When I’m sick like today (and I mean sick-sick, not my “normal” Chronic Fatigue), for some reason my thoughts wander to Thicket, one of my parts who doesn’t speak. Not only doesn’t she speak, she’s so shy of human contact that we’re lucky to catch a glimpse of her disappearing around a corner. She lurches her way upstairs, and I know that she’s wearing her perpetual deer-in-the-headlights look, and although I don’t know this for a fact, I suspect that once she reaches the sanctuary of her room, she bolts the door behind her and leans her weight against it for a few moments, waiting for her racing pulse to calm down.
Thicket lives in a turret, a room she chose because it is rounded and so there are no corners for anyone to lurk around. Her hair is unkempt, and perhaps has never been washed or combed. Her clothing is raggedy, kept together by safety pins, for she will not allow Mrs. Homebody or anyone to mend them. Of all my parts, she’s the one whose trust level is lowest–I’d say around a -100. Recently, I figured out when and why Thicket came into existence, and I have to say that I don’t blame her one bit for her Lone Ranger status. It would be easy to simply label her as anti-social, or a misfit–but labels never tell the whole story, or any story, really. They’re just a handy means of shrugging off someone we have no interest in.
Thicket goes beyond all labels or categorizing. Her depression, misery, and sense of absolute despair and terror go so deep that there are no words to express them. She doesn’t even try. She’s like a wild animal who burrows deep into the forest to lick her own wounds…and it’s not even that she has a deliberate, independent streak; it’s more like it would never even enter her head that asking for help is a
normal okay thing to do.
Yes, when I’m sick-sick my thoughts turn to Thicket. She is lost in the forest in every sense of the term. Like everyone else inside of me, she has no sense of direction but, even worse, she has no compass of the soul. My heart aches for her, knowing intuitively that I will never reach her in a million years.