I have been completely neglecting this blog for I don’t how long. Literally. Time has been optional lately, and even as I type this, I’m not at all sure what’s been going on in my life.
The major DID-related development has been this bizarre way of looking at memories. I’m interacting with the person in those memories. Yes, I realise I *am* the person in those memories, but this is odd. The feelings still don’t belong to me. I’m merely a spectator. I enter in to this alternate dimension and am led about by the central character in this black and white biography. She lays on a table, hides in a corner, waits silently in profound darkness. She is beaten, burned, touched in private places. Hurt in ways I knew about but never truly felt.
And now I feel it. I’m still not her, but she describes her pain to me. She tells me physically what she’s going through, and here, in my present life, my body aches. She describes the way it feels mentally, how scared she is or sad or angry. Sometimes she’s so full of disgust she wishes they would go ahead and kill her. She doesn’t feel worthy of living. Here, in my present life, I feel those things too, and I want to hide my head in shame. Time moves in and out of time, and I end up living in this present-past, afraid of where she might take me next.
I know that she will eventually become me, but right now that thought is too much to dwell on. Right now, I still need her to be somebody else.