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30 December 2019 - 10:18


The laundromat is warm and I welcome it. We're sitting at a table, enjoying the aroma of the detergent and dryer sheets. The whirr of the machines around us.

I'm at a complete loss of words. Then why write? Well, shit, because of her again. It's always about her, and how she
pisses me the fuck off, dawg.

We're referring to Rosa Isela, of course. Our "sister." Blood ties are weaker than brain ties, I suppose. Last night, we were over at her house, and she went on one of her bitching rants about her kids. How she's overwhelmed. How she can't handle her kids anymore. How Angel is exaggerating; no, how he's pretending to be multiple just because he wants to feel special. How the only way for someone to be plural is through horrendous abuse and trauma. She knows because she read the introduction to When Rabbit Howls and Dr. Philips said so. Dumbass. That book was published in 1987, which I pointed out to her. I told her about Astrea's website, but there's really no point, as I know she won't believe a thing from their site, because they were not diagnosed by a licenced professional. There's just no reasoning with her. She flat out told us that she doesn't believe we're multiple for the same reason. Said there are no obvious changes or "switches" with our nephew or with us. I bit back my tongue on saying that well, of course she's not gonna see a change in us, because it's always me that deals with her, not Ninja, hardly ever even Sal, because none of us trust her. Because some of us hate her. And most of us, honestly, are afraid of her. Afraid of her reaction, afraid of the hate we know is reciprocated. It was so obvious in the light of her glaring eyes as she sat across from us at the dining room table. I clasped our hands tightly in front of us to keep Ninja from lashing out, pounding the table, eyes wild, nostrils flaring. That's what was going on Inside, anyhow. I was able to be as detached and level-headed as I was because I have no real connection to her. She is an Outsider, after all. But many of the others In Here were trembling, either with fear or rage. It's left me feeling drained and empty, leaning my back against Piojo's quilted chest. His strength is what sustains me as a frontrunner, especially at times like this.

Still, it's hard. Hard to remain strong in front of our mother, in front of my Siblings. Hard to keep the other members of my triad in check. Hard to be the one who has to document it all down in order to try and make sense of our life. Hard to be the default frontrunner, the first face to face the Outside. It's comforting to know I'll always have my siblings behind me (all 30, or 40, or 50 of us, right?), but that also means I'm the buffer that takes on the majority of damage. To be fair, Sal and Ninja also carry that last responsibility, but their personalities are far more volatile. Yes, even Sal. He's super chill on the surface, but can get pretty aggressive when it comes to defending those he loves.

*sigh* I need to do some mindless work. Good thing the laundry's out already. Time to go fold.

My body feels drowsy and sluggish. As though everything that is happening to me is happening to someone else. I know that feeling means Piojo's taken over the body. We went to go check up on Mowgli a few minutes ago and he was fast asleep, peacefully snoozing in his cardboard box. I wonder when all this will blow over, if it will ever. I think I'll reach out to the systems at Plural Activism, and take it from there. Piojo says nothing, but remains steady at my side, at my back, in my being. I close my eyes for a few minutes and let the dullness take me. Mom's jacket feels like Piojo's quilt around me. I'm so sleepy and drowsy. I'll finish this another time. John's Damage Report is about to come on.

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