Read This First
In October of 2010 Erin was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. This blog is to record what is going inside Erin's mind. We don't know what all that will entail... But we are hoping that keeping a record of it will help in some manner. We also hope that maybe, just maybe, that we'll heal from whatever issues that we have and come out victorious.
All personalities or identities within Erin are invited to write here; each entry will be marked with who is writing.
If you are a survivor yourself, there are no trigger warnings on the entries... Please be careful as you navigate this blog. If you are a significant other of someone with DID/MPD, our hope is that this blog may be of some use to you, but please remember that every person with DID is very unique and must be considered as their own case.
Thank you for visiting!
Sunday, January 30, 2011
To a certain unknown man -- Yomi
I remembered you.
I remembered your hands. Your mouth. Your fingers. All of them touching caressing that which you had to even dare take. Do you even realize how much terror you put into me? How much doubt? Do you even regret your actions? Do you regret breaking a small, helpless girl?
You, sir, have scarred me deeper than words can describe. My very inner being aches and throbs as though hundreds of blades have pierced me and they cannot be removed. Can you imagine the pain? It's overwhelming. My body wracks with sobs when I don't block it out, if I think about it.
I close my eyes to find peace as I sleep, but I can see your silhouette, your vest, your orange hat. It's as though I have to submit to your abuse before being allowed the luxury of sleep. I close my eyes and your hands are on me again, in me again. I hate it.
And I begin to hate myself, because some small part of me enjoyed it. I disgust myself. I feel impure, dirty, used, thrown aside. And it's your fault.
You used me like a disposable object. You preyed on me multiple times, then threw me away when you had your fill. Like trash, garbage, refuse. I grew up believing that about myself.
If this wasn't enough, you planted that cruel lie as you whispered in my ear... "If you tell... No one will believe you..." Was breaking me not enough?! Why did you have to plant doubt in me! Victims don't usually tell about their abuse. So why did you feel this was necessary?!
You screwed my live over! I am a mess, an emotional train wreck. Why did you do it? For a moment's pleasure?
I hope you burn in Hell.