a lengthy text to my brother

You’ll prob­a­bly be able to guess who this is.

Got a new phone with Mint Mo­bile cuz I saw that Ryan Reynolds ac­tu­al­ly bought the com­pa­ny and they are of­fer­ing some in­sane­ly good deals.

Both he and his com­pa­ny ac­tu­al­ly even retweet­ed me when I sent them a thank you for the awe­some ser­vice.

IT’S OF­FI­CIAL. DEAD­POOL NOW KNOWS OF MY EX­IS­TENCE 😭😭😭

That was a hel­la cool mo­ment.

Any­way.
Enough about me. Ap­par­ent­ly I have a prob­lem with that. Talk­ing too much about my­self or what­ev­er.

It’s fun­ny though, be­cause I was nev­er try­ing to hog the con­ver­sa­tion or make every­thing all about me.

I was just so des­per­ate to get some kind of ac­tu­al val­i­da­tion that hey, look­it that! I was ac­tu­al­ly do­ing some­thing good in my life, for once.

Since the ma­jor­i­ty of the time, I usu­al­ly al­ways tend to be the one who gets in trou­ble for fuck­ing things up.

Any­way. That’s fine. I’ll deal with that. I’ve ac­tu­al­ly been get­ting a lot bet­ter at deal­ing with that kind of over­whelm­ing self de­feat­ing mind­set and be­ing able to un­der­stand that this is not me, it’s just a symp­tom of the dis­or­der I have.

And that those neg­a­tive thoughts are not ME. They do not come from my own in­ner self.

But oh shit. There I go again. Talk­ing about my­self. Man. I guess it’s prob­a­bly be­cause I feel the need to ex­plain to you that I am do­ing way bet­ter than I ever have been. De­spite the con­stant feel­ing of empti­ness and aban­don­ment, and be­tray­al that I’ve been feel­ing ever since this whole thing hap­pened.

No, I’m not say­ing you aban­doned me. Or be­trayed me.

I’m not say­ing you took those spe­cif­ic ac­tions against me.

But I am telling you that those are the feel­ings that I have on a con­stant, dai­ly ba­sis be­cause of what’s been go­ing on.

And when you say things like “I need to take care of MY fam­i­ly now,” you have no idea how much that hurts me to hear you say words like that.

Be­cause it lit­er­al­ly feels like I’m be­ing stabbed in the heart, or like my blood ves­sels are par­a­lyzed by some kind of poi­so­nous tox­in that slow­ly creeps over my en­tire body and makes me feel like I’m phys­i­cal­ly un­able to do any­thing but scream, run away and hope that no one ever finds me, or go to sleep and live in my dream­world in­stead of re­al­i­ty …

Or to dis­so­ci­ate. Which hap­pens con­stant­ly now.

I ac­tu­al­ly haven’t even told mom this yet, be­cause I don’t want her wor­ry­ing even more than she al­ready does, but my ther­a­pist thinks that I might be suf­fer­ing from an even more se­vere dis­or­der than BPD.

You wan­na know what it’s called?

It’s not schiz­o­phre­nia.

Al­though I had been suf­fer­ing from para­noid delu­sions be­fore I start­ed get­ting bet­ter ther­a­py.

Nope. Ap­par­ent­ly, it’s very like­ly that I have a form of dis­so­cia­tive iden­ti­ty dis­or­der.

That’s what they used to call mul­ti­ple per­son­al­i­ty dis­or­der.

Yup.

So there’s that.

Any­way. Once again I’m talk­ing about my­self. But the fun­ny thing is, I don’t even know which ‘self’ that is now. I don’t know if it’s Kait. Or Jane. Or Lyn. Or Se­lara. Or Vyen­na.

Or if I am just KAiT­LYN­jane. And those are just char­ac­ters I’ve made up for my cop­ing skills.

But that’s the thing … I know more about those char­ac­ters than I do about KAiT­LYN­jane.

I don’t even know who KAiT­LYN­jane is any­more.
I bare­ly rec­og­nize that name.
I hon­est­ly bare­ly even rec­og­nize my­self in the mir­ror.
I mean I know log­i­cal­ly it’s me. But I don’t know who that ‘me’ is.

Any­way. My apolo­gies for ram­bling and both­er­ing you again.

Hah. You wan­na know what’s fun­ny?

I start­ed this text with the in­ten­tion of in­form­ing you that I was not mak­ing mom “the mid­dle man” ear­li­er when she sent those links to you.

I asked her if she would, it was of one we both watched to­geth­er, from a chan­nel that she had ac­tu­al­ly in­tro­duced me to ini­tial­ly but then some of my fa­vorite psy­chol­o­gists and a neu­ro­bi­o­log­i­cal sci­en­tist were talk­ing about the dif­fer­ences be­tween anx­i­ety, trau­ma, and gen­er­al stress.

And not only do they talk about how it af­fects you emo­tion­al­ly, but one of the guys was de­scrib­ing how those emo­tion­al sig­nals in our brains go on to af­fect our phys­i­cal well-be­ing.

I hon­est­ly thought you would find the info re­al­ly in­ter­est­ing and in­for­ma­tive. Not just for my ben­e­fit, but for any­one who deals with a lot of stress and anx­i­ety.

I asked her.

And she said yes. She even said she thought it would be a good idea.

And I can tell that all of this is re­al­ly af­fect­ing her neg­a­tive­ly, too.

And I fuck­ing hate that.
Be­cause she de­serves to be able to live in peace. So does Dad.

And you might think that just be­cause she doesn’t say any­thing, that this stuff doesn’t re­al­ly both­er her.

But you haven’t been here. You haven’t known how many times I’ve had to put aside my own bull­shit just so I could try to com­fort her and tell her that every­thing would be okay.

So yeah. I’m sor­ry for mak­ing such a huge long text once again.

I know she miss­es you. Even more than I do.

Take care of your­self. They both miss you.

That’s all.

Love,
KAiT­LYN­jane. Or is it Jane? Maybe Lyn? WHO KNOWS AT THIS POINT.

Flom­mist KAiT­LYN­jane has been draw­ing and writ­ing sto­ries ever since she knew how to scrib­ble on a piece of pa­per, or her sister’s fore­head when she was just two weeks old. Copy­right © 2021 KAiT­LYN­jane.

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