If I don’t speak now I will lose my voice.
So many fears to speaking. Judgment, loss. A wave of rebuke, dismissal, even horror.
Labyrinth/closet. A door, a threshold where a wall should be. My throat, swollen, reservoir: the uvula a dam before the torrent. I will choke if I do not speak. I know this from many other closets. Sometimes choking seems so sweet.
Like a band-aid, quick, the hairs ripped from follicles, micro-dermal abrasions. Flesh exfoliated by stick and pull, then bared raw, stung, pale to the air. This is honesty: dynamite to the dam, a leap beyond the precipice of tooth and lip. Surely destruction follows the sharing of secrets. Peel, regardless. Some secrets we refuse to keep. Come what will.
This is the truth: last week it was confirmed by trained professionals that I have, in the way any of us have anything- homes, countries, lovers, children- in the way that any of us can carry what someone else “discovered” from what was always there, then claimed, labeled, and bestowed on others- in that way, it has been confirmed that I have Dissociative Identity Disorder.
Which means that I am a multiplicity of many parts, as are we all. Which means that I am a disparate product of trauma, as are we all. Which means that parts of me hold the horrors that the other parts can’t, the way a mother bear steps forward to take the bite or bullet offered to her cub.
A child. A goddess. A mother bitch. A Daddy. A boy. A drag queen. I conduct them, the electricity of my history. I hold them, carry them. I am them, live many lives in one- gender, sexuality, passion, fear a current through many containers. I woke up to multiplicity, and now must heal and nurture the parts that splintered and froze.
Faced with trauma, I claimed water as my power- fluidity, the suck and rise of the sea, the trickle of a stream, the relentless raging of a river wearing through age-old rocks.
My first memory is of rising water, a primal fear of death by drowning. I was three years old, my sister and I alone in a claw-foot bathtub deeper than our bodies, unable to turn the faucet off, unable to swim. The water rose: our bellies, our nipples, our shoulders, our necks. We screamed above the rush of water. No one answered.
The hell with this, I decided, and became the thing that rose to choke me. And now is the time to search for greater solidity.