What if this is as good as it gets? That question swirled through my mind last night as I lay wide awake, needing desperately to fall asleep. For me night time is always fraught with danger. There are so many things that can go wrong. Alone in the dark, a sudden memory might surface, one which I’ve been keeping a tight lid on for decades. And I, defenseless in the unwelcoming dark, cringe at this intruder surfacing from deep within the vault of my subconsciousness.
Last night, though, it wasn’t old memories that kept me awake. The sudden realization (one I’ve had before, but always forget about until it rears its ugly head once more) that I don’t belong anywhere hit me with all the force of a blow to my solar-plexus.
A misfit, I belong neither in “normal” mono-brained society, nor in the world of DID. This was brought home to me so clearly after having had to resign from my online DID support group. They say the squeaky wheel gets oiled–but not so in this instance. For expressing my concerns regarding this group, I seemed to have created havoc and angered a lot of people. The best I could do, it seemed, was to bow out. A seasoned entertainer should know instinctively when the play it about to fold. This play ran its course, leaving me more frustrated than if I’d never joined the group in the first place. For here I expected encouragement, support, and occasional offerings of compassion. I didn’t know that there were so many unspoken rules; didn’t know that to “rock the boat” would bring such an avalanche of scorn.
I lay in bed last night fighting back tears, for they are always a sign of weakness for me. But they would come anyway, despite my stoic efforts to fend them off. My mind took inventory of the past several months: the unexpected death of a dear aunt; the loss of a best friend and, now, the loss of what I’d hoped would be a safe place for my parts to express themselves–and it all just seemed too much.
Rejection is about the worst thing a multiple can experience. Having suffered this doubly within one short month, my mind was reeling with my parts’ seething emotions. Casting about for something I could focus on safely, instead I kept seeing me at 12, or 15, or 30, being abused time and again. And still the nagging question, What if this is as good as it gets? echoed through my head. Sleep, when at last it deigned to pay me a visit, was no consolation whatsoever.