Warning Shot

I should have read the signs when *A* started whispering in the back of my mind. I should have listened.

Her trauma is my fault.

You and I

When there are good days, steady days, days where we find balance and are not haunted by our darkness, we crave you more.

I crave you.

Me.

Be with me.

One too many

I am drunk tonight and spiralling out.

I want to cry but have no reason to. Or, perhaps, I do, and I’ve just become accustomed to feeling that way.

Night terrors plague us and we are exhausted.

The red door haunts us. It follows us. In dreams. In books. In television. It comes back just as we are about to forget it.

I spiral harder the more I try to steady myself.

I spiral in my secrecy, in my defensiveness, in my self sabotage.

I don’t think I could survive you walking away.

The Canopy

On my days off, it gets loud in my head. Everyone wants their own time, their own enjoyment, their own … I don’t know.

I get foggy and I can’t function properly.

Someone thinks about self-harm.

Someone wants to paint.

Someone is pacing and growling, impatient and angry.

Someone wants to run across hot white sand in a body she doesn’t associate as her own, because in our mind she is someone else.

Someone breaks a little more.

I am frozen.

Aching does not compare to this

I think I’ve said the words a dozen times, and even more in quiet seclusion. It plagues me. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes not.

Whenever my life begins to feel *right* or *good* I realise, there is something missing from it – several things, in fact.

Things I cannot have just because I want them, just because I dream of them.

Perhaps if not in this lifetime, I will have them in the next.

Restless mind, restless heart

This week has been rough.

Some days I wish it was easier to find system friends or open up to people about DID. It can be a very lonely life when people don’t understand what living a multiple life is like.

*E* has been restless, giving me nightmares to force me to pay attention. She misses him and his gift of music to help us sleep.

She wrote some pretty dark stuff last night. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. She is healing, though. Slowly.

It makes for a welcome change from *A* pining for abuse.

 


Alita pressed her face into her hands and slid down the wall until she was all but sitting on the floor.  

It was over. He was dead. He couldn’t hurt her again.  

Blood leaked from his head and pooled in his hair on the floor. The smell turned her stomach but also excited her in a strange way – that ominous smell of death was also the smell of her freedom. 

She ran her fingers over her head – bald, since he had caught her, easier to maintain, he had said – and breathed in deeply, savouring the moment.  

He was dead, and she was free. 

It took her half the day to find her feet and longer still to abandon the room that had been her prison for the past decade.  

She expected the rest of the house to be dark and cruel, but it wasn’t. Light spilled in through floor to ceiling windows that overlooked lush, well-kept grounds.  

None of the other rooms we locked, so she had no trouble finding keys to the large metal collar that hugged her throat, discarding it as she made her way through the rooms.  

She stepped into her first safe shower in longer than she could remember and relished the feeling of hot water on her weary skin, before dressing in clean clothes and hunting for an exit.  

The grounds felt as sterile and staged as the house had done, so she made her way quickly toward the walls and scaled the stones.  

Once outside, it was as though an enchantment had been lifted, and all her instincts woke up.  

 

Sometimes, time does heal old wounds

It was my sister’s birthday the other day (Halloween, in fact) and I’ve felt guilty for being in a mostly healthy, stable headspace – because she died when I was 11.

For the first time in 19 years I haven’t been sad on her birthday.

19 years.

Happy birthday, Amanda. We love and miss you, but there is no sadness anymore, just love.

Lying in the dark trying not to feel anything

I’m feeling dark and hollow. Someone is sifting through memories and tossing fragments out of their room – things I don’t want to remember, things I don’t want to see.

Sometimes the sadness isn’t mine, but I feel the weight of it while they’re enduring the full storm – like being sad but not really knowing why, like I imagine Alzheimer’s patients feel from time to time. Like a part of you is missing, breaking the connection between memory and feeling.

One of the girls is hurting. I think I’m hurting too. Mum has cancer.

Mum has cancer.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Jasmine flowers and grounding tools

It’s taken 24 hours of flowers in my hair to ground me and settle the others back into their rooms.

It sounds like poetic rubbish, but I’ve actually been hunting this flower for years, and at last, I’ve met someone who has it growing along their fence line.

I’m exhausted from the multiplicity of the last week and a half, but it is quiet this evening, inside this head of mine.

The smell of Jasmine brings me back, slowly, to a stable place of You. The peace of You, keeps me grounded.

Is her Stockholm my Stockholm?

*A* is battling with a sort of Stockholm Syndrome. She misses the freedom of switching with someone, of not being judged or feared for being different.

She itches in her bones to go back; to trade off freedom to switch for physical and sexual violence.

Hiding is taking a toll. Hiding is taking a toll.

We’re struggling even just to write this.