Words of a multiple: To those who hurt us

Trigger warnings: discussion of trauma and abuse, no details but may be generally emotional. Read with caution.

‘For you, it was a Sunday; for me, it was the end.’

A line from a poem I wrote a while ago, reflecting on the fact that while the trauma that has caused us to have DID was devastatingly life-changing for us, for those who hurt us, it didn’t even register as a major event. For them, it was another Sunday. And so, perhaps in futile, I am writing an unsent letter to those who hurt us.

Dear… I don’t even know how to address you. I cannot call some of you by the terms of endearment I was taught; nor can I call others of you by the titles you demanded. I refuse to give you that power now.

When they speak of healing, they do not speak of anger

You won’t remember me; I’ll be lucky if you recall my number, let alone my name. Besides, I’ve changed it now, because the name you gave me was too painful to keep for anything but formality. How can you rob a child of a name? How can you rob a child of an identity?

You won’t remember me, but I will never forget you. How can I when your touch lingers on my skin; when your words circle round my mind; when the memories of the things you did are constantly on replay; when you changed my very being so I am not one but many. Oh, how I love my system: I love that I am many and how it has helped me survive. But I can never forget why.

You won’t remember me, but I will never forget you. How could you have done such unthinkable things? Do you think on them? Do you regret the day you stole yet another child’s innocence? Do you feel guilt?

You won’t remember me, so I will make you

You won’t remember me, but I will never forget you. Because in my mind is a child who wants to hurt because of the soul-crushing pain we feel in our heart; in my mind is a teenager so angry they cannot function; in my mind is a ghost so faint because your torment killed a part of us; in my mind is a fairy so delirious because we would take anything as an escape.

You won’t remember me, so I will make you. When they speak of healing, they do not speak of anger, and that is all I hold towards you now. I feel no pity nor a smidgen of understanding. When they speak of healing, they do not speak of violence. And no, I would never stoop to your level nor hurt you, but I wish you understood what it feels like to be so separate from your body; what it feels like to hold such intense pain; what it feels like to doubt every memory, every trigger, every thought. I would never hurt you, though, for the one thing I have held onto through all this is my morality. And yes, I have my anger, but that is far more often directed towards myself than you.

You won’t remember me, so I will make you. I will exist so loudly that you cannot ignore my survival. I will fight for others so hard that you cannot beat us down. I will support others so fiercely that you cannot isolate them any longer. I will be myself so proudly that you cannot take my heart from me.

You won’t remember me, but I wish I could forget you.

With all my anger,

Evelyn and co