It’s seven in the morning, and coffee lingers with some cereal spilled on the island by the sink. I wake my little brother and hug my little sister, take my meds, kiss my mom’s head, and wish her a good day. Like so many other mornings, she waits and retorts that everyone in the family is disappointed in me because I continue to prioritize my needs and not their chores or cold unaffectionate presences. I’m not surprised, and I chose to not believe or acknowledge her words because we know better than her shallow cuts, but a cut is a cut and my skin’s tough, but she reopened a wound she deals to me every week, and I wish she would leave it be. I step outside without saying goodbye and I breathe in and look to the sky and tell myself that today will be a good day still, with a warmth in my chest and no thoughts in my head. That’s another step done, a rung on the ladder to the sun. A discovery of plurality will leave little to no downtime, and I claim the scars I’ve had as wounds of mine that I love no matter what. The key to this progress is the abandonment of comparison and an acceptance of what has brought me to be. I allow myself a fresh start each morning because for me a positive is a positive and a negative is just a chance to practice forgiveness. I can’t change how I feel and what my body keeps score of, but I can allow myself to acknowledge those thoughts and let them settle before I let them be expressed. I’m not what most people would think of when they imagine a person with a dissociative identity disorder, but I wasn’t what I imagined either. I’m an alter that’s learned to take care of myself and my fellow parts. I was the calming voice of reason that slowed our breathing and supported the pursuit of our dreams. Sometimes we’re gay, and occasionally straight, though I’m mostly ace. Sometimes I’m hyper-effeminate and others make me feel like a macho man. I’m dynamic, and plural, and it’s so nice to be able to let that be true.