Fifteen year old me hijacked yesterday’s post, sorry…

Insight is a remarkable thing.

Yesterday, I was hurt and upset and basically not me. Fifteen year old me was out to play, with all her sadness and insecurity and unhappiness about the world. She does not understand her body, she is frightened of sex because it’s a weapon in her view, and she needs a lot of talking down when she gets that upset.

I feel (logical, rational 25 year old me that is) like I should probably apologise if I frightened you all yesterday. I’m ok- I’m safe and so is fifteen year old me. She had a talk in therapy today, which is an odd experience seeing as I have only recently admitted to myself that I am somewhere on the DID spectrum. It feels like in Harry Potter- “a memory. Quietly preserved in a diary for fifty years.” That’s what my parts feel like- memories, slivers of myself preserving the trauma and keeping it away from my current, conscious state of mind. I tried to describe it to Katherine as “we but not we,” which meant that I am aware of the fact that parts inside me are there but that I think I’m more like a jigsaw- pieces of me need to be slotted back together.

I wonder if, one day, I’ll be brave enough to explain to everyone what’s going on on my head.


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