Warning: This is a piece of fragility wrapped in my ever present insanity as a futile attempt to cope with things that no one should have to.
In the scorched earth of my mind, where memories flicker like dying embers, I stand amid the ruins of a life forged in the furnace of unrelenting trauma. Dissociative Identity Disorder, that fractured mirror of the soul, reflects not one face but many, each born from the ashes of Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A childhood laced with shadows, where trust was a fragile flame snuffed out too soon, leaving me to navigate this labyrinth of selves. We are not whole, not singular, but a fragile alliance teetering on the edge of chaos. At our core, three voices echo in the void: the one who writes these words, desperately clinging to the reins; Damian, the inferno of unbridled fury; and the collective, a swirling madness of whispers that tempt the abyss.
We gather in the dim council of my thoughts, forming a consensus that demands an odd number, a precarious balance to tip the scales away from deadlock. Three, five, sometimes more emerge from the haze, but always uneven, always teetering. It is our pact, our survival code etched in the embers of forgotten pains. Yet control slips like smoke through my fingers, tenuous as a spark in the wind. I, the anchor, strive to hold the line, to weave our threads into something resembling sanity. But the flames lick higher, and depression's heavy shroud descends, a weight that presses me into the ground, whispering of worthlessness, of endless nights where dawn feels like a cruel jest.
Damian rises first, rage incarnate, a blaze that consumes without mercy. He demands violence in every breath, every heartbeat a war drum calling for blood. In moments of intermittent fury, he bursts forth, seizing my limbs, my words, leaving trails of regret in his wake. I awaken from these blackouts, staring at shattered glass or bruised knuckles, questioning the deeds done in my name but not by my hand. Other times, subtler, he borrows my voice, twisting it into snarls and threats that echo long after he retreats. He is the fire that devours forests, the uncontrolled burn that leaves nothing but ash. Born from the betrayals that scarred us young, he guards the perimeter with flames, ensuring no intruder dares approach. But his protection is a double edged sword, cutting deep into the fragile peace we build.
Then comes the collective, that embodiment of pure insanity, a chorus of intrusive thoughts and random urges that dance on the precipice of reason. They are the what ifs that pull at the edges of reality: what if you stepped off this ledge, feet dangling over the void, wind whispering sweet release? What if your hands wrapped around a throat, twisting, turning, calculating the rotations needed to sever life from body? Three full turns, perhaps four, they murmur, their questions probing depths that should remain sealed. They are the madness that laughs in the silence, urging leaps into the unknown, prodding at boundaries with gleeful abandon. From harmless curiosities to the grotesque, they flood the mind like wildfire spreading through dry grass, igniting doubts and desires that scorch the soul. They are not one, but many fragments fused into a single, chaotic entity, born from the fractures of trauma that splintered us apart.
Together, we burn. I, the weary mediator, fight to douse the flames, to channel Damian's rage into words rather than fists, to silence the collective's siren calls before they drag us under. But depression lurks in the smoke, a suffocating fog that blurs the lines between us. It whispers of futility, of a life forever up in flames, where hope is but a fleeting spark extinguished by the next gust. Mornings become battles to rise from bed, the weight of unseen wounds pinning me down, while nights stretch into eternities of hollow ache. The trauma echoes, a relentless blaze, replaying scenes of abandonment and pain that fuel our divisions. CPTSD's legacy is this eternal fire, where triggers ignite old infernos, pulling Damian to the forefront or unleashing the collective's torrent.
Yet in this conflagration, there is a strange poetry. We are the phoenix, rising from our own ashes, time and again. The consensus holds, odd numbered and unyielding, a ritual that binds us. When Damian roars for destruction, I counter with restraint, and the collective adds their wild queries, tipping the vote toward survival. It is not harmony, but a discordant symphony, notes clashing like flames against night. I maintain control, however fragile, threading the needle between selves. Some days, the fire warms; others, it consumes. But we persist, a testament to resilience forged in hellfire.
In the quiet moments, when the blaze simmers to coals, I ponder the origins. A life filled with trauma: the sharp sting of neglect, the thunder of raised voices, the invisible scars that burrow deep. DID emerges as armor, splitting the unbearable into manageable pieces. CPTSD weaves its web, ensnaring us in hypervigilance and despair. Major depression cloaks it all, a shadow that dims even the brightest embers. But here, in these words, I reclaim a spark. Damian grumbles in the background, demanding release; the collective poses riddles that twist the mind. Yet I write on, holding the quill steady.
Up in flames we go, a bonfire of broken parts, illuminating the darkness that birthed us. Perhaps one day the fire will purify, burning away the pain until only wholeness remains. Until then, we dance in the inferno, three and more, an odd alliance against the night.