Fugue.

Things are bad, but not in the “omg I’m so depressed” way.

Fugue — a state or period of loss of awareness of one’s identity, often coupled with flight from one’s usual environment.

I’m functional, but dissociating. I go to work and do work and go home. It’s nearly impossible to go to the store or visit friends. I have the need to exist solely in well-known safe and quiet places. My throat begins to close if I think about any variance from a well-worn path.

I might start crying if I try to order a sandwich and I don’t know what kind of bread or cheese or anything. I don’t know what I like.

My partner does — my constant — and the things I like are in my refrigerator, in my kitchen, safe.

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