And trying to wake up. Hello world--a lot's changed since we last met. Where do I begin?
The beginning--which in this case, would be when I first disappeared--is always a good place to begin, of course. But let's start a little bit before the beginning. Got to set the scene.
Warnings for emotional abuse, self-harm, suicidal ideation.
Some history of mine. I'd never had a good relationship with my parents. It's hard to write it all out without cringing inwardly or breaking down. A lot of it revolved around academics. Once came home with a B+ on a test everyone else had gotten Cs on and was told I was a failure and should be ashamed. There was a physical fear as well. I remember mother being shoved and falling, furniture being upended.
Was told even back then to give up writing poetry if I wasn’t going to publish it because not being published meant I was a bad writer and it was a worthless pursuit. On top of all of this they forced me to tell them every day how wonderful they were as parents and warned, again and again, never to tell anyone what went in within the house.
Back then, it never got physical, but I still don't care to write it all out. Let's just say that even back then, I had fantasies that involved slicing an artery and bleeding all over the floor. Or making a rope from my hair and hanging myself from a balcony for all to see.
Anyway. Now to the beginning.Picking up from this entry.
Work became too much for writing. Leave the house at 7 AM, run tests and cut up mice and bacteria all day, come home at 7 PM. No energy left, especially with them looming nearby. Passed out whenever I hit my pillow.
On top of that, there was another sort of decay. Whenever I went to write, I heard my parents berating me to the point that it would cause me to break down and give up. There was always a feeling of "I shouldn't be doing this." "It's worthless anyway." "I'm wasting time--if I don't study all the time I'm going to fail everything and they're going to find out and hurt me." Always a constant feeling of worthlessness and danger.
On top of that: "I'm a failure for not sticking by my resolution to write. I will always be a failure. I should just give up while I'm ahead." And so I gave up. For the most part. I still managed to get scraps down every so often. Occasionally they would hit critical mass and coalesce into a poem, a tiny story, and I'd hoard it and hold it close, so so close. And I'd want to write again, then give up again whenever I hit those aforementioned blocks. I still came by this page. Every time I saw that someone had left a message or +fav'ed something, I wanted to cry. In a painful but good way. Thank you to everyone who stopped by. I mean it.
So I didn't write like I used to, but I still wrote a lot of things that were not stories or poetry. Articles, blog ramblings. Unelegant, rambling, but they got the point across. I took a place unofficially managing a subreddit or two, and did a lot of research and wrote a lot of theories on a certain psychological phenomena that grew more and more relevant as time went on. I wrote this.
I also wrote this.
I suppose I could put in an aside. About plurality. Funny story, that. We--"we" being myself and the others in this head--did some digging into our origins and history. Turns out our psychological rabbit hole goes just a tad deeper than tulpamancy. "Multiple" describes us much better. Gray (who we now call Lark) especially wasn't "just an imaginary friend" back then. Imaginary friends tend not to have an almost-solid presence and/or take control of your body, after all. (Also a funny story. I was a naive ten-year-old. We decided to have some fun by letting him take over my hands and write out a conversation with a physical friend. It freaked people out, understandably. So we shut the door on bodysharing, though we couldn't throw the key away. Fortunately.) Suspecting that Steven and Rain are low-key splits (likely stress-induced in Steven's case) who latched onto fictive identities, given their talents and personalities. Not so sure about the other three.
In any case, there's seven of us in this brain now, four of whom--me, Lark, Steven, and Rain--use the body regularly. Are they fragments? Are they other consciousnesses? Are they spirits? I don't know. But I can say they're more than "just delusions". Lark's taken and held body control to keep me from harming myself during a panic attack; Rain will take front, write a program, and I'll come back and be surprised by a page of code that I don't remember. For what it's worth, we all consider ourselves individuals, albeit ones locked in the same head, and integration is out of the question for us, especially considering that being a relay team has helped us function better
. I certainly would not be here right now without them.
(Also, before tumblr gets mentioned--we rather
dislike, to put it lightly, the culture on tumblr, and I can promise you already that we're not going to pull crap like saying dumb things and then going "but my systemmate did that, I'm innocent!" as an excuse to worm out of trouble. As far as we're concerned, if you live in a plural system, then you are your brother's keeper and you take responsibility for what anyone else in the system does. Or things like "It's not my fault I didn't do X thing, because you told Y systemmate, not me"--again, shared responsibility, stuff gets done regardless of who was in front when we got told to do it.)
Maybe I'll write more about that later. Or maybe not--this is still my account and they're likely not going to do anything here, aside from being story subjects. So there's not much point.Anyway.
Fast forward to November. Relations with parents hit an all-time low. On Thanksgiving I get pinned to a couch (marking the first time it's gotten physical) and interrogated about my grades. Happy Thanksgiving! I return to campus an utter wreck, flinching at every touch and breaking down constantly. I manage to get through my finals with the help of the others in the system, but just barely. Had a breakdown during the last exam they couldn't repress.
Fast forward to the first of January. We get a letter from school asking why my grades have gone to shit. Not going to go into details on everything that happened that day, but telling them I wanted to die and being told that I should was probably the nicest thing that happened that day. Happy New Year's, folks!
...I need a moment.
But yeah. Funny thing. They expected that to break me. It did, just not in the way they wanted. It was that which finally got me to dig through my past with everyone else here, going through all the nasty words, all the stealth insults, all the screaming, and realize at last that what had been happening my whole life constituted severe abuse. And that the myriad things messed up with me--the emptiness and sudden rages, the constant anxiety and hopelessness, the preoccupation with suicide--are probably a result of that.
Still fighting anxiety, still fighting apathy, still fighting emptiness, despair, rage, et al. Talking bluntly about this all, and being multiple and all the other "not respectable" things, instead of keeping it swept under the carpet because I've stopped caring. Not about life, no--there's things I still want to see and stuff I still want to do and people I still want to help. But it'll be really hard for an internet stranger to top the events of 1/1/2015. And who knows, maybe talking about this all will help someone else, somehow.
As it stands now, desensitization and not caring about what other people think has its perks. Doing better in school thanks to my systemmates, not-sharing-the-same-body friends, and a counselor who thinks our multiplicity is a good thing and has treated everyone like their own person, a thing that we're very grateful to her for. Suicidal urges have gone away for the most part, still fighting depression and anxiety in general. Things still aren't steady and there's still things going on that make me worried sick. (Actually literally sick right now and have about a dozen things I need to do--exams and projects, wheee.) But we'll see.
Glad to be (maybe) back.