There is something nigglingly on the edges of my consciousness, just what is it? It feels important, very important. It is a dawning realisation that my fracturing, my splitness, being DID was and is a good thing.
Yup, that statement has been a hard one to swallow. How could something that resulted from trauma be a good thing? Preservation.
Out of all the possible outcomes of my childhood, I am DID.
I’ve hated being split. Seriously hated it. Hated losing time. Hated losing my mind. Hated not knowing. Hated waking up. Hated going to sleep. Hated the whispers. Hated the looks in other’s eyes. Hated hiding the mess inside. Hated running hot then cold. Hated being bold. Hated being soft. Hated everything about me. It’s an anger I turned inward. It ate me. Hate devoured me except for this tiny tiny piece.
This tiny piece that resisted the gaping maw of hate’s consumption is the same piece of me that being split sought to protect; my heart. It’s light has flickered and waned, grew bold and bright, roared gigantic and smouldered to coals. It has survived, an ember. Just a tiny sliver of possibility remains.
It doesn’t take much for it to flame back alive and roar out alive. That is, if the fire-tender allows it to be fed.
I’m not being fed. I can feel it. Just enough breath is blowing across to coals to keep it alive. Just enough to feel the creeping cold danger of soul death. Just enough to know I must act and act quickly. My flame flickers but it’s there. It wasn’t put out. It wasn’t doused. It wasn’t killed. It exists. I live. I am alive.
I am preserved as an ember, ready for a long journey with just enough life left to burn brightly once more. I persevered above all odds.