It's Not Safe to Be Me Series — Part 3: Disappear
When Intentional Disconnection Led to Losing Myself
‘Fuck it.’ I walked over to the fire, tossed my phone in, and let it melt into metal remains. No more incoming texts, calls, Facetime, or Messenger notifications—none of it—for the next ten months. I was free. I was in control of every interaction, ensuring I’d never again be blindsided by unwelcome, unsupportive communication.
It may sound crazy to totally disconnect in the technology era, but even today, I stand by this radical act of self-love. Impulsivity has generally served me well, propelling me out of social constructs and into authentic living.
But why did I do it, you ask?
Lemme tell you. In my 36 years (at the time), I’d mastered avoiding conflict, but cutting people out was new territory. I’m fundamentally against cancel culture and have a pathological tendency to “see the good,” so this extreme act of disconnection poked at my morality but was long overdue.
Six weeks before the phone burning “ceremony” and less than a month after my breakdown in the cabin, I hit pause on my relationship with my mother through a long audio message. I sent the same recording to my dad, making sure my side of the story stayed intact. He texted back, saying he was proud of me—an unexpected, satisfying glimmer of validation. I felt supported in a choice that went against my values.
But six weeks later, when my dad texted me that I shouldn’t have blocked her on Facebook, that fragile sense of support collapsed.
Seemingly so trivial, right? He disagreed with this one action, so what? But in the context of everything else, that message landed like a blindsiding blow (unintentionally, I know).
So, with emotions compounding, my instinct to escape the discomfort was like, “Nope. Not dealing with this.” And yes, I tossed my phone into our afternoon fire with glee.
In the days that followed my new phone-free life, I also paused my Instagram and deleted my 15-year-old Facebook account. I was intoxicated by the power and spaciousness I felt without unwanted interactions, like, “Ha, none of you can reach me. I’m in control now.”
Little did I know, cutting off the people I didn’t feel safe with came at a cost.
I became my own worst enemy.
The initial rush of freedom quickly gave way to the same old feeling—‘You’re bad. You’re wrong.’ I was left with the very message I was trying to escape, only now, the voices weren’t coming from others. They were in my head, louder than ever.
It's not safe to be me.
Pruning the relationship tree to create healthier surroundings is self-care, especially when you’re walking through your own darkness. But this wasn’t just a reset of relationships. It was a trauma response that severed a vital part of me. I felt like a live wire, intense and erratic, for months afterwards.
In cutting myself off from the world, I also cut off access to my highest, most authentic self. And in the noise of my new cognition, ‘It’s not safe to be me,’ I couldn’t access that version of myself when I tried.
Sometime after, I heard Ben Harper’s song “Don’t Let Me Disappear” for the first time. The lyrics mirrored my experience, a plea not to let my heartbeat—my Marie-ness—fade away in the aftermath of everything.
I was once the girl who woke up, like, “What do I GET to do today?!”—buzzing with innate enthusiasm for life. But that girl was disappearing in this mess.
Now, it was like, “Oh God. Another day? Please, no.”
And also, “This isn’t me. Please help.”
I tried voicing how I felt. Dave’s response, “Those things are part of you, not all of you,” crushed me. What?! Those parts of me are what make me whole. They are the pulse that keeps me centered and enlivened.
I was slipping away, and nobody noticed. ‘Do my inner circle people even know the real me?’ — a total mind fuck on top of the void I already felt.
Note: That said, even if they didn’t fully understand my experience, Dave and a couple of dear friends stayed with me through the darkness. Though it didn’t take away the isolation I felt, their presence was a lifeline. Even cooler, some of my business audience reached out, like, “Where are you? I miss you.” So, if you’re reading, I saw you. Thank you.
As “It’s not safe to be me” looped endlessly in my mind, I drifted through the days like a zombie—painfully aware of the divide between the Marie I longed to be and the hollow shell I had become, with no clear path back to myself.
I avoided my beloved cabin next.
If you know me, you know that my little cabin in the woods is my sanctuary. Dave built it for me in 2020, and I basically moved in. It’s where I feel safe, where I can be alone, recharge, play, and immerse myself in the forest.
But suddenly, the cabin was the scene of the crime. It was a prison of emotional pain, and I found myself retreating back into the house.
“If I let my guard down and be myself, problems will arise.”
That’s what “It’s not safe to be me” was about.
So, in an attempt to stifle the reminders of the meaningful life I once had, I packed up everything that made me feel connected to who I was—mementos, photos, frames on the walls, journals, all of it.
If I couldn’t freely be myself, I didn’t want to see the personal artifacts that reminded me of the spirit of who I once was.
Our home, once filled with warmth and the stories of our lives, became stark and bare, as though we were preparing to leave. But we weren’t going anywhere.
It wasn’t an identity crisis. I knew who I was—I’m Marie Fucking Masse. But that version of me was inaccessible. Out of reach. Unavailable.
And it wasn’t just because of a few dumb texts or relationships. By this point, it had been nearly eight months since it all started: when we lost access to Levi’s ADHD medication. Remember, this was months of extreme stress, breakdowns, a psychiatry stay, a medication reaction, and more.
Let’s back up a little bit.
The month after the medication loss, something in me had already shifted. I was constantly on edge, with even the smallest disruptions feeling like an assault on my body. It was a level of reactivity I’d never experienced before.
The faintest sound—footsteps rustling through leaves outside my cabin—sent irritation and rage surging through me. What the absolute mother fuckity fuck do they want now?! 🤬 (I can still smell the dragon’s breath)
I’ve always felt some irritability when deeply immersed in my inner world or creativity. But this was beyond that, like the level after next-level.
And most of the time... it was nothing. They just walked by.
But just their proximity to my safe space triggered a heavy tightness in my chest and an irrational surge of anger, always followed by overwhelming guilt:
Why do I feel this way when I’m doing what I love, in the place I love most?
I shouldn’t feel this way about the people I love.
What is wrong with me?
It’s not safe to be me.
So, back to where we left off…
Journaling, something that usually was a daily refuge and source of my enthusiasm, had become impossible.
The fear of being interrupted had cranked to the max, trapping me in a cycle of attempts, sensory overload and hypervigilance. Yes, I worked on this in therapy. No, reframing my thoughts did not help a damn bit.
My mind kept saying, “It’s okay if I get interrupted. I can just start again.” But my body wasn’t buying it.
I couldn’t function with the void left by my absence, yet every time I tried to access myself through the things I loved, anxiety took over.
This inaccessibility wasn’t like depression, where you can’t feel joy in what you love. It was more like a paralyzing pressure to perform, triggering even more anxiety around the question that haunted me: Will I ever be myself again?
The void was my self-ignited fire and drive, typically fueled by my innate energy and passion, defining who Marie is and what makes me feel alive.
This is the core of ‘Marie’s flavor of neurodivergence’: Frequent bursts of intellectual stimulation through knowledge-seeking, freely engaging with ideas, getting lost in thought and losing track of time, forming new perspectives, and practicing self-expression. In short, the thread that ties it all together: creativity and play.
If I came with an instruction manual, it would make clear that I need—no, require—space to engage in these activities alone, in quiet, to function as the grounded, loving, compassionate person my family and friends know. Yet this very wiring—this way I was made—seemed to create conflict in my home.
Translation: *I* caused conflict simply by existing as my authentic self. Being wife and mom was fine. But being Marie—that was the problem.
It’s not safe to be me.
I tried like hell to suppress this part of myself, but the more I tried, the more emotionally unstable I became.
Day after day, through much of 2022, I unraveled. The PTSD and 2e AuDHD diagnosis that June was insightful and validating, but again, it wasn’t enough to restore balance.
CBT and EMDR
In therapy, I worked with a CBT therapist who I suspect is neurotypical (which is not inherently a bad thing). She was a masters-level social worker with experience providing therapy to ADHD and Autistic clients, but there were subtle signs that she didn’t have lived experience and that she was still tied to the medical model of disability.
No matter how much I tried to explain my primal need to engage in mental stimming activities, the more unheard I felt.
I even brought research to her to explain that, like many other AuDHD women, my creative pursuits are how I self-regulate. But it didn’t land the way I hoped.
During this time, the constant cycle of needing to ‘prove myself’ or ‘teach them’—whether friends, family, doctors, or therapists—became an exhausting full-time job. And when you’re already depleted, self-advocacy is hard.
With everything packed away and my “Marieness” suppressed, I leaned into being “Sally Homemaker.” The house had never been so clean. I spent time reading to the kids (which I genuinely loved) while they drew or colored. There was plenty of free time, but it wasn’t my time. And when the kids were just being kids, after a while, I found myself restless. I wanted my own space again.
I was environmentally overstimulated yet intellectually understimulated.
The safety and freedom to fully engage in my Marie-ness—what I need to function at my baseline—was blocked by hypervigilance, performance pressure, and anxiety. No one seemed to understand, and I was stuck in this in-between, without the tools to break free.
So, when I brought that research into my therapist, I’ll never forget her response, “Well, everybody needs creativity, but you just need balance. Try taking a yoga class—it’ll give you your alone time on the way there and back.”
She, of all people, was supposed to get it.
She didn’t get it.
All I heard was, ‘You have other responsibilities. You’re a mother. You’re a wife. Your kids will be older one day, and you’ll have more space for yourself then. What you’re saying you need is too much.’
Once again, the message was clear: It’s not safe to be me.
Around that same time, in July 2022, I began EMDR therapy* to address the trauma. It was intense, but it slowly chipped away at the layers of pain. Returning to a low dose of Effexor provided some relief to my emotional volatility as well.
By the end of that season, things seemed to be stabilizing. I was experiencing longer stretches of emotional steadiness, a fragile illusion of “returning to myself.”
And with a new creative project on the horizon, I leaned in with all I had…
Continue onto Part 4, Reemergence
*EMDR therapy (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) is a therapeutic modality designed to help process traumatic memories and promote healing.
Read more about EMDR therapy here.
Apart from trauma, neurodivergent individuals can benefit from EMDR therapy in these ways as well.
Therapists can get neurodiversity-affirming training on EMDR therapy here.
Resources
Long after this experience, I learned about monotropism, which gave me understanding on why this sensory experience was happening leading up to PTSD, especially given where I was at on the path to Autistic burnout. The OCD sub-type moral Scrupulosity likely played a role too.
If my experience resonates, check out these articles to learn more:
(This is so me on good day) What Does Being Intense and Gifted Mean?
Here’s the entire It’s Not Safe to Be Me series: