Integration

Notice: I did not write this to be relatable. I did not write this to cater to any audience. This was written based off of my experiences and my current feelings. I am an alter in a DID system.

My pain was his pain and and, deep down, I know he blamed me for the way he turned out as if I were the lone seamster that weaved our identities into one. I had no idea how it would feel when he first came to me with a sewing needle and said with such eagerness that he had done this before and it would be great. After days turned into weeks and it was done, I barely even noticed. We just meshed together and the transition was so smooth that no one could have told me that I wasn't born that way.

Being tied to another person so deeply is strange when I look back on it. My experiences became his and his became mine. Both of our paths of life merged in all aspects and it was like unlocking old memories in a video game. Suddenly, I no longer went by my name. I no longer had my own thoughts, I was no longer my own separate state of consciousness, yet I wasn't afraid. Looking back, the whole thing is sort of like a marrital rebirth of sorts. Two become one and the one that they become takes on a completely different life. There are still pieces of the two that can be pinpointed, but the union is stuck like glue.

I suppose our union is a bit like glue and a bit like a pair of magnets. He and I were friends for a good while. We trusted each other, shared friendly chatter, shared dreams, shared beers in the living room of my apartment. It was almost as if it were meant to be, and our fusion ended up being so solid. Nothing could break us apart, right?

One ommitted detail. Not quite a lie, not quite the truth. One detail threw a wrench in our operation that we didn't even see until months down the line. It was like the rope that represented our union finally frayed and tore itself apart. I thought it would never have to be brought up. One disabled man and one able-bodied man joining forces? The able-bodied man having done this before and with all that life experience already? I was so sure that I wouldn't change him physically. I was so excited to never have to be open about that part of myself, but I was a fool. That part of myself is a big chunk. They say that you're more than your disability, but what if my entire existence has been spent hiding? Hiding in that small apartment because it hurt to go anywhere. Hiding because I would rather suffer alone than have to go out and potentially ask for help. Hiding because if I allow myself to be visible, I also open myself up to be abused and cast aside and treated like less of a human. So I hid under the easiest thing there was to hide under: introversion. No one bats an eye when an introvert would rather stay home. No one questions when an introvert says that they "don't feel like coming over, but you can anytime." No one asks why when an introvert says they "don't really want to be around people." So no one had to see what bad shape I was in. No one had to see a man in his early thirties break down in his bathroom because he couldn't stand up. No one had to see me when I sat on the sofa hungry, with food in the refrigerator, because the pain in my joints was worse than being hungry. He would come over and I would put on the bravest face that I could, and it worked. He never had to find out how badly it hurt when I walked to the door, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the living room. He never had to know that I would wait for his footsteps to dissipate before fully breaking down over the agonizing pain that I was hiding. I hid it so well, but that became all I could do. Sure, I had likes and dislikes and I had hobbies, but I lost my personality. At this point, I still don't really know who I am aside from a disabled writer. Maybe that has a hand in what happened to he and I.

It was no more than 3 hours ago. Significant other asleep by his side. He had been holding back sobs for 20 minutes, then. Sobs coming from multiple things, really. Pain being a very big one of them. He had doubts about the integration. Said that if he had known a disability came with it, he would have thought twice. He would have been able to ask questions and hear about my experiences just in case the pain transferred over. Maybe he would have changed his mind, yes, but he would've definitely had a chance to try his best to prepare. The guilt of hiding from him is enough to eat me alive but, hindsight is always 20/20 as they say, I can't beat myself up too bad about it I suppose.

Part of me is glad that all of the stress split us apart. Part of me wants to pretend that we were never friends, the selfish part. I want to hide away and pretend like none of this ever happened, but I can't. Even now, writing this, I feel like he may well still be here. I'm not tired, and I should be. Either he is still here like I'm speculating, or the insomnia is sticking with me. I'm more willing to go for him being here and quiet, it feels like there is a magnet strapped to my back and I am being slowly pulled backward. A different feeling than dissociation, but I wouldn't know another way to describe it. Perhaps we may come together once again? I both hope so and hope not. My feelings about everything and all of my thoughts feel like marbles rolling aimlessly on a hardwood floor. I'm as scatterbrained as ever.

I had a vision when I started this whole thing, you know. I was going to make it this subtle little piece about two friends whose bonds had been broken but mendable, or about how hiding big parts of yourself is never a good idea. Maybe it would've been popular among other mentally-ill readers or it would become something inspiring to gay youth out there. Instead, we're here. Me at my laptop at 2am with glazed-over eyes and tingling fingertips and you, wherever you might be right now. Maybe I'm asking one of you out there, or maybe I'm asking myself. Maybe I'm even asking him, hoping he might stumble upon this in his own leisure time later on. Will things go back to the way they were?

You were right, fellow seamster.

Integration was truly something great.