A year ago now one of us thought about starting a blog. Mostly to compile all the information we know on life this way. There wasn’t a single space for information on polyfragmentation. And now? Now it’s devolved into a living space for the chaos.

Even the best laid plans can go awry.

Some time ago we went on a deep dive of layers. How emotional layers work specifically in a dissociative context. What we’re finding now is what we thought as two layers (Front, Inside) is actually three if not four, even: Physical, Front, Inside, The Abyss/Void.

All this stems from communication being exceptionally difficult for us. Internally, amongst ourself. We have a mediator for Christ’s sake. But this one, she doesn’t speak. By choice. Not because there’s no Voice, no it’s there–it’s just in many and in fractures.

A few days ago we wrote this poem, the first in many years. And we sent to our therapist. That led into a dialogue around this aspect and the 3 month stint of homelessness we face a decade and some change ago. She affectionately called it the Horror House once she understood just how… awful it was then.

It was the most we ever spoke on it.

It took loads of help on the inside to navigate, to do damage control, to put the pieces in order as best as we could. The number of times we said, “And thankfully nothing happened to the body that night,” carried more than we realized. It was only three months. But a lot happened in those months.

Shit roommates. Terrible partner. Floundering for safety. And splitting. Lots and lots of splitting.

We’re coming to terms with the fact some of us will be dormant in Summer, and vice versa with Winter. Challenging as it is, we have a small window to work with these parts. Winter for some may be a time of rest and recharge. For us, it’s time to dig deep, to face the very things we run from.

(Untitled)
I have tried for many years to encapsulate you in words.
You who doesn’t speak by choice.
Who stands on ledges and stares into the abyss with unflinching eyes.
You who drowns in alcohol and screams.
You who cannot shake their touch, the disgrace and shame at how we survived.
They called you whore. Slut. Alien.
You are none of these things.
You are human, imperfect and messy.
Still you stumble drunkenly in halls and shattered mirrors, blood trails following your every step.
I hear you some nights in the winds of the trees, crying, screaming, begging for a way out of brambles and thorny vines that seek to mark you.
Yet I can’t reach you.
And on the occasion, when Summer ebbs and Winter comes in it’s place you awaken
Afraid. Petrified. Will they see you? Will his hands find you? Run.
One day you’ll stop running from the weight you carry, the screams that follow you–your own.
Until then we wait in this liminal space
Neither alive nor dead
Here nor there
Existing in a state of grey skies, harsh wind,
And troublesome notions.