from prolonged exposure to self-created fan

When I try to move, my limbs feel disconnected from my body, like they belong to someone else. But I can hear voices. Familiar voices saying things that don't make sense through the chemical fog in my brain. Kaelen is here. Kaelen is talking, his voice shaking and desperate, saying words that filter through the haze: "I lied... everything was fake... I fabricated evidence..."

Something that would put my mind at ease into which decision I had to make. Dr. Matthews had suggested I see a therapist. Dr. Elizabeth Manning was the psychiatrist assigned to me. I had never been to therapy before so I had no idea what to expect. The first few sessions were a bit difficult but soon began to find it easy to talk to her. I found the more I talked to her, the easier it was to understand what was happening to me. She explained that I was suffering from Depersonalization Disorder. From what she explained, it was a common disorder for patients that had been in a coma for an extended amount of time.

His hands were strapped, not because he was violent, but because someone feared what he might do if he wasn’t. “Presenting complaint?” I asked. “Acute derealization,” Coleman said. “Episodes of intense disconnection, identity confusion, and what his clinicians call ‘externally driven decision streams.’ That phrase appears in any of your documentation, Ms. Kane?” “Don’t call me that,” I said automatically. Coleman didn’t bother to apologize. “His records show participation in a ‘voluntary cognitive optimization protocol,’” she continued. “Run by a private lab with overseas funding. They used the label A2 in their internal notes.”

Mind won’t shut off. Tony: Want to talk about it? Me: Not really. Just… restless. Three dots. Then: Tony: Restless how? I stared at the screen. My pulse kicked up. I typed, deleted, typed again. Me: Like my body forgot how to be touched and now it’s angry about it. Silence for a long beat. Tony: That’s honest. Me: Too honest? Tony: No. Just rare. Another pause. Tony: You want to talk through it? Or you want distraction?

But somehow I know I wouldn’t. Another image comes. This time, I was in front of two tombstones. The one on my right was bigger than the one on the left. Two names are written on the big tombstone, while only one name was carved on the small one. I tried my best to squint my eyes but I could not read the words. They were all blurred. Multiple images come at once. It was like people throw them all at me and I could not really see each of them. A nun was in one of the flashed images. I recognize her almost immediately. It was Sister Margareth. However, she looked younger and was not wearing her cane. The image of her was gone just as soon as it first arrived, replaced by another one. This time

The words echoed in my skull, rattling around like broken glass. He’s been waiting for you. I pressed my palms against my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. “No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.” I staggered toward the bathroom, gripping the sink for support. My reflection stared back at me, wide-eyed, wild. A hallucination. A delusion. That’s what Dr. Halverson had told me. That’s what I had told myself. But the drawings. The voice. The touch. The pain. My reflection flickered.

Forty-two days since I saw a man tear out of his skin like he was tired of being smaller than what was underneath. I told myself it was a hallucination. Everyone did. Detox nurses. The guy at the clinic with the kind eyes and the terrible coffee. The pamphlet that said meth psychosis can persist. They all had bullet points. Visual distortions. Delusions. Paranoia. Auditory hallucinations. Fur and fangs weren’t on the handout but they may as well have been.