So many parts of me, some many women inside this vessel and yet none of them can seem to pull themselves together and into the functioning adult society expects me to be.

Some say a fragmented sense of identity is a result of trauma and a great burden for the shattered soul of the sufferer but I have assumed, since I learnt about why there is more than one me, that this would actually be a blessing and with more than one me, there would be more chances of me being normal and less defective. However it would seem I was once again deluded by my own optimistic thought process.

I can’t even tell who I am anymore. The lines are blurred and the line up is loosing focus through the frosty glass that separates my conscious mind from my line up of avatars.

To anyone with a solid sense of self, this sounds a little bats in the belfry; like I am not of sound mind but I am told, reassured, that this is the norm for me. I am expected to be in pieces, broken from the hammers life broke me with. The tool box of fate is not for fixing it is for rearranging and sometimes even divine hands slip and miss the head of the nail and slam dunk the human condition full force, with a ‘whoops’ and a dusting off of hands. This is how stars are made.

8am…tablet time. My eyes and mind are still somewhat abbreviated by yesterday’s doses. I cannot think to stand and my hands are numb against these keys, tell me; how is any version of me to go face the day when the one vessel they reside in cannot stand in its rain soaked cape? I am weathering the storm but the wind of the big bad NO is gale force and I am so weak around the roots