My name is (redacted) I was a persecutor.
I think the label is pretty hit or miss, and when people think about it, they have an idea in their minds. They picture someone...loud, antagonistic, that should be locked away in our brain. Hell, perhaps even the evil alter. The one the media tells you about. Whatever the fuck you think, I need you to put that aside because I'm here to tell a story.
It's 2017. Our system is actively being traumatized by someone we considered a friend. We were 14. He was 15. He used to yell at us whenever we were bad at a game, or whenever we had talked to someone else, or whenever we didn't message back quick enough to fucking satiate him. You know, all the little things.
He used to call us useless, worthless, a fuck up, idiotic, moronic, special. He used to say we should stop breathing, do better, stop being an idiot, learn to shut up, be useful, kill ourself.
He would blame us for his own suicide attempts, tell us that we were the reason he was starving himself, and...so much fucking more. It was bad, it was horrible to go through. The stress, the pain, repeatedly being told we were wrong. We couldn't take it anymore.
No please I was good this time. Not good enough. I did everything right. I fucked up. Why is he yelling at me. I deserve it. I did what he told me to do. Not enough. Why is it not enough now. Never enough. I promise I'll be good, better. It'll never be enough. I'll do anything for you, please stop yelling. I need reprimanding. I'll change, I'll tear myself apart. I'll rip and tear. I'll reinvent everything I am. I'll split my ribs. For you. For you.
Sometimes, when you're abused, your brain will tell you to fawn, or parrot things that the abuser said so you can "learn" and "stop it from happening again." Sometimes, you internalize what you're being told everyday. For me, this was my role, this was why I was supposed to be.
Some part of that became literal; in the innerworld I look like a harpy. More specially, I look like if a scarlet macaw threw up on a harpy. I can mimic voices I hear, internally or externally, repeat certain things back near perfectly, but only small things. A phrase here. An insult there.
For a while, I described myself as a protector-persecutor, alongside holding some emotions and symptoms. I'm going to take snippets from the little intro I wrote about myself over a year ago now:
"So, I'm like the compounding version of the 'originally split to parrot stuff' sort of persecutor that split a lot when we were with (redacted), whoops!"
"I'm a strange mix of persecutor and a protector, who both parrots stuff but also protects against it being said to us."
"I also hold a lot of anger, both towards the system and (redacted), a lot of denial about stuff that actually happened, lots of imposter syndrome feelings, a lot of violent intrusive thoughts, you know, the usual."
"Basically, a lot compiled into one little fuck up being LOL!"
Even back then, I knew that I was a product of the things that had happened to us. A little puzzle to be figured out, to see the bigger picture that was…me. But knowing doesn’t mean a lot to some, in fact, to some people it means less than fucking nothing. Self-awareness of what I am has gotten me nowhere. Because when you say what you are people look at you different.
Sometimes it’s pity: You poor thing, I know you’re just misguided!
Sometimes it’s disgust: You shouldn’t be allowed to front! You’re a monster!
Sometimes it’s just enough misunderstanding that you don’t want to talk ever again. It’s isolating. It’s lonely. And it’s horribly cold.
It was only when I started talking to our current friends, and our fiancée, that I started to really re-evaluate how I was treating the system. And, also, how I was treating myself. Because what a lot of people didn’t see is that…I didn’t just hate the system or the guy who hurt us so badly that I needed to exist. I hated myself more than anyone else.
It was like I was falling from the sky, and my wings had all burnt up, and all I could do was reach up at the sun. And I was completely and utterly alone. And it was like reliving everything all over again.
But then, someone caught me. Another alter, (reacted). She’s awesome, she struggled too, she split because of the same repetitive trauma that I did. And he didn’t look at me like I was broken. She told me, speak your truth, because the people who matter won’t be scared when you’re not perfect. In fact, he said, your imperfections are what make you yourself. And so, I did what she said even though it was the scariest thing I had ever done. I turned around, I faced the music, wings burnt, heart walled off. I reached out, and I got the love I had needed in return.
Nowadays, I say I’m a recovering persecutor. Keyword, recovering, because I know that I haven’t fully recovered yet, those spirals are like traps you need to pull yourself out of. But the world isn’t so isolating, so horribly cold anymore, and it’s because deep down, I know one thing. There’s space for me within it. End transcript.]
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