Realisation?

Not understanding meant I didn’t feel in control, therefor I felt vulnerable, unsafe.

Therapy today was really helpful, not that it usually isn’t, but it’s helping heal a lot of reopened wounds. Last year I finally took the plunge to tell my family about some trauma pertaining to csa that I experienced in childhood, and identified who the perpetrator was. I don’t have the spoons to explain everything that happened in the past year, but recently I have had to cut ties with my immediate family, mostly due to me not being taken seriously, but also because my abuser was still at family Christmas last year. It’s been just an awkward year with that in the background, and having to reach that point recently, not to mention the stress around the constant limbo as to whether we are moving across country next year.

I hadn’t realised how stressed I have been until today. Which is odd to say because I know I have been stressed, yet I didn’t have the deeper understanding of that and how it reflects in my life until now. I am aware that there have been splits recently, at least in the past three months, and the idea of that scares me. I feel like if there are splits that that’s a ‘bad’ thing, that I am not doing healing ‘correctly’, or that I have ‘failed’ at keeping stabilised. The recurring theme that comes up in therapy is the feeling of failure, or that I am being too sensitive, too melodramatic; A lot of self judgement not only argued between alters, but even the cognitive dissonance felt by one part alone. The overwhelming pressure to be a certain way has been around for as long as I can remember, however, having an online presence has certainly intensified that to the point where it started impacting what I thought was the ‘right’ way to show myself online.

This coupled with the things happening with my family, caused a lot of harm on top of that. Parts of me that are still unwilling to actively participate in therapy, internally thrive off of this kind of pain. There is a sense of joy knowing that nobody believes me, a joy HE would probably get at the fact that I would never say something, that I would do as I was told and stay quiet. These parts mimic these behaviors, these ideals, creating internal disruption which grows with external invalidation. And of course there are parts that are similar yet different to that in their beliefs. When we are validated by those around us, some parts see it as a game, they are happy to have ‘manipulated’ people into believing us; It provides them with a sense of control. By rationalising that they are the ones in charge of the story, it creates a sense of safety that none of it happened, but also reflects a crave for support in a way? I’m unsure about these parts as I struggle to wrap my brain around this mindset, and often go into a guilt spiral that I have made everything up and am being manipulative in making other’s believe I have any trauma at all. Logically I know what happened happened, but I would rather accept the fact that I am being a manipulative person than the fact that my childhood trauma exists.

Today was the first time where I also had a bit more understanding of how stressed I have been, a lot of reflection as to why that might be, and a moment of clarity and the slightest shift in identity that enabled a free space for communication, which hasn’t happened in a LONG time. We have been extremely meshed for the past few months, and not in the ‘barriers coming down/fusion’ way, but in the ‘missing a whole bunch of small segments of time and having no sense of internal nor external self’ kind of way. It has been awful, the amnesia, the dissociation, the depersonalisation, the derealisation, just all of it has been shitty. I understand that we seem to be quite susceptible to fracturing during periods of extreme stress, which is a normal symptom of the disorder anyhow, it just feels like I am never at the healing point where my mind doesn’t resort to that coping mechanism. One thing that I also neglected to think about however, is that even though we would be feeling mushy from the fragmentation, it’s also because our mind is shutting out parts it doesn’t think are helpful right now, as a means of reducing further spiraling. My therapist put it in better words than I just did, but essentially that block off from communication is causing the constant blendiness while also trying to do so to ‘help’ because it helped in the past.

I (Mila) felt a bit stupid to have not realised that before, because I like to think I have a decent understanding of why things are why they are, because it gives me a sense of control, which is something that I didn’t have in traumatic situations. Those parts mentioned earlier that thrive off of the pain/ideas of manipulation are parts of me, fragments. Not in the same way that I work my way through my emotions surrounding the trauma, rather not full alters; They are strings of thought linked to him, emotions linked to him, with memories linked to mine.

Not realising how that dissociation was being represented internally, made me sad that I wasn’t as attuned to my own emotions or environment, I didn’t feel in control, therefor I felt vulnerable, unsafe. I was tearing up in therapy today because of the sense of grief I had from cutting ties with my family, not regret for doing so, but grief. I felt regret for telling them in the first place, that if I didn’t say anything, I wouldn’t have put myself through the emotional rollercoaster of the past year, that I would still have them in my life even while I harboured this huge secret. I felt angry at myself that I should have told them sooner, I should have told someone sooner; that by not telling anyone sooner I was actively putting myself in harms way when I could have stopped it from happening. To be honest I still don’t know where I sit on that, I know logically I was just a kid, and it wasn’t my fault, but at the moment I can’t help but blame myself.

I don’t want to feel this way, to feel sadness, it scares me. Feeling too much sadness overwhelms me, I have meltdowns and I feel like I am being melodramatic, too sensitive. I fear being judged by others for having a meltdown due to the sensory overload that comes with being autistic, that people will think lesser of me because of my behaviour. When people see me as lesser than, then I don’t have any control, that means danger.

The blendiness has certainly returned as I’m writing out these sentences. Internal reflection today has been helpful but also exhausting. It was nice having the moment of clarity and communication from Felix, Charles, and Nathaniel, having Dakota and Kai at the session slightly adjacent to the blendiness. A lot is happening right now and I just want things to slow down.

Unstructured Thoughts

Zero desire to make content or advocacy things lately, because the niche environment I was in feels so toxic to me nowadays. Breaking out of that into a more general mental health area leaves me feeling very lost and most definitely out of my depth. Searching for reasons as to why I even wish to ‘advocate’ at all, searching for answers as to what even defines an ‘advocate’. By all means I would love to read more, find studies, share findings, but truth of the matter is that I find reading extremely difficult due to dissociation. Even with things I am super interested in, “special interests”, it is difficult to maintain focus.

Follow with a paragraph about something happy. Talking too much about the negatives makes it seem depressing, too depressed over “first world problems”, obviously fake. Too happy, enjoying life , also fake. Fluctuations? No, you cannot have both; also fake. You have a mental health issue and society only believes that when you’re in a constant state of sadness, yet at the same time expect you to “get the fuck over it” and “contribute to society”. If you can’t ‘contribute’, then why are you here? You try to leave, then you are “attention seeking”. You end up leaving, you were “too young to go”.

You seek solace in a community of likeminded people, until you discover that you arent all the same. It was a naive assumption let’s admit. We are but a microsegment of society, a group with an intangible umbrella to hold.

I used to want to share my story, but then it felt like my story was worthless in comparison to the grand tales other people shared. People were wasting their time consuming my content, I felt bad that I was subjecting them to boredom. But I realised I had somewhat became a symbol, of people who looked like me, I was the visible of the invisible. My lighter skin tone makes me palatable. Exotic but not too exotic. Opinions influenced by a white upbringing made me even more desirable for white folk to consume my words and receive their certificates on being ‘woke’.


Those with less recognition and visibility, thanked me for my service. I was humbled, yet saddened to be the only voice being heard and respected. My words were not all that different to messages they had shared, and yet my plagiarism was heard because I was more palatable, exotic but not too exotic, I had friends in whiter places, so this meant I had to be respected.

Oh woe is me that I recieve attention. How terrible it must be. But do you not see the pressure there, the idea that I exist to maintain the peace between the two colours of my lineage. Share the stories of my people, but delicately so as to not spook others away for their wrongdoings. Being traumatised makes you immune to the thing many preach the most. How do you define accountability? Is it only applicable when it is relevant to your circumstance? Accountability is selective you see, it does not exist for racism. But do remember that “microagressions do not count”, for the white man is more knowledgeable than I.

Do not misinterpet what I am saying, because other poc wanting me to advocate is not the issue; for the issue is the white man seems to find my content instead of theirs because of algorithms and my connections. I implore you to go out of your way to see their stories, poc experiences are not a one size fits all. This constant feeling of tokenisation envelopes me on a micro and major scale to a point where I have no more spoons left to keep the peace.

For a peacekeeper, my frustrations are not so peaceful. I live in a constant state of second guessing messages of power versus messages fueled by a borderline response. Then again, I am entitled to my frustrations, yet where is the line? Is there a line, or is it whisked away in the sand?
High tides, low tides, will I ever have a concrete answer as to my desires? Moments like this it seems that I want to just concentrate on me. Selfish, selfless, either way I can no longer ride each wave clinging to this niche crate of expectations.

I don’t want to be an advocate for your disorder anymore. I want to be an advocate only for myself, for MY mental and physical well being; I just happen to be someone who shares your diagnosis. My brain is drained from all of these rambles yet I know there is so much more in my head for sharing, I suppose that is for another time.

Our Race, Our Lives, Our Experiences


Our voices, the voices of other dissociative BIPOC, will not be silenced, refuse to be overshadowed by the experience of just one white systems’ popularity. Our voices matter just as much as our livesI would like to take this opportunity to point out however, that we will try as hard as we can to be active online and put new recources on our website over the weekend because this is not a disorder just experienced by white folk. BIPOC deserve to be visible and our stories heard by the neurotypical white population. We dont want DDs comeback to be all that others looking up the disorder see. So many other stories and experiences are unseen due to popularity and algorithms.

Alters are not here to be your “favorite personality” in a system. Listen to the actual stories behind the voices, understand beyond the surface level why each part of a system may vastly vary in characteristics to anothers’.We are more than our disorder, yet the cause of it has literally shaped our entire state of being, a precursor to how we interpreted the rest of the world as it flowed around us.

Dissociative BIPOC are a minority within a minority. This doesnt mean white people have not struggled, just that it is important to see that race vastly alters how each group experiences the disorder. Much like how rich women experience sexism is vastly different to poor women.

Dissociative identity disorder is not a horror trope, it is also not to be glorified nor romanticised as mystical and ‘fun’. How we all function with the disorder is not something to be measured as a yes or no, as even for a ‘functional’ system, time and place can change this.

We are not your inspiration, but let us inspire you to be more compassionate, more open to understanding, more active in clearing space for the marginalised to thrive rather than simply exist.