A/N: i have a dissociative disorder but not DID. i'm not comfortable going into the exact whys and hows and whats but please forgive me if it's not entirely accurate to DID. this is basically just a ventfic because i wanted to write about Mental Illness Feels™ so. yeehaw. i think what i've written about is more accurately called depersonalization but the semantics don't really matter here, i don't think.

first time i write total drama fic in years and it's a disjointed mess, nice

WARNING for mentions of self-harm in the beginning

Mike curls and uncurls his fists, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He's always hated this, the feeling that he's leaving the body behind. It's not his. It doesn't feel like his. It doesn't matter whose body it is, it's just not his and by God is it one of the worst feelings in the world.

How did he ground himself last time? He struggles to come up with a solution that won't leave a scar. Cutting was more Mal's thing, when he was around; Mike is afraid to, and he'd hate to worry Cameron should he wake up. Mike runs his fingers down his cheek, pressing just hard enough that he can feel his nails. Color, or what little color he can see in the dark, fades in and out as he thinks. Sleeping helps sometimes, doesn't it? He should sleep. When he wakes up he will be back in that body again, the one sitting on the bed with eyes wide open.

Or will he? What if he's not the one in control when it wakes?

More than anything, Mike's scared. He hasn't had such an intense episode in a long time, and he's just so so so sure of it, he's not real. Was he ever? He wasn't, he never existed, so who is he?

God, okay, okay. Alright. He looks around the dark cabin, watching himself tap his feet nervously. His fingernails dig into the back of his neck. He tries to breathe deeply. You're real, he reminds himself. You're okay, Mike. You're okay.

Knowing this doesn't change much, but it relaxes him a little. His eyes zone in on the window, or perhaps the moon. He's lost in it, whatever he's looking at. The longer he stares, the more his vision seems to tunnel.

He isn't sure how long it is before he snaps out of it. He shakes his head vigorously. He closes his eyes and goes back to deep, steady breathing, or some attempt at it. He scratches his cheeks again, slowly. He pulls on his lower eyelids. The detachment doesn't fades completely, but he feels like it's getting better. Like he's getting closer to coming back to reality.

"Mike?" Cameron's voice surprises him, almost grounds him; when did he wake up? How long has he been awake? "You okay?"

"Yeah!" Mike says, with enthusiasm that is obviously forced. "I'm fine."

He's sure Cam isn't buying it, but the smaller boy doesn't press the issue.

"Well, if you need anything, let me know."

"Thanks, Cam."

Mike can't begin to express how much those words mean to him.