Moving on is a silly thing. Considering that the only thing time does is move forward, run, it is odd that we are able to determine from whence we are moving on in a way that is in some way significant. We are constantly moving onward. Well, at least L is. L has the body to grow with, to chronologically advance with, to feel at home in – or to try to feel at home in. Our inner world seems to be in constant dissonance with the outer. We’re working on that. At least I am.

We are moving on Monday. A rehabilitative facility. A dormitory. With other people. This is a stretch since many of us detest being around other peoples’ objects of living, so to speak: kitchen supplies, clothes, lighters, DVDs, books, posters – of people we do not know. I find it refreshing. And nostalgic. The last time we lived in something like a dormitory was back in 2010 when we were shacked up in a group home for the summer. That’s before Lilu started writing this blog in its raw form, which, having read back, edited and deleted a bunch of teenage bullshit, is difficult to empathize with. I guess she was a different person back then and I was still a rather healthily hitched part of L. Now I’m one-tenth of a circus act.

Living alone – as if we ever are – with Dissociative Identity disorder as far as I know is very difficult to succeed in. Living alone for us, specifically for L, in the past, has not proven healthy. Building a one-room fort with textbooks and blankets, overdosing on carbohydrates and laxatives, and playing with razors and rye whiskey are not healthy. But then again, that was years ago. And we no longer have a craving for Grammy’s liquor cabinet. The form of living we shall be attempting is referred to as assisted or supported living in our area. We live in a dormitory with nine other people, with our own 30 square meter room and bathroom, as well as other shared living spaces. We have anassigned support worker, a sociologist by training I suppose. There is a daily schedule with activities that are voluntary yet sufficiently binding to give structure to fend off dissociation.And best of all, everybody knows. Everybody knows about the freak show. Everybody knows about the peculiarities and the cuckoo-bonkers entity that is our system.

It feels odd that from Monday onward, we do not have the obligation to hide. Never at home have we been strictly obligated in any other sense than protection of the family or of the system from the family. Yet several of us look to this as an emancipation of sorts.

I have many things planned for us to support our treatment, and I hope the others let me proceed. Our own shower will help us in the mornings to wake up, and the freedom to do whatever we want with the room means we can have several grounding devices and toys and whatnot. I plan on having a big checklist on the wall for medications and food and other important things that tend to be forgotten during switches and then redone or not done at all.

We were babysitting the other day and it was raining, and we went outside with the kiddos. I borrowed a pair of yellow rain boots and a rain coat. The little boy had made a horse and the horse had its own little rain coat. The little girl ran after him and they played in puddles and we felt happy as the sun came back out all warm. For someone living with dissociation, the littlest things to make you feel alive and real are the most important things. I had forgotten what the sun feels like on my cheek, what the rain sounds like tapping on the hood of my raincoat, what the ground smells like, how my legs bend when I sit on a swing.

Relocation could mean reorganization. In a way for us it shall. Our route to commute to town will be half shorter, and we will not wake up to a sleepy-eyed five-year-old with a sippy cup full of cocoa. We can wash our own clothes and cook or own food without being scolded for mistakes. Everything will change.




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