Unbroken Fragments

Unbroken Fragments

It is still dark when I exit my slumber.  This bedroom, the one I have woken up to for so many years, is yet to be freed from the cold shadows of morning, and the blaring silence is heavy and rings in every crevice.  I worry for today.  I am in dangerous territory, and I can feel that this disorder will be quite volatile here.  I brush the scars on my neck: Despite all this body has been through, it is necessary to attend this family reunion.  For the sake of our dissociative identity disorder, we must address its origins.

It has been almost twenty years since leaving this house for college.  Sitting up in bed now, wearing an old bloodstained nightgown, I gaze into the stillness of the enclosed room: the pink floral curtains, the pink floral bed sheets, the lavender-tinted rug; all is grey in the chill of dawn.  On the bookshelf across the room, I can decipher the familiar outline of teddy bears.  And the words of Virginia Woolf diffuse into my thoughts as she illustrates the coldness of morning air, like “the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet… solemn…”

The gown sags on my bony shoulders where it once hugged my flesh.

When I reach for the worn journal on the crowded nightstand, the pink clock reads 6:52 AM.  It is earlier than usual.  Perhaps the dreams have disturbed my slumber once again.

I cradle the journal so delicately that it almost floats in my hands.  But even as distant as I strain to make myself, I hear a young girl’s virulent sobbing in my head again.

I turn to a page where the ink hasn’t stained it too severely and, despite the darkness, begin the first journal entry of the day: I will not let any fears or desires get in the way of what could be an important step to recovery.  You may all claim that I fail to understand what has happened and how any of you feel, but this approach applies to all hardships.  Please put in some effort today; that is all I—

I am holding that useless journal again, and I have already crumpled the page with Renee’s new entry.

I listen to the soft pit pat of tears as they make her stupid idea bleed.  It says something about understanding and effort.  Yeah, right, Renee.

I don’t know why, but I flip through the journal again.  I catch some familiar sentences, like, “Don’t make me tell you,” and “Why am I bleeding again?” and the one I hated the most, “Help.”  Turning to the first page, I reread the names of all the people in this body.

I should have just stained the whole thing with ink.

I grip the journal so fiercely that it bends and trembles.  Renee would probably say something meaningless, like, “Close that journal and close the doors of opportunity.”  She’s just making everything worse!

            I throw down the stupid journal.  I spring from the bed, storm over to the bookshelf, and grab my two favorite teddy bears, Harry and Jessica.

We sit down on the purple rug, and they both look at me with concerned expressions as we think to each other.

They hug me warmly as I stroke their heads.

Sarah, are you okay?

No, Jessica.  Everything’s horrible.  I don’t belong in this body. She nuzzles my neck, and it tickles.  I’m only nine years old and I look like a woman!

            I don’t want you to be sad.

            I know, I know, Harry.  It’s just—I keep telling you guys this, but it’s true: You don’t want the memories that I have.

            But what happened? they both ask.

            I’m always patient with them.  Do you see these scars?  They touch my neck gingerly.  A bad man hurt me a lot a long time ago.  And no one did anything about it.  The worst part was that I couldn’t say anything.  But you two will never go through that.  I’ll protect you.

            They hug me silently as I cry.

            I freeze when I hear shuffling and the floor creak outside the bedroom door.

Please don’t be her.

Please don’t be her.

            The door screams as a gangly woman, the woman who had done nothing, comes in.

Of course I never get my way.

She doesn’t even turn on the light. “Elaine?  I’m making breakfast, hon,” she says quietly.

No!  No, no, no, no, no!  “It’s Sarah,” I mumble, ignoring the sour taste of my breath.  I know that she could never hear that.

“What?” she asks innocently.  I hate it.  I hate it.

“I’m SARAH!” I exclaim.  I have no patience for her, the woman whose husband… whose husband…

She’s already turning around.  “She’s like that again,” she whispers.  And she closes the screaming door and walks away.

Incredible anger rushes in.  “YOU DID NOTHING!” I finally yell, over and over and over again.  I rub and scratch the scars on my neck and on my back.  But it’s not like I can just rip them out.  It never works.

I shut my eyes.  Don’t make me stay here.

           

I open my eyes in malaise and with shivers down my sides.  My hands are resting on the hot scars on my neck.  Two limp teddy bears gaze at me blankly.

I have forgotten the sensation of waking up in a bed and just laying there in a slow heartbeat, floating between life and death.  I figure the dreams brought about another alter again.  The sting of every whipping, of every moment of abuse, has carried on much longer than I could have ever imagined.  

So long ago was I simply an eight-year-old girl.  There were no scars then.  There were no deep voids in my memory.

I shudder again.  So long ago…

I have been trudging downhill for so many years, and the upward path to escape has become too steep for anyone to climb.

I am Elaine.  I am stuck.

To those whom I have hurt in my life, pardon my existence.

I am Elaine, a mistake, and I need to be discarded and renewed.

Our journal has been thrown on the floor.  Turning to a relatively clean page, I begin a new entry:  The bruises are gone. But I can still feel.

And it hurts.

The room is now glowing in the presence of the morning.  But even as my chills fade, the sunlight is still cold and seems to do nothing more than saturate my vision.