Today, a tale of how words that changed my life.
A picture is worth a thousand of them.
Yet all it took was three.
The cold morning Chicago air on that fateful October 22nd was set to a crisp thirty degrees, typical for the small college town outside of the big city. Half of my mind was filled with a sense of twisted hope that the thing I admitted to a few months ago would end up being true, an explanation to legitimize my sorrows, the other half was filled with fear of the same outcome, hoping that it wasn't there.
Beside me was my father, a tall man with grayish black hair standing at 6'4 with a large scar down his right arm from metal plates and rivets. A "Lean, mean, retired marine" we always called him, it was funny, but still true; and I respected him for that. He wore a casual pair of blue jeans with a red tucked in shirt and his standard black leather belt. He somehow wasn't cold, I was freezing with a jacket on, but I kept up with his pace.
Our destination was a towering building towards the center of town, connected to a triangle plaza that was a straight shot down the street from Lake Michigan. On the 4th floor of the tower was the office of the "Yellowbrick" organization, the people that were rooting around in my head looking for anything wrong with me. They had been doing that for a week at this point, with me going in and out of their offices everyday as if it were school (which I was missing for this). Going in today was different though, I wasn't going in to talk to a psychiatrist one on one, I wasn't going in to have my head covered in little wired discs that can read my brainwaves, and I certainly wasn't going in to have my urine collected in a small little cup for them to test for drugs. Today, they had completed their search, and I was going in to hear all about it.
The building was nice, as always. A short elevator ride, through the glass door, and into a nice carpeted office with a circle of leather chairs, six of which were filled with psychiatrists, addiction experts, and therapists, all with large books in their hands and a welcoming but still serious expression on their faces. They almost looked like sharks circling a bloody seal beneath their suits, but I knew they meant well; though only a week taught me that. I sat down, my dad sat down next to me, and he pulled a small pad of paper and a pen from his left pocket. A TV was present in the middle of the room, towards the door with a blank zoom call on the screen, awaiting the arrival of two other people. They joined soon enough, and the suited people began speaking about the numerous things written down in their huge binders and packets. Brainwave findings, things they noticed about how I act, the dietician came in for a second and said that everything was normal, and then another suited man came in and reported on my drug test, negative across the board like it should be. The tallest man then spoke up.
"Now, to address the elephant in the room." He said with a calm but authoritarian voice. "The diagnoses."
My dad and I immediately looked at him, the people on the zoom call raised their heads to attention and stared right into the iris of their cameras. The man slowly began to read off a list of multiple mental diagnoses that began to chew at my soul as I sank further and further into my chair, pretending not to exist as my fathers eyes widened further and further the longer the man went on talking. The man paused, looked at me, and started to speak again.
"And. Well, you might not be surprised." He spouted, looking directly at me.
My heart sank and I could feel the climate of my mouth turn into a desert. Time itself felt like it was slowing down as the man's lips began to move to speak.
"Dissociative Identity Disorder."
My father gripped the notebook in his hands almost as if he was in pain. The words pierced my heart. I felt nothing and everything at the same time.
"I'm a freak." I said to myself.
"Hello, Tristan." I heard a shadowy voice say to me.