Screech

Tearing through the night. Fear chasing me. I’m running hard and fast. But I’m running from myself. From who I am; what I am. Running from the diagnosis.

Today, sitting in that small, dark, cold office. I heard her say, “Shaylore; we’ve confirmed your diagnosis. You have Dissociative Identity Disorder”. There are more words, explanations, reassurance. They are lost on me.

Everything I thought I knew about myself, took for granted... Shattered. I sat in that office watching pieces of myself fall to the carpet.

The screech of brakes close startles me. Not yet out of the city I seem to be on auto pilot. I’m headed for the cabin now. I need to get myself as far away from people as I can get. I’m afraid of myself.

The only reference points I have for this disorder come from movies and books. Bad Hollywood plots, evil killers, demented souls with murderous alters. This can’t be who I am.

I finally reach the cabin and pull up out front. The night is dark and hot. I scramble with my bag to the cabin. I rush to get inside, and bolt the door behind me.

Much darker inside, I dump my bag on the floor and shuffle towards the bed in the far corner. As I sit on the edge of the bed, my mind is racing, even though exhaustion is setting in. I lay back and feel myself begin to drift, grateful for sleep.

In my fitful sleep I still run... and they chase me, voices, echoes, shadows. Fear bleeds across my dreamscape. Accusations fly. BAD! WRONG! BROKEN! INSANE! Voices and shadowy figures that whisper and yell, surround me now- EVIL! WRONG! BROKEN! INSANE!

My fear begins to change. A whisper at first that soon becomes a roar, as anger floods me. I have done nothing wrong! I am not evil! Not wrong! Not broken! Not Insane!

As I scream, one by one, with each point of defence, an accusing voice falls silent, a shadow dissipates. Now the only voice is my own, no shadow but mine. I too fall silent. I am alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Abandoned.

Everything is deathly quiet now. I can’t tell where I end and the darkness begins. Fear slams itself into my heart, my mind. Forsaken.

I try to see, to reach out into the void that surrounds me. I can’t. The void IS me. I begin to scream...

My voice wakes me. I am screaming. Shocked and confused. It’s coming for me. I jolt upright. Terror shakes me, as I begin to register sweat and tangled hair. Crumpled clothing and the boots still on my feet. I’m in the cabin. Yesterdays events roll through my head. The frantic drive here, the fear, the office... the diagnosis; D.I.D.

I need light to chase away the terror, the darkness. I gingerly place my feet on the floor, mouth dry, throat horse, I stand and begin to feel my way toward the door where my bag should be. Finding it I rumage for the torch, my hand quickly hits the hard barrel of the torch and some small comfort touches me as the light strikes through the darkness .

I cross the room to light the first of the two old oil lamps. With that lit I turn towards the other and shudder deeply with the visual effect of the shadows that the flame casts. This reminds me of something...

I try to focus as I forage through the bag and end up dumping everything out on the table, I grab for the water. I separate articles of odd clothing as I drink, shorts, a top and what look to be odd socks. Spotting a crumpled bag of Doritos, I tear it open spilling them everywhere and shovel a few in my mouth and chew.

I stand, shed my top, and watch it fall to the floor, I kick the damp, offending thing to one side. I begin to kick off my boots, and I reach for the water again, another long swig. I reach down and undo my jeans, pulling on the zip then manage to pull them just over my hips when the light from the oil lamps flickers and dips. I freeze. The fear returns sharply. I am vulnerable. Almost naked. I scramble into the top then struggle to pull the shorts on with clumsy, shaking hands. I’m spooked now, as I rush to get my bare feet into my boots. OUT. I need to get out. Panic begins to overwhelm me, as I race to the door. I trip on the undone laces, and nearly fall. I miss the latch, and my panic intensifies when the door won’t open. I hit it again, and get it this time, half stumbling, half falling, out through the door, and into the night.

I rest my arms on the little porches railing, and then my head upon my arms. What just happened? Something about the lamps, the light had triggered my response. But what it was illuded me now. I try to calm my breathing/my fear. A loud screech breaks through the night. Large heavy wings close. I jump, startled.

It takes a moment to register the familiar sound of a Barn Owl. I’m shocked at how jumpy I am, how quickly I have fallen apart. I straighten up, and turn towards the old tree where I think he has landed. My eyes, now adjusted to the moonlight, spot him. His beautiful heart shaped face standing out.

I feel a little silly now, the running, the fear. Being startled by this beautiful hunter. I feel like he’s looking down at me wondering, what’s with the crazy lady? I chuckle to myself.

I have little memory of my childhood, but I recall now a small disappointment. Coming to the cabin as a little girl, and discovering that Barn Owls don’t say “Who-Whoo”, and being rather upset by that! I giggle out loud at the memory, and he turns his head towards me.

Ironic, hey. That’s what had me racing out here in the middle of the night. Who. Who. Who am I? Do I even know? In that moment, with him looking down at me, I feel like he’s waiting for me to answer my own question.

As we watch each other, I begin to think about it. My life seemed to hang in the balance over the answer.

I recall then, the psychologist’s words. The office we sat in not small, dark and cold at all, as I recall more of what she had said. She had explained that DID was a Survival System created by the brain to withstand Trauma. That it developed very early. I ponder this now.

I must have had these Alternate Personalities from an early age then. I followed this thought further. So, if I have had these Personalities for most of my life, then I have been who I am all along. I haven’t magically turned into a monster upon hearing the diagnosis confirmed to me.

I watch my feathered friend shift his weight from one leg to the other as if impatient, I get on with it. We eyed each other, as I begin to delve deeper.

So if I’ve had this disorder virtually my whole life, then I must still be who I’ve always been. I guess I’ve just been sharing the job!

I’ve never hurt anyone, been violent towards others. No one has complained of me being cruel, no mad dog murder convictions under my belt.

I realize then that I am holding my breath. I exhale heavily. My friend flapped his powerful wings. Was he pleased I’d finally worked it out?

I smile at the thought.

He opens his wings and takes flight. I watched him disappear into to darkness. I thank him silently.

Calm now, fear subsided.

I realize that I have made my choice tonight.

To Recover. To Heal.

The running was over. The thought crosses my mind that it wasn’t real smart to try to run away from myself.

I laugh out loud.

In the distance the owl screeched.

§hazi