the other personality will always take care of you

HEY BITCH­ES

Name’s Car­la. I’m flom­mist Brittknee’s al­ter ego. My job is to pro­tect our poor, strug­gling dear.

Whether it’s dis­eases, or bul­ly­ing, or work, I’m al­ways a loom­ing shad­ow in the cor­ner. She and I have shifts you see.

Shit, I should ex­plain some­thing first:

Dis­so­cia­tive Iden­ti­ty Dis­or­der
A dis­or­der char­ac­ter­ized by the pres­ence of
two or more dis­tinct per­son­al­i­ty states.

So ba­si­cal­ly, it’s the fan­cy new name for Mul­ti­ple Per­son­al­i­ty Dis­or­der. Un­der­stood?

So my host, Brit­tknee, has two. Me, Car­la, and her, Brit­tknee. She’s asleep, be­cause we work in shifts. She’s awake dur­ing the day, some­where be­tween 5–8 am to 8pm. Then it’s my turn.

UN­LESS there’s a prob­lem. If she’s par­tic­u­lar­ly ex­haust­ed then I take over to give her a break. If she’s un­com­fort­able, de­fen­sive, in dan­ger, emo­tion­al, in pain, or any oth­er thing that hu­mans have to deal with, then I take over.

Why? Well al­te­ri­or per­son­al­i­ties are built to pro­tect. My job is to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. I’m stronger than her, I’m faster than her. I’m not af­fect­ed by any­thing the way she is. I don’t get sad. I don’t get lone­ly. I don’t ques­tion people’s hu­man­i­ty. I am not kind. I am not sweet. I get an­gry. I will rip some­one in half if that means I will pro­tect my host. I am her pack leader. Her knight in bat­tle worn ar­mor. (Knights in shin­ing ar­mor have nev­er been in a bloody fight, so they’re not worth look­ing at any­ways).

What’s there to con­fess? I’m her an­gry side, right? I’m her sex­u­al side. I’m her con­science. I’m the pri­ma­ry de­ci­sion on what is and isn’t good for the host.

AND EVERY SIN­GLE TIME I tell some­one that I ex­ist, I al­ways get the same re­sponse …
“So am I talk­ing to Britt or am I talk­ing to Car­la?”

Ha! Are you be­ing punched in the face?
Or are you hav­ing a good time, big boy?

Take a guess every now and again. She’s not al­ways there, don’t put her on the spot any­more.

I do tend to get her in trou­ble though. Or, I get in trou­ble with her. I like hav­ing fun.

Why? Well I can’t seem to get peo­ple to back the fuck away from her any­ways. Drunk­en bas­tards here and there, even last night. Try­ing to have her, to pos­sess her like a car­cass for the tak­ing. She’s mine, I de­cide who’s al­lowed in. She the god­dess of her tem­ple and I’m the bounc­er at the fuck­ing door.

I don’t ap­pre­ci­ate all these young use­less bas­tards try­ing to jump into her pants: YOUNG, like 20s right? NOPE! Usu­al­ly the prob­lem is some­where 28+

Why does this mat­ter though? Be­cause she’s been through it with bas­tards who have one mo­tive. And she’s not do­ing it again. And I will fuck you up. I don’t care.

Hosts man­i­fest peo­ple like me for pro­tec­tion.

It’s fuck­ing sad. My whole ex­is­tence is based in trau­ma and suf­fer­ing. Do you fuck­ing un­der­stand that? No, it’s not fun to have 2 dis­tinct peo­ple in your head.

It’s not fun to deal with want­i­ng your own body if only to hug your host when she is suf­fer­ing. With­out me she may not be around. I feel sor­ry for those who don’t find peo­ple like me.

Be­cause the age of bul­lets is on us. And some­times she re­sents me for keep­ing her afloat and smi­ley all these years, but she de­serves that. Be­cause things get bet­ter, no mat­ter how long it takes.
 
 

—brit­tknee

Flom­mist Brit­tknee fre­quents cof­fee shops. Her sec­ond self, Car­la, fre­quents the work­sta­tion. Bleary-eyed. Fore­head scrunched. Fum­bling through your re­al­i­ty. March­ing through our own. Copy­right © 2016 Brit­tknee.

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