We got the strange want to reread (or in this case, listen to) Robert Oxnam’s A Fractured Mind: My Life With Multiple Personality Disorder. I had vague flashes of reading this in High School, and then again in college years ago; and now I have my own copy at home. It was the first memoir of DID I ever read. It’s one of the few since then that focuses more on the internal experience rather than the Outside. It was the first book that we found similarities of our life in. The Internal struggles and power dynamics.

Yesterday we pondered about what keeps us stuck in therapy. What keeps us freezing and dodging the work. Pulled apart I can see the frustrations of the lack of cooperation. And I can see that child trying to become so small, no one notices. The one carrying the belief we’re “bad.” It still stings to see the brief snapshot of a six year old child running from their father, shouting and crying “I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” because anything was better than a sting of a belt.

I can feel the muscles in the arms tense, the jaw clenches, and the pinprick of tears behind the eyes. It was so long ago and yet, it is one of the few memories that feels more than just a memory. It’s an exasperating question for me: how does one recall a memory without reliving it? I thought I rescued that small one once before? I know I can’t change what has already happened to the body, our body, and yes even my body. All I can do is intervene in the memory.

What I didn’t know was yesterday would be our last session with the therapist. We’re still not okay. I mean after five almost six years, there’s some attachment. I knew it was coming, yes, but not so soon. It’s been a flurry of emotions the last month. Namely grief.

The adults in us understand and accept it for what it is. It’s not uncommon to change therapists. The child in us is absolutely a mess. This therapist guided us through some of the worst times of our life, and through some of the hardest things we had to do. They helped us understand things about being human that we could not before. I still feel very much alien in this world, but it’s getting better.

I know therapists are trained to not be attached to clients, at least to a point. Therapists are also human though. And I know it’s not a failing on either the client or the therapist, but it’s still… It still sucks. We’re still raw, and somehow functioning. Though I know it’s the system at work trying to keep us from truly falling apart.

Words can not express the magnitude of gratitude and respect I will hold for them. We walked in 5 years ago, at the lowest point we had ever been. No sense of self, identity, or understanding, and a deeply buried want to live. Highly suicidal, and severely disordered. They explained to us early on we were like a caged animal, one who’s been conditioned to fear stepping out of the cage. Now we stand outside of the cage, but remain frozen in fear.

There’s still more work to be done. It was an honor to work with them.