It’s not a definition or some bullet-points on a page, a menu of things that were done or could have been done, or might yet be done. It’s something to do with me as a person, the me that I’m so scared to show you, that I’m so scared to be, because of what happened …
What is it like to be me? What is it like to be the me that is me-not-you, different, alone, DID?
You – in my minds you are you-not-us, but who am I to you? Can you know me?
I hate my body. It was there, always there, during the abuse.
My mind went away but my body could not. My mind could forget.