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In Which TW Only Writes
Dec. 29th, 2024 06:59 pmI have nothing worth writing about, but I’m on the Metro and my book was left at home. So, all that’s left is to live up to my name.
I am among one of the oldest entities in this body. It is difficult to know the exact timing, though Crow& is making a valiant effort to pin it down. The use of entities is also intentional; my personhood postdates my existence (as opposed to someone like Riley, who emerged as an individual). We were a dissociative child, not a multiple one, and despite my distaste from the term, I existed as a “part.”
I have memories that belong to me going back at least a decade. I was angry—incredibly, incandescently, murderously angry. But I didn’t have the strength for murder. At best, I had the strength to scream. And I did scream.
Sometimes Crow& is surprised at what I remember as mine. It’s not feyr fault; fey’s incredibly young (arguably younger than Riley), but tends to assume fey’s been here a lot longer. There’s some interesting logistics to that, which I don’t care to explain here. But I’ve been here for a very, very long time.
I wonder, sometimes, why the Body didn’t end up being mine. My bet is that it’s because we became safer, and I had less to do. I spent my entire life fighting, and I was not prepared for the adjustment. I survived it, clearly, but I did not thrive. I retained my antisociality, and I continued on my track to becoming an adult sociopath. The others made friends—the Sols and then the Crows especially—but I did not engage with them. I still rarely do.
The first thing that grounded me in the world once screaming was no longer needed was writing, and writing angrily. I wrote most of our essays (which became Instagram posts) under our pseudonym of Sol V Díaz, to the point that I was originally known as the Writer and when it was time for us to decide on last names, I was given Díaz without a second thought. I find my listing of “Díaz, TW” to be mildly amusing. Díaz, the writer. How on the nose.
But then we stopped writing. We dropped out of high school, the environment that fueled most of my fury and inspiration. We developed a spinal injury that made it incredibly difficult to put words together. I became depressed, but we had no frame of reference for depression in sociopaths, so me and my headmates alike assumed I was simply bored. I’m slightly surprised it didn’t kill me. I suppose I do have an incredibly persistent… well, perhaps not a will to live, but determination not to die.
I do have a new thing worth being in the world for. Actually, it’s two; college (and our efforts at a psychology PhD), and my conversion to Judaism. I still write, too, but I am a writer not because I love writing so much as it is because it is my best means of action. I do not write just for the sake of it. This post is the closest I’m willing to get to that.
I am among one of the oldest entities in this body. It is difficult to know the exact timing, though Crow& is making a valiant effort to pin it down. The use of entities is also intentional; my personhood postdates my existence (as opposed to someone like Riley, who emerged as an individual). We were a dissociative child, not a multiple one, and despite my distaste from the term, I existed as a “part.”
I have memories that belong to me going back at least a decade. I was angry—incredibly, incandescently, murderously angry. But I didn’t have the strength for murder. At best, I had the strength to scream. And I did scream.
Sometimes Crow& is surprised at what I remember as mine. It’s not feyr fault; fey’s incredibly young (arguably younger than Riley), but tends to assume fey’s been here a lot longer. There’s some interesting logistics to that, which I don’t care to explain here. But I’ve been here for a very, very long time.
I wonder, sometimes, why the Body didn’t end up being mine. My bet is that it’s because we became safer, and I had less to do. I spent my entire life fighting, and I was not prepared for the adjustment. I survived it, clearly, but I did not thrive. I retained my antisociality, and I continued on my track to becoming an adult sociopath. The others made friends—the Sols and then the Crows especially—but I did not engage with them. I still rarely do.
The first thing that grounded me in the world once screaming was no longer needed was writing, and writing angrily. I wrote most of our essays (which became Instagram posts) under our pseudonym of Sol V Díaz, to the point that I was originally known as the Writer and when it was time for us to decide on last names, I was given Díaz without a second thought. I find my listing of “Díaz, TW” to be mildly amusing. Díaz, the writer. How on the nose.
But then we stopped writing. We dropped out of high school, the environment that fueled most of my fury and inspiration. We developed a spinal injury that made it incredibly difficult to put words together. I became depressed, but we had no frame of reference for depression in sociopaths, so me and my headmates alike assumed I was simply bored. I’m slightly surprised it didn’t kill me. I suppose I do have an incredibly persistent… well, perhaps not a will to live, but determination not to die.
I do have a new thing worth being in the world for. Actually, it’s two; college (and our efforts at a psychology PhD), and my conversion to Judaism. I still write, too, but I am a writer not because I love writing so much as it is because it is my best means of action. I do not write just for the sake of it. This post is the closest I’m willing to get to that.
