what's the point, anyway.

Time was always some sort of trick that was hard to really work with. Someone would tell you the year and you'd blink, mumbling that you could have sworn it was two, three years ago.

What was the point of time, anyway. What's the use in counting the years when your entire life is a blur, a movie that's always in slow motion or fast forward. The images flash faster than you can process them, and your voice sounds disjointed from you, because you have never really been attached to you and now you're drifting.

You feel a poke at your shoulder and turn your lazy cyan eyes at the person poking you. Oh. It's Sam. Her purple eyes are filled with worry and you think you smile to assuage her concern, but you can't really remember.

Remembering is always difficult. Whether it's your name of Sam's name or the color of Tucker's eyes or the instruction Mr. Lancer literally just uttered, you feel like it's all muffled, your head wrapped in cotton. You write noted but can't remember taking out your pen in the first place. Despite the knowledge that yes, that is your handwriting and yes, that is in your notebook written in the way you write, with arrows and scribbles on the side and half finished sentences that come back three lines later, you still don't feel like any of it is actually yours.

You see a hand on your desk and jump, before a few seconds pass and you realize it's your own hand. You sigh and shrug off a worried glance from Sam and Tucker.

You're fine, you reason, and get back to writing notes.

Somehow, you pass your tests. Not with flying colors, sure, but you pass. That's all that matters in the moment. You're passing. Barely, but you are passing, even with the ghost fights.

The ghost fighting gives you a sense of maybe somewhat being there. You barely remember them, but at least you know that you utter something, probably a quip, dodge some blows, trap your opponents in a thermos, and it'll all be okay.

Pssh. No it's not. It's not real. You're not real. Nothing's real.

Sam tells you all of this is real, and you refuse before somewhat accepting it. Maybe it is real. Maybe the objects that look fuzzy and the words that turn into shapes when you look at them and the desk that looks a little too big when you stand like this but a little too small when you stand like that and the people who seem to be swirling around you and the suffocating feeling and the numbness and the lack of emotion in your memory is all real.

Who knows. Certainly not you. Whoever you are, anyway. You look like Danny Fenton, you speak like Danny Fenton, you write like him, too, but you don't feel like Danny Fenton. Truth be told, you don't feel like much at all. When the rings wash over you the muted feeling is stronger but at least you can justify it. You're dead. Or at least you think you are. You stopped asking questions a long time ago and just accepted the constant feeling of being in a dream.

It was a while (day, week, month, years? Who knows, not you) later that Sam had started reading from something on her phone and asking you to check it off.

Yes, you feel mechanical and unreal. Yes, you lack emotion in your memories. No, you didn't feel other people were unreal, at least not often. Yes, life feels like a dream or a movie. Yes, you feel like you're floating above yourself. Yes, your body seems detached and unreal from yourself. No, it's not sleep deprivation. No, you can't remember personal information sometimes.

Sam beings it to your attention you're drifting away, floating without noticing. She tries to grab you. Her hand phases through your arm and you try to breathe.

You drop on the ground harshly.

Sam keeps asking questions. Yes, objects seem distorted. Yes, your head feels like it's wrapped in cotton sometimes.

Yes, you feel like this often, consistently, across a broad range of situations.

Sam grimaces as she opens another questionnaire. You answer similarly. You agree to a few statements on how you're just observing life, yours and others', these days, you're looking in from outside.

Did you eat today or did you just think about it? You don't know. You don't bother.

Sam purses her lips and exhales. Her amethyst eyes look at your own cyan eyes.

"Sounds like you're dissociating, Danny." You blink. She sighs. "You're detached, to say the least. It's a defense mechanism." Sam reads another line on her phone and her nose wrinkles. "'Your brain decides it's best if you're not really there,' basically." You nod.

"So, my brain ejects me from me." You say, but once the words are out you can't remember what you said at all. Sam nods, eyes shining with something you can't quite notice.

Oh. Concern. Her eyes are wet. Maybe those are tears.

"You said you feel like this all the time, no matter what?" She asks, reading from her phone again with desperate eyes, almost like she's refusing the answer she was given and was willing to make any leap to keep herself from saying the words she says after you nod. "Sounds like it might be a dissociative... dissociative disorder." She says it like it's a sin, and you feel guilty, like it's your fault she's about to cry.

You say something, and with the way your vocal cords hum, it might have been comforting. Warm fingers wrap around your wrist and tug you down. Oh. You're floating again. Or were. Sam is still reading from her phone, before she starts texting. She nods.

"Tucker says he'll come here so we can figure something out to help you." You nod.

You startle. Tucker is sitting next to you, talking. You don't remember him getting here. Tucker looks at you and shoots you a worried smile. You return the gesture with a confused smile. He drops the smile.

"We're thinking grounding techniques. Lots and lots of grounding techniques." Tucker says, tapping away at his PDA and writing things from he's reading off of Sam's laptop. You cock your head. What...

"'Grounding techniques are a way to keep someone in the present,'" Sam reads. "'They help reorient a person into reality.'" Oh, you think to yourself. The thing that doesn't exist.

Tucker sighs, heavy with concern. "Reality is real, Danny. You're real, I'm real, Sam's real, this world is real." He looks at you and pushes up his glasses. "Everything's real." You wonder if he read your thoughts, before the idea comes to you that you might have been speaking out loud. You decide the latter is more likely and try to listen to Sam and Tucker's voices.

"We're going to help you with some of these and see if you can use them to help you." You nod. Warmth falls down your cheeks. Tucker passes you a box of tissues and you wipe your face.

"Is it usually this bad or is today worse?" You can't really recognize who speaks, but you find yourself talking back.

"Today's worse." You say softly. Someone hums in understanding. You lean on Tucker's shoulder, too tired to hold yourself up. You close your eyes and focus on the sound of the keyboard clacking away.

"Okay, we have a list. We're not going to try all of them today, but maybe a few can help right now." You open your eyes and nod. Sam's eyes scan the list she wrote on a yellow pad of paper and she point to one. Tucker nods, saying that "this one sounds a little easier." A hand clasps on your shoulder.

"Okay, Danny, I need you to do a few things. Do you think you can do it?" You hesitate, then nod. Tucker's eyes and focused on you, and you try to focus back. "Okay. I need you to describe this room in detail. can you do that? Five things for each of the five senses."

"Okay." Your eyes scan the room. "The wall near the door looks rough. It's coated in white paint." You move your head. "The wallpaper is dark, and there are black designs in it." Your eyes move to the ceiling. "There's a chandelier. It's giving off some weak light." Your eyes move down. "The bedding is black. The bed frame is a mahogany color."

"That covers sight. What about sound?" Sam asks.

"I hear Sam's voice," you say. Tucker coughs. "And Tucker." You close your eyes and try to focus you. "The AC is giving off some slight noise, and the breeze drifting in from outside is making the curtains slap against the wall." Your eyes are squeezed shut now. "The laptop's fan is making a whirring noise. a pen is smacking against paper." You open your eyes. Sam releases the pen from her hand to stop the tapping noise.

"Smell, there's not... much..." you trail off.

"Just list the smells that there are." Tucker says, and you nod. "Sam's perfume, it's some goth name scent, I don't remember."

"Dark Revenge," Sam offers, and you chuckle. This seems to startle both your friends before they smile at each other and look back at you. "Tucker's terrible cologne, and the sweat on my shirt." You sniff. "Maybe incense? I can't tell." Your fingers tap against your thigh. "Touch. Um... The bedding is smooth and cool," you say, rubbing your hands against the fabric. "the breeze from the window is coming it, also cool. It's gentle. Uh... my shirt is damp on my skin, sticking to it. My skin is a little sticky because of that. And... I guess my fingers tapping on my thigh?" You ask. Sam and Tucker nod before smiling at you.

"So? Feeling any better?" You look around the room, and then you look at yourself, and everything feels a little more clear, a little less foreign and dream-like. You smile.

"Yeah, a little."

Maybe reality wasn't so far away after all.

If you need any grounding methods just PM me and I'll give you a list.
This was essentially a self insert, but hey, nothing wrong with describing a fictional setting to feel a little better.

Feel free to favorite and/or leave a review. I'm not looking for critique on this one but if you feel so inclined I'll accept it.
If I wrote any words twice in a row it's my bad.

If you can any questions feel free to PM me, I answer messages as soon as I can.
Love y'all.