Written by George Verlander
The following story is a work of fiction. The piece examines the rare condition of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), and how an individual may cope, or fail to cope, with its extremely psychological hardships.
Part
1
Dear Diary,
I was told that it might be ‘healthy’ to
record my thoughts in here, maybe even my memories if that helps. Thinking
about it, it can’t do any worse I suppose being in the position I’m already in.
Where to start though, I mean, it’s all a bloody mess. And not just my
situation at the moment I mean my life, my home and my famil… family. I’m
sorry. I can’t do this.
Dear Diary,
I just wanted to say sorry for the other
day. I don’t know what to talk about, never done this kind of thing, never
thought I’d have to. It’s nice to finally talk to someone though. I mean,
you’re not real and all and I get that but at least you don’t criticise like every
else that’s tried to do the same all my life, my teachers, friends – if you can
call them that the bastards. I’ll start from the beginning though. I was born
in Limehouse on October 12th 1985,
and used to live in a block of flats – elland house – off Copenhagen Place, just a
stone’s throw away from where Canary Wharf is
now. I used to be happy there. My favourite television show growing up was Only
Fools and Horses – ‘shut
up Rodney you tart’ –all that hilarious nonsense.
You had to laugh. My earliest memory would probably be inside a pub, although I
can’t say for certain. I remember spending large amounts of time in there
though, and it being a heavy, hostile place, where dirty smoke polluted the
air, and laughter rang in my ears from the crowd, intoxicated from the
indulgence of their alcoholic drinks. I just used to sit on the carpet though,
playing with an empty bottle, fascinated by my distorted face that gazed back
at me through the translucent item.
Tommy
Dear Diary,
Have you ever been to the East End of
London? It’s the best place in the world! Even though I’m not there anymore, I
still consider myself to be a cockney. The place had history and it had
character. And I’m damn well proud to come from there. I just wish I were part
of the Kray’s and Jack the hat’s era, them swinging sixties when they ran the
block, zooming around in their cars shooting the
villains, BANG! – Yeah they were the good guys.
They wouldn’t of stood for them poxy immigrant bastards who’ve since slithered
in, tearing down the chiming bow bells which now ring silence. Why don’t them
curry munchers just fuck off back where they came?
Tommy
Dear Diary,
I apologise if I caused any offence in my
last entry, I forgot to ask you if you were of any nationality before hand. I’m
so sorry. I don’t know what comes over me it’s like I just get anxious and then
as soon as I get anxious I feel like I want to explode with this emotion but I
don’t know where its coming from so how can I stop it from… Jesus Christ. It
just always makes me think of the day I left. I can’t remember anything else
after my Granddad passed away until the day my mum dragged me out of the flat,
pushing me into the car and driving away. My granddad used to take me
everywhere with him. He introduced me to Pie & Mash, a cockney delicacy,
and a meal that at the time puzzled me when I thought how could anyone eat the
green gravy that seeped over it. “Never be a grass me ole china, always stand
up for yourself, and make sure you stick up for your mates” he used to say in between
mouthfuls. I’ll always remember that. His wise, cockney rhyming words echoing
through my mind as I looked out of the car window, racing down Commercial
Lane, past Billingsgate Market, out of Limehouse, leaving my home,
and my heritage behind, with only my mum and the blank reflection which starred
back at me, darkly.
Tommy
Part
2
Dear Diary,
I haven’t seen my mum in a long while. I
don’t think the poor mare could cope any longer with the way things were going
at home, at school, between us. She tried her best. Hell, if I had had a kid
like that I wouldn’t know what to fucking do either. If this ever goes on
record I just want to say that I’m sorry, I.. I’m sorry that she was ever a
part of me, I hate her and what she did it’s her fault and I’ll never forgive
her.
Tommy
Dear Diary,
Do you want to hear the rest of my story?
After I left London I moved to Essex. It was the best thing for me, I dread to
think what would have become of me if I had stayed and gone to a school like
Bishop’s Green, where most of my old friends probably gone. I left them all
too. Haven’t spoken to them in near enough ten years. When I think about it
like that, I just feel empty. If we walked down the same street now I would be
a stranger, all them memories drowned in the dry sands of time that have
twisted me into someone completely different, a world apart. No longer one of
them.
Tommy
Dear Diary,
Sure I made new friends, a few at least. I
used to play cricket years ago, had a whole team, bunch of lads which grew up
together, laughed, took the piss – you know how it goes yeah? We all hated the
captain, right bloody grass, who’s dad was a screw – (rhyming slang for copper)
– ironic really, corrupting our system when his job titled him to be the source
of justice in society. I wonder how he’s son ever got to be in charge? Everyone
hated them. Especially my pal Luke, funny kid, you would have liked him. When
Luke was dropped from our team after saying something about the captain I stood
up for him. I expected the whole
team to do the same. Only…I was alone. Double-crossed. Betrayed. The echo of my
Granddad’s words whispered in my head once again, the vacant, sullen looks on
all their faces sinking into my soul, along with the realisation of how very
far away from home, its values and traditions I was. I never went back to
cricket.
Tommy
Dear Diary,
The treason I
suffered left me bitter for months after that, livid and spiteful to everyone.
I didn’t trust anything. There were times when I didn’t even trust myself. I
ended up getting suspended too, broke some kid’s jaw in a fight that I have no
recollection of physically. I was given the name ‘Beast from the East’ in class when I returned, cause I’m from east London and fight like
an animal. What a reputation I had! They loved me! I felt like Jake Lamotta – the boxer in ‘Raging Bull’ – ‘the thing ain’t the ring, it’s the play, so give me a stage,
where this bull here can rage’ you must’ve seen it?
But… I couldn’t control it. Some days I found myself talking differently, using
cockney rhyming slang for no reason and I couldn’t explain it, like I was being
manipulated. The dark face in the reflection now gleamed back sadistically, its
mysterious tone altered and increasingly surfacing. Then, one day I came home…
I found mum had packed my bags… and I smashed every window. I can’t see the
memory, only feel it, the pain in my hands as the blood dripped down my
knuckles, the relentless despair in my mind of being so far away from home and
my everything I used to know when I used to see my da
Part 3
Dear Diary,
I apologise for
my last entry. I had another blackout. It always occurs whenever I go to speak
about my Dad. My psychiatrist, Dr Lewsey, has
been trying to focus on that subject for a few weeks now since I was admitted
to Woodlands Adolescent Psychiatrist Ward five
months ago. I remember them first couple of months, the violent outbursts and
anxiety attacks, the needle shots and the group therapy sessions with my
mother, the bitch! I hate her and I hate this place and why am I even fucking
doing this. They… they took away my stage.
Dear Diary,
I have
Dissociative Identity Disorder. Since the age of three my father physically
abused me, until I was put under police protection when I moved to Essex. Dr
Lewsey says it’s treatable… but how can you treat something that you can’t see?
How can you destroy something which is you, something that looks out through
the same eyes, hears the same sounds and feels the same emotions. Being
integrated with something on such as level spawns unimaginable isolation with
no one being able to sympathise with the notion that with each fleeting glance
at yourself, you cannot say what is reflecting back.
Tommy
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