I guess my place in the world is coordinated by my feelings. And as a lifelong dissociator and semi-professional escapist, that explains the feelings of vagueness and invisibility and dense shame. When I don’t belong to myself, I’m a proprietary of the trending norms. I’m a gladiator, fighting my shame, and whoever dies, I still lose because it’s me I’m fighting. But for the spectators in the Colosseum ruled by those who have adapted the best, I’m a guilt pleasure to watch, a proof that self-conformity isn’t worth it, a self-pat on the back, a snoozing of the conscience.