I've never felt like one person. Fragments of myself live inside my head, giving me insight into my life; one encouraging, one critical and cold, one crying her eyes out in frustration, one a child version of me that sits watching the adults yell and hopes that one can come to a conclusion that would help us all. I would see them everywhere and at any point of my life. When I was stuck to my bed, unable to move. Debating what to do, how to help my family, how to help my mom, critical thoughts aimed at me for not doing enough, crying out in pain because I feel like I do too much. Whilst they argue, I am numb in my body, staring into the ceiling wishing it would all end. When I am masturbating, the only times I could get a sense of peace in a practice I loved but would fill my body with so much shame, I would imagine myself in a bed surrounded by all the positive versions of me. The cold one now stroking my hair. The critical one now filling my head with appraisal and sweet words. A mob of myself surrounding my naked body, protecting me from any guilt and shame I had until I had reached my pinnacle. When I create, I often always explore these different versions of myself coming togethor. Call it a coping mechanism. Feeling like I couldn't deal with everything alone but felt like I had no one to rely on, so my brain came up with only one solution; me. The me that represents the agonising critical voice that told me I wasn't doing enough - so I can be guilted into doing more. The voice that told me I wasn't good enough to have more in life - so I can be kept in the same place forever. The me that told me I needed to put my family first - so that I had a purpose in life, find validity in all this struggle because I could at least see the reward of my family protected and taken care of. At some point came the version of me that was soft, soothing myself in between the harsh voices of my mind. The one that slowly over time told me it was going to be okay - it was the only way to keep me alive after all. The one that mimicked the times I did feel love in my life, a passing word by my mother or the immense support of my aunt. The soft voice of my sister telling me she loved me, respected me. The voice in me as a child that begged for a better life. These days they all seem to be a bit more harmonious. The critical voices lay to rest in their wooden chairs, my understanding of their need to protect me is what made them finally retire abit more these days. A strong confident voice has come forward, and it must be thanked by their predecessors that made gritting my teeth and staring into the face of the cruel world easier. Softness fills my head, and I want more from life. But they are still there in multitudes. I don't know if they will ever be one. I just know they will always be there.
