life with dissociative identity disorder by Carol Anne Johnson

 

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life with dissociative identity disorder

 

In the tapestry of self, threads unravel, 

stitched and sewn in fragmented whispers, 

echoes of laughter, shadows of sorrow, 

each patch a pulse, a heartbeat in the chaos.

 

Some days I rise, a sunrise painting the walls, 

a vibrant brushstroke of hope, 

new eyes to see the world, 

the warmth of sunlight caught in shifting smiles, 

while others linger in dusk, 

soft murmurs of silence, drifting through twilight.

 

I am many, a gallery of faces, 

each portrait a story, 

guardians of dreams and fears, 

some wrapped in Armor, bold and bright, 

others small as secrets, hiding in the folds of time. 

We dance through corridors of memory, 

a waltz of “Who am I today?” 

an echoing question in the chambers of the mind.

 

There are days when the world feels like sand, 

slipping through fingers, 

others when it blooms, 

sudden bursts of colour, life blooming despite winter, 

each identity a flower, roots entangled, 

each petal a longing to be whole.

 

I navigate through sunlit streets, 

and shadowed alleys of thought, 

each step a delicate negotiation, 

between fragments of courage and whispers of doubt. 

The mirror reflects all and none, 

a kaleidoscope of existence, 

where time is not linear, 

but a spiral, looping back, forward, 

twisting threads into patterns of resilience.

 

Some call it disorder; I know it as a mosaic, 

intricate and imperfect, 

beauty in brokenness, 

where the pieces tell a story, 

not of absence, but of presence— 

the myriad ways to survive, to feel, to thrive, 

to love in fractured tones that sometimes sing, 

sometimes sigh.

 

In the quiet of the night, 

I weave the strands together, 

an embrace of selves, a collective heartbeat, 

an understanding beyond words, 

that in this vast tapestry, 

I am not lost, but endlessly found. 

In the symphony of voices, 

I learn to listen, 

to the sweet, chaotic melody of being, 

inviting each note to take its rightful place, 

in the song of my, 

our, 

life.

© Carol Anne Johnson

Image © Barbara Leonhard

Carol Anne Johnson is in her mid 40’s. She is blind and was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder and complex PTSD. She is also a survivor of child abuse. She enjoys writing poetry and reading, walking, and volunteering. You can follow her on her blog, http://therapybits.com/.