TWM: Quips & Quotes

Most people in my life don’t know I have Dissociative Identity Disorder, so I can’t share most of these stories. I’ve lived a movie-of-the-week life, and been oft-told I need to write a book (or at least a blog), so here I am.

Here I am, giving voice to the grit between my teeth and the spark in my heart. Funneling defiance and truth into my words until they burst and splatter off the page. Creating our best life, doing it our way, and writing it out loud for all the world to hear.

I'm T.W., we're the Motley, and we are Thriving While Multiple.

Writing Prompt: What's a moment that made you question reality?

How long was I in that room, in that hospital? Days? Weeks? Did we just arrive? More importantly, how long did I sit and hold up that wall? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? What prompted me to put my hand on the wall, anyway? What had me so convinced if I pulled away, it’d all fall down? Not just the…

Some of us switch as we do in real life, some of us have our own separate dream-bodies. Different alters have different dreams at the same time, and these dreams can overlap or drift back and forth.

Once you’re labeled crazy, you lose everything. Your credibility. Your voice. Your dignity. Your humanity. Crazy is a hard word to talk about without sounding crazy. Crazy is exciting and, dare I say, romantic. Frenetic, energetic, always edging closer to the next event horizon. Saying things just to see their reactions. To see if I can scare them away. Away from me. Away from the…

I found a journal I’d forgotten I’d had, and forgotten I’d actually used. This wasn’t new. I have all my previous journaling attempts: half-filled notebooks, many written during the same time period. Paper books, digital files, online diaries, scraps of paper; it felt our system was determined to gather all the clues but never allow the full picture. One of Lighthouse’s early suggestions was…

But acknowledging we are multiple selves is also paramount, and dismissing the importance it plays in our life would be negligent and insulting. Understanding our multiplicity was key to our progress.

Many are still in their dark cellars, ears and eyes covered, listening for thunder, waiting for their storms to end.

It was dark. Cold. Snow dangled in the halo of the only streetlamp — and in the beaming red taillights of the long-distance coach I was supposed to be on.

How (or why) I got there is unimportant. What’s important is the envelope.

A story of survival and the kindness of strangers: