Almost a year ago, we wrote this
As poor as words are to convey meaning and intent sometimes, at least by not mixing mediums we hope to not further muddy the waters.
Writing coherently might be interesting as there is more than one voice to be respected here, how we participate in the process is likely to change. We are a dysfunctional tribe at the moment. There are waves of emotion sweeping through and swirling everything into new patterns each time. Since the “penny dropped”, many things have made sense, but brought a whole host of problems and at times overwhelming dysphoria.
I shared this http://healthymultiplicity.com/loonybrain/Comics/MPD/MPD01.html with my OH very recently
I don’t know how long there have been multiple identities in me. I can probably say for at least 30 years. But, in all honesty, that is extremely difficult to pin down. Memory is a fragile, malleable, imprecise and elusive creature. I cannot at this time even say how many of us there are. I will try and explain as I go along.
There is a sense that I lack the words at the moment. Perhaps like trying to describe what the colour green feels like to someone who was born blind.
But I/we will try. Do not hold us to literalism, these words are mythos not logos. There is a reticence within us. We know that words are powerful and can be used to invoke or provoke. There will be mistakes made and lessons learnt.
I (the primary front) feel like I have made some pretty huge mistakes. I’m not sure quite how to make amends or indeed if that will be understood by all of us.
There is a stone cottage, low roofed and weathered at my back. I have a sense that my job is somehow to protect, to stand and take the blows. Field the questions, say whatever is needed for those that approach to move on. I try to be kind, maybe gentle, understanding. But when force is needed, this is where I make my stand. I don’t look back. I can feel there is something there behind me. I know I’m not like others, I have always felt incomplete and as if I missing some part of the picture. I do not know exactly what forced me to look behind me. A multiplicity of factors in the real world. Those that are in the cottage are my tribe. I am trying to protect them from the harshness and judgement of the world before me. I am their champion. But as I look behind, I realise that they are also my captives. I have imprisoned them for years. So much so, that I do not know them. The windows are frosted and unclear. I cannot tell how many are in there. Some will come to the window and whisper, others I know are further back. They do not all trust me, and I cannot blame them. I cannot tell you enough about who they all are. Some I have a developing relationship with, but it is fragile. I feel I tried to do the right thing, but in the end caused them real harm. So here I stand, still outside. Leaning on a staff, weary at the task of warding off the world. Taking the odd moment of respite to turn and lean against the stone wall, tears flowing down as I try to apologise and explain as best I can. Forehead pressed against the cold glass. Knowing these moments are precious and fleeting, that I may be pulled away at any moment. I have been moulded by my role into something not quite like them. I want nothing more than to stand among them, not before them. I hope in time they will come to stand with me. There is a stone cottage, low roofed and weathered at my back. I have a sense that my job is somehow to protect, to stand and take the blows. Field the questions, say whatever is needed for those that approach to move on. I try to be kind, maybe gentle, understanding. But when force is needed, this is where I make my stand. I don’t look back. I can feel there is something there behind me. I know I’m not like others, I have always felt incomplete and as if I missing some part of the picture. I do not know exactly what forced me to look behind me. A multiplicity of factors in the real world. There is a stone cottage, low roofed and weathered at my back. I have a sense that my job is somehow to protect, to stand and take the blows. Field the questions, say whatever is needed for those that approach to move on. I try to be kind, maybe gentle, understanding. But when force is needed, this is where I make my stand. I don’t look back. I can feel there is something there behind me. I know I’m not like others, I have always felt incomplete and as if I missing some part of the picture. I do not know exactly what forced me to look behind me. A multiplicity of factors in the real world. Those that are in the cottage are my tribe. I am trying to protect them from the harshness and judgement of the world before me. I am their champion. But as I look behind, I realise that they are also my captives. I have imprisoned them for years. So much so, that I do not know them. The windows are frosted and unclear. I cannot tell how many are in there. Some will come to the window and whisper, others I know are further back. They do not all trust me, and I cannot blame them. I cannot tell you enough about who they all are. Some I have a developing relationship with, but it is fragile. I feel I tried to do the right thing, but in the end caused them real harm. So here I stand, still outside. Leaning on a staff, weary at the task of warding off the world. Taking the odd moment of respite to turn and lean against the stone wall, tears flowing down as I try to apologise and explain as best I can. Forehead pressed against the cold glass. Knowing these moments are precious and fleeting, that I may be pulled away at any moment. I have been moulded by my role into something not quite like them. I want nothing more than to stand among them, not before them. I hope in time they will come to stand with me. Those that are in the cottage are my tribe. I am trying to protect them from the harshness and judgement of the world before me. I am their champion. But as I look behind, I realise that they are also my captives. I have imprisoned them for years. So much so, that I do not know them. The windows are frosted and unclear. I cannot tell how many are in there. Some will come to the window and whisper, others I know are further back. They do not all trust me, and I cannot blame them. I cannot tell you enough about who they all are. Some I have a developing relationship with, but it is fragile. I feel I tried to do the right thing, but in the end caused them real harm. So here I stand, still outside. Leaning on a staff, weary at the task of warding off the world. Taking the odd moment of respite to turn and lean against the stone wall, tears flowing down as I try to apologise and explain as best I can. Forehead pressed against the cold glass. Knowing these moments are precious and fleeting, that I may be pulled away at any moment. I have been moulded by my role into something not quite like them. I want nothing more than to stand among them, not before them. I hope in time they will come to stand with me.
There is some hope. The pain and shame though at times can be devastating. I get a sense of some of what they need from me. Our journey has begun, I hope I have not left it to late for us to find our way.
Later this developed to include some artwork from our Artist
