osddid-i-do-that

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Every time my traumatized ass starts a sentence you know you’re about to hear either the funniest or most horrifying thing of your life

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I had a friend who was talking shit about the alter who was (justifiably) really leery of this friend’s behavior —

Friend: I know YOU like me. I like spending time with you and you’re my best friend. The PROBLEM is [Protector].

Me: *has been [Protector] for this entire conversation*

So we definitely need more positive representation of DID, but you know what would be funny? Mildly inconvenient representation of DID.

Oh the world is ending and you need to know about this one specific thing? Yeah I have a guy for that but he doesn't feel like fronting right now

Sorry what's happening rn is this the bad guy? Yeah I just switched in idk what's going on

I know you're dating one alter but we're currently co-con with another alter who hates you so idk how I'm feeling rn

And just who do i think I am? It's funny you should ask that I actually don't know right now

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Genuine question — what do you do when you’re in so much emotional pain that it starts manifesting as physical? Would aspirin fix anything? 🫠

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[said with increasing amount of distress] i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this

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Can’t win, because if they asked “What were you thinking/why did you do that???” and I said I didn’t know (idk sometimes I’m really not thinking that far ahead) then it would turn into, “You weren’t thinking at all???”

Do you want to understand my side or not??

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Complex dissociative disorders are part of this, as well!

please stop treating the word neurodivergent like it means the overlap between autism and adhd

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Maybe this therapy shit is working

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I’m usually pretty sure we don’t have any age confusion between alters except last birthday we got the wrong number candles for our cake.

And only realized when we were about to put them on the cake in front of like a dozen people.

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awake at 4 am i gotta remind myself that none of the emotioions im experiencing rightnow are peer reviewed

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Absolutely wild to me how sometimes you don't even realize the way you'd been taught to perceive things as a kid was kinda fucked up, actually, until decades later.

Example:

As a kid, I constantly lived in fear of damaging shit in my parent's house. The walls. The floors (especially the floors. The wood was beautiful. Shiny. But so easy to scratch). The cabinets.

As a sixteen-year-old, I once took my car to the dealership after work and paid a very dear sum of $250 ($10/hr cashier salary) to fix a slight scratch in the paint because I knew if my father saw it there would be hell to pay. It didn't matter that I parked far out, like I'd been taught, and someone scratched it anyway. It was my fault. I failed in my duties as a steward of my vehicle.

Every time I scratched a rim on a curb while parallel parking or got a door ding or, god forbid, didn't wash and vacuum that car every weekend, it was treated like some sort of moral failing.

Last year, when my husband and I first moved into our house, he scraped the side of our car when parking in our (Very Narrow) garage. When he told me, my first instinct was to be afraid for him. Like something terrible was going to happen to him because of this mistake. I urgently reassured him that it was okay, it was an accident, I wasn't mad. Baffled, he was like, "Yeah? I know? Like, thank you for the reassurance, but I'm only a little annoyed, I'm not upset. It's just a car." And I had to take several minutes to process that. It's...just a car.

We keep the car tidy. We maintain it. But we wash it maybe 4x a year. We only vacuum it after dirty road trips or when the dog hair starts to get annoying. It has scrapes and dings and the leather seats have stains. But that's ok. Because it's just a car.

This morning, I realized that a small rock had gotten embedded in the felt foot on one of our bar stools. Neither of us had noticed. There are now scratches on our beautiful hardwood floor. My immediate response was fear accompanied by a heavy measure of paralyzing guilt. "I'm so sorry," I told my husband, "I should have noticed. I'll figure out how to fix it, I swear. I can probably sand down that section and match the stain and--"

"Whoa, hey," he said. "It was an accident. And it's fine. Floors are going to get damaged. They're floors. We live here. There was damage in places before we even bought the house, remember? It's not a big deal. It's just a floor." Right. It's just a floor. Right.

My husband's mom is visiting and this afternoon, as I was sitting in the kitchen looking at the scratches on the floor, I offhandedly asked her if my husband had ever broken or damaged anything as a kid. "Of course," she said. Household items. A TV. A wrecked car during his teen years. I asked how she punished him.

"Why would I punish him for things like that?" she said. "They were all accidents."

Right. Of course. Right.