I used to let a friend stay in my apartment whenever I was away. She was a hoarder, and her own apartment was almost unlivable. I wanted her to have a place where she could simply exist, even if only for a week or so.
When I returned, I always found my apartment exactly as I had left it, as if nobody had ever been there. She erased every trace of her presence, just as I preferred. My apartment was my safe space, and I wasn’t comfortable having anyone else in it. It amazed me because she couldn’t even pick up the trash that had fallen on the floor in her own apartment. She must have made a tremendous effort to leave no trace of herself.
Then I noticed something.
That was exactly what I did whenever I stayed in someone else’s home. I did my best not to leave any trace of myself, as if I were an intruder.
“I’m sorry I was born” is the famous opening line of No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai. I related to that line deeply when I was a teenager.
My friend had DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder), caused by severe childhood trauma. One of her alters repeated, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I am sorry to exist.
That was our common ground.
It wasn’t because we were inherently bad, damaged, or worthless. It was because someone had wounded our psyches so profoundly that we could no longer feel we had the right simply to exist.
My friend has since left this world from natural causes, finally free from her suffering. For her, not existing may have been the only way to feel safe.
I am staying with a friend’s family now, where I feel safe. Even so, I still catch myself trying to be invisible—quietly slipping through the kitchen without being noticed—as if something terrible might happen if I were seen.
In a loving family, that wouldn’t have happened.
Somatic Awareness 