On Time and Its Folly

As I sit here writing this post it has nearly been a year since I was diagnosed with DID, that is, disassociative identity disorder. One of the most baffling aspects of this severe form of PTSD is time. Time: the four letter word to which all, the wise, the wicked and the weary are held to account. I am, that is to say, my body and my physical state will reach the age of 28 this June. I cannot profess to grasp the progress of time. I do not mean this in a the cliched sense of the concept. I mean that until recently, great gaps were lost to me in the manuscript of my youth. Now I have an account for much of my childhood and adolescents. But the numeral digits of 28, they do not hold true with my internal reckoning of myself. For whatever reason, I always default back to the age of 6. For me, although trauma occurred as early as under 1 year old in my crib, 6 years is the last age at which I can recall feeling "normal." 6 years old is a golden age. One is old enough to start to comprehend the true nature of things, but still too young to be burdened with all that living truly means. I was perhaps the exception, for by 6 years old I had already been misused at least three times and contained with in my child mind were walled rooms containing the memories of these events. And each of these walled rooms have wardens or stewards, people who hold these memories and in a sense, are these memories in their own form. By 6 years there were wardens in my mind that did know what life was about: pain and suffering. One warden, who's age far outreached my own biological one deserves great commendation for keeping my body and mind out of irretrievable harm over my entire lifespan thus far. Before my 10th birthday I had already around 8 traumatic events inflicted upon me, translating into 8 alters, people, wardens or stewards whatever helps you understand. I had experienced more pain and suffering then my outward appearance would have spoken of to a viewer, more pain than a child should ever have to bear silently. I would have greatly perplexed someone who attempted to converse with me, for although my outward appearance was innocent and youthful, my eyes would have spoken of a person far exceeding my supposed years. There is that word again, years. I know it in definition but the practice of it is beyond my comprehension. If I seem to obsess about time it is because I know that even now, with many traumatic memories now free and in the open to discuss, there are still room and caves filled with time that passed hidden from me. Time that passed to which I, Emily do not have memory nor knowledge of where to find the keys to unlock that room or cave. There are portions of my own existence to which I cannot claim ownership of, it is in these places that a warden or steward has ownership because something scary happened, something that my mind had to hide from me in order to keep me sane and alive. It may seem far fetched to certain people in my past, but this phenomenon, DID, it only happens in people of a certain intelligence. In other words, I am brilliant. For the mind to split within itself, wall off a portion of its own intelligence and hide something from its own self and create a person capable of acting independently of itself, takes in the beginning a highly intelligent mind. I only now at 28 years old truly believe that I have "smarts" as some people say. I hesitate to go deeper just yet. This is the other scary thing about time, the more that you think about it, the more you analyze it, the less you know about it at all. I know this: God wound the clock up in the beginning and He will stop the clock at the appointed time. And thanks be to God Almighty for this important truth. The bad men who hurt me will be held to account for their actions and holy fire and justice will be served. Thanks be to God.

Even so come Lord Jesus.

Splintered - By Emily Wickerham

 (Please do not copy or steal)


one reveal two
two declare three
the others


and the broken

pressure on pressure
cracks in bone
raw and weak

sifting ashes
fragments mingle

the division
embers ignite

core aflame
the stirring
switch names


pleasure granted
child delighted
watchful eyes

- Never touch her, you never will, she is mine -

wells of anger
oily fury
secrets kindle

hold fast identity
soul is safe
fear not

Where is the end? Eyes heavenward here I arrive at the final mark. Faintly inscribed on the hilt of the sword the words alight read, "I, Elohim who formed you from dust do know your every part. Not a forgotten minute or mistaken word do I miss. There is a way out, I've marked it right here for you. In time you will see it too. Trust me, my child. There is a way out."


Through Many Fields - By Emily Wickerham

 (Please do not copy or steal)

Through many fields I wander,
Down many paths I trod.

The Caretaker of the fields,
I meet Him in the hollows.

Under bent oaks we sit;
Upon cushioned moss we listen.

Undulating shadows downward cast,
Fleeting ghosts in the negative.

Stillness wrought from shivering whispers,
Grasses part to lead beyond.

Solemnly, lovingly beckoned,
'Tis not the last field for me.

Here I meet myself coming,
Here I meet myself going,
Here there is freedom for me.

In the next field over waiting,
I must pass through thorny hedges.

It needs be sharp, rending flesh,
To tear the mask away.

Drenched with blood, tears,
In a puddle fallen.

Demons rebuked lament.
Denied claws sheath.

Raw skin now meets sunlight.
Unused, concealed, long guarded,
Nearly lost in the grooves of time.

Cast against an old tree I slump,
Moaning, thirsty, broken.

Soft breezes sweet,
Soothe my fevered face.

My new skin the Caretaker nurses.
Gently knitting, mercifully mending.

"This field is so nice," I murmur,
Lolling against His side.

In silent agreement the Caretaker,
Offers a steadying arm.

On my feet, hands to my face,
I feel no scars, no bleeding wounds.

Astonishment growing, 
Childlike wonderment blossoms.

The Caretaker broadens a smile.
My heart leaps within.

Ancient hands cup my chin,
Grasp of eternal caressing finite.

"This field is nice, indeed my child."
A pause draws me into His gaze.
"But you should see the one up ahead."