Pieces of Me, page 19
“I can do that,” she says. This time she takes my hand in hers. “I love you, Dylan’s system.”
The lump that suddenly forms in my throat doesn’t belong to just me. Tears prickle the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. “We love you, too,” I tell her.
And we do.
* * *
Monday rolls in quietly. Mark goes to class and I sit at the breakfast table with Mom, working on a sketch for a new painting. I think she kind of likes having me home. Part of the reason neither Mark nor I has moved out yet is because we don’t want to leave her alone.
And really, if I’m completely honest, the noise of Manhattan has always given me a headache. Probably because my system is on high alert whenever we go there, everyone on guard. No, I love the city, but I could never live there.
Right now, having a place of my own is one of the farthest things from my mind. The thought of living alone with the people inside me fills me with fear, and it’s all Scratch’s fault.
According to my journal, I only switched out a few times this weekend—that’s if everyone who came out actually remembered to write it down. I take this as a win, though I have no idea if it is one or not. At least the journal is being used. I wasn’t confident anyone would write in it.
They upped my dosage of Prozac in the hospital and I feel less twitchy and panicky than I did even a few days ago. It’s been over a week—closer to two, I guess—since Scratch tried to murder me, and I feel pretty calm, considering. Obviously, I’m still having trouble with losing time, or keeping track of it, but I’m … okay.
I’m still a little in awe of Friday’s “grounding.” Connor shared where he got the information and I made a note on my phone of the things they suggest doing to keep from dissociating. Now that I know what it means when I start feeling like that, I’m prepared for when it happens.
“Did you know there are positive triggers?” I ask Dr. Zhao later that afternoon during our appointment.
She nods from her seat across from me. “Yes. Music is a strong one. Scents as well.”
“Why would anyone want to switch out?”
“Just because it’s positive doesn’t always mean it’s planned or wanted. Sometimes spotting a toy store will prompt a little to come out, and if they have access to your wallet … well, you can see how that might not be welcome.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “But you can use triggers to encourage a switch?”
“Yes, and that would be useful if you were, for example, expected to go to a function or show up at an event that really doesn’t hold any interest for you, but is of interest to an alter. You and that alter could agree to a switch so they could attend the event and you don’t have to.”
That’s kind of awesome. “I wish I’d known about this in high school. I would have gotten someone else to do my homework.”
She smiles. “I bet if you could look back on some of your work, you’d find a lot of it was done by one or more of your alters. They come out when they’re needed.”
“Except for Scratch. I don’t need her.”
“But you did, at least once upon a time, or she wouldn’t exist.”
“I don’t need her anymore,” I declare. And then, “How can I get rid of her?”
“I’m afraid you can’t just get rid of her.”
I am not living the rest of my life waiting for the psycho inside me to attempt murdering me again. “There must be something I can do. Can’t I force her to integrate or fuse, or whatever?”
“Dylan, no. You can’t force an integration.”
“Well, can I force her to go away or kill her?”
Dr. Zhao looks aghast—like I suggested we go murder some toddlers or something. “No. You can’t kill her. In fact, I strongly advise you not to even attempt such a thing. It could have incredibly adverse effects.”
“So, she can try to kill me, but I can’t kill her?”
“What she did was a defense response. It wasn’t a personal attack against you.”
This is maddening. “I don’t understand. If I created these people, why can’t I get rid of them? It’s not like they’re fucking real, right? I made them up.”
She looks at me a long moment, a slight frown wrinkling the skin between her eyes. “Dylan, do you have someone in front with you? These things you’re suggesting and the way you’re talking don’t seem quite like you.”
“I don’t know,” I reply, honestly. “When I first got here, I felt really positive, but now I’m annoyed and angry. I don’t know why I’d feel that way, so maybe there’s someone else, yeah.” I shake my head. “I hate not being able to tell.”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Zhao says in a gentle tone. “Do you need to take a minute?”
I pull a paintbrush out of my bag. It might seem ridiculous to some people, but I’ve chosen it as something to help ground myself. It’s one that I bought during the summer as part of a set. The synthetic bristles are smooth and sleek between my thumb and index finger. The handle is nicely weighted and shaped just right for my hand. It’s not too thick or too skinny. It’s one of my favorites for working with acrylics. Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath through my nose and concentrate on the feel of those bristles, the weight of the handle. I keep breathing, imagining myself at my easel, painting something colorful.
When I open my eyes, I feel more like myself, but I still don’t know if someone else was near the front with me, or if my anger at the whole situation was getting the better of me.
“Better?” Dr. Zhao asks.
I nod. “What do I do about Scratch then? I can’t spend my life worrying about what she might do, and I really don’t like how she talks to me.”
“Have you told her that?”
“I’m pretty sure she knows.” I sigh. “I wish she’d go away.”
Dr. Zhao shifts position in her chair and leans her chin on her fist. “Perhaps you could show Scratch some gratitude and see what happens.”
“Gratitude?” I parrot. “For trying to kill me?” Maybe Dr. Zhao wasn’t the right doctor for me after all. I mean, WTF?
“For being prepared to kill herself and everyone else to protect you. That’s a pretty heavy burden, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t. I think it’s crazy.”
She stifles a chuckle. “Dylan, Scratch didn’t ask for this any more than you did. None of your alters came into creation on a whim. They’re all here because you needed them for something. For years, Scratch has believed that silence is what keeps you safe. When you found out about your system, you put that safety in jeopardy.”
“Why would she think silence was good? If we’d told someone the truth, wouldn’t it have been better?”
Her expression is uncomfortable and sympathetic. “Children are often told something terrible will happen if they tell, or they’re threatened with greater harm.”
“This is our special time, Lannie. If you tell anyone we’ll both be in trouble.” The words echo in my head and I frown. That voice. I know that voice.
Why won’t you let me remember? I scream inside my head.
I feel his hands on me, smell the stale beer and cigarettes on his breath. My stomach turns. He’s there, pushing me down, telling me what a good girl I am. His special girl. And then … Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts.
Pain in my hand distracts me. This isn’t real. I’m in Dr. Zhao’s office. She’s talking to me. I’m safe. I’m safe.
The palm of my hand is bleeding. Splinters of wood stick out of my skin. It doesn’t really hurt, though. It’s like I’m numb. I broke my paintbrush. I can get a replacement, but that doesn’t stop tears from slipping out of my eyes.
“Dylan?”
I look at Dr. Zhao through the tears and swipe at my eyes with the back of my uninjured hand. “Sorry. I remembered him telling me not to say anything. And now Lannie’s upset.”
The psychiatrist hands me a box of tissues. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose.
“Why is Lannie upset?” she asks when I’m done.
“Because I remembered. I think she’s upset for me, not at me.” I throw the wad of tissues in the trash can next to my seat. “Can this eye-movement thing you talked about help with this kind of stuff?”
“I believe so. Think of it as a kind of distraction technique. It allows you to deal with traumatic memories by diluting the anxiety response to them. I believe it also limits the amount of information, or memory, that can be retrieved, therefore making it easier to process. Would you like to try it?”
I nod.
“I’m going to take a moment to remind you that this is a safe place. I want you to feel calm and secure here. Do you feel calm enough to continue?”
“I want to try,” I tell her.
It’s hard to describe what happens next. I talk about the flashback I had while Dr. Zhao taps me on one shoulder and then the other, all while reassuring me that I’m safe and asking me questions like how disturbed I feel on a scale of one to ten. She asks me if any new thoughts emerge.
And here’s where it gets weird. I do have new thoughts. All she’s doing is talking to me while I think of being assaulted as a child, and while it’s disturbing, I’m able to look at it as if it happened to someone else. I guess that’s where the whole DID thing comes in handy. Regardless, I’m able to talk about it and realize that it’s not happening to me right now. I still can’t see his face, but that’s not the point. The point is that it’s gone from terrifying to very upsetting. Not a great leap, but enough that I’m encouraged.
It takes a while. It’s not like she pokes me a few times and suddenly everything’s okay. But by the end of the session, I can think about that experience without being actively in it.
“Eventually I’d like to teach you some techniques so you can guide yourself through any traumatic memories that arise when we’re not together.”
A headache’s knotting up above my right eye and I feel completely drained of emotion. It’s kind of a nice feeling. This kind of numbness is why I used to drink. My head is quiet. I like to imagine the people of my system are in their living room, gathered around the television, watching with their mouths hanging open. I want them to be astonished by me.
I want them to realize I don’t need them and then maybe they’ll fade away. Not very realistic of me, but it’s something to work toward, maybe? Something to hope for.
“Please consider what I said earlier about Scratch,” Dr. Zhao says as we stand. “Write her a letter in your journal or engage her in the head space if possible. Really try to get a dialogue going. It may prove very healing for you both.”
My first response is to tell her I doubt it, maybe roll my eyes at the idea, but I don’t do either of those things. I can’t, because that memory I had? The one that freaked me out and took the rest of the session to get even passably okay with? That’s one memory of what happened to me. Us. Lannie has some of them, and I know how upset she got because I started to remember only one. Scratch has all of those horrible memories. Or, at least I assume she does. She has more than me, that’s for certain. My brain created her to hold those memories so I could go on. She’s a product of my abuser telling me not to tell. Fuck, she’s the embodiment of it. That’s enough to make anyone a psycho.
“I will,” I tell her, and I mean it. I am going to try to reach out to Scratch. Hopefully I’ll survive it.
SIXTEEN
On Tuesday, I amend the “System Rules” section of my journal:
The body needs at least six hours of sleep a night. No fronting after 1 a.m. unless discussed!! Littles need to have a bedtime and be monitored so they do not take over the body at night. It’s dangerous for them to be out unsupervised. If the littles can’t read this, one of you older ones please tell them. If a little wants playtime, we can work something out during daytime hours when there is someone home in case something happens.
I really don’t want a mural in my bedroom like the one in the hospital, and I’ve already found doodles in the journal and stick figures painted on my good watercolor paper. One of my tubes of acrylic paint was left out without a cap sometime late Sunday night. It didn’t dry out completely and acrylic is relatively cheap, but that’s not the point. The point is, someone was playing with my stuff.
On Monday after therapy with Dr. Zhao, I got Mom to stop at Walmart and I picked up kid-friendly art supplies, which are kept in a plastic bin next to my easel. I made sure everything is as bright as possible to attract the attention of my little alters, and my good supplies are in the cabinet, now with a combination lock on it.
I have no idea if any of this works. No one’s used the new art supplies yet, but no one’s used my professional-grade stuff either. I don’t feel as tired this week, but I’m also still napping, though not as much. Short of setting up cameras in my room, I don’t know what else to do.
Maybe I should set up a camera. It would be interesting to see what the people inside me get up to when I’m not around. I mention it to Mom. She’s already set some stuff up, so she knows if I try to leave the house at night. I don’t take it personally. After “waking up” in the ocean that one time, I’m all for being monitored.
I’ve written a note to Scratch—nothing big. I just asked her if we could talk. I want to see if she’ll come to me in a dream, or maybe I can find my way into the head space. I haven’t done that at will yet. Maybe she’ll be a voice in my head, I don’t know. She has to agree to it first. I suppose I could have just written her a letter thanking her, but I want to see if I can make meeting face-to-face work.
I have to give it a shot. I can’t live my life knowing there’s something—someone—inside me that thinks we’d be better off dead. If I don’t do something, she’s going to try it again, and next time she might succeed. She hasn’t responded to me yet, but at least Dr. Zhao will see the note the next time she reads my journal.
The next thing on my list of Managing My Dissociative Identity is joining some groups and meeting other people with the disorder. I find what looks like a great group on Facebook that says they want to focus on reducing the stigma around DID and raise awareness. They also say they want to create a safe place for those of us with DID to come together and talk frankly about things. I click on the button to join the group and fill out the short questionnaire that pops up. An administrator has to approve my membership. A few weeks ago, I’d be annoyed that I have to wait to join a group, but now I appreciate the process. At least they don’t let just anyone sign up. I really don’t want to deal with hecklers while working on my mental health.
Mom comes into my room Wednesday morning. “Come on,” she says. “Get dressed and let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask, looking up as I make my bed. I never used to care if it was made or not, but I’ve decided my life needs as much routine and order as I can get.
“Girls’ day. I’ve booked mani-pedis and hair appointments for us and tea at the Ritz.”
“Are you sure? What if something happens?”
“Like what?” she asks.
“Like I switch out or something?”
“I assume you’ve done it before around me and I was too dense to notice, so I’ll have to pay attention. Other than that, what’s stopping us? It’s only going to be a problem if whoever comes out doesn’t like tea.” She smiles when she talks, but I know she’s nervous. “Two weeks ago, we wouldn’t have thought twice about it. We can’t stop living our lives because we’re afraid of what might happen.”
She’s right. “Give me five minutes.”
“You can have ten.”
I get dressed as quickly as I can, run a brush through my hair, put on some mascara and lip gloss, and meet her downstairs.
We drive to the train station, stopping at a Starbucks along the way for coffee and hot chocolate. Mom likes to take the train because she hates driving in the city. She’s always talking about how the cost of parking in Manhattan is highway robbery, and how every car there has dents and scratches on it from getting hit by someone else. We get our tickets and wait on the platform. It’s a sunny day—chilly, but bright. It’s hard to believe it’s going to be Halloween soon.
It’s past peak travel time, but the train’s still pretty full as it pulls into the station. I watch the cars as they slow to a stop. A girl meets my gaze through the window.
Nisha.
She stares at me. I stare at her. She looks away first.
“Not this car,” I say to Mom and walk off toward the next one.
“Dylan?” Mom follows after me. “Who was that?”
I don’t say anything until we’re on the train. A man in a suit gives up his seat and the empty one next to him for us. Mom flashes the smile she usually reserves for fans who recognize her. The poor guy looks like he’s been hit by a truck. He stammers something and moves two rows back to sit with another man.
“I think you made his week,” I tell her as the train rolls away from the platform.
“Oh hush. Now, who was that girl? Don’t tell me no one.”
I sigh. How much more does my mother really want to know about my foray into bisexuality? How much do I even know about it? “She’s someone I thought could be a friend. Turns out I was wrong.”
She touches my leg. “I’m sorry, sweetie. That’s something that hurts no matter how old you are.”
“I guess you’ve had a lot of experience with false friends, huh?”
“Oh, just a bit,” she says with a laugh. “I’ve made some real ones too, though.” She rattles off the names of a celeb couple she’s been meaning to catch up with.
It’s surreal that my mother has famous people she socializes with every once in a while. It’s surreal that my mother is a somewhat famous person herself. I remember a few years ago, she was in a Blumhouse movie. We went to Comic Con in New York and she had a line of people waiting to get her autograph and tell her how much they’d wished for a friend like Addison in high school. Almost every one of them told Mark and me how lucky we were to have her for our mother.
