Forget Me Not, love

We (multiple identity) are complexely traumatised. This story is one of many experiences we've lived through. Hopefully writing and sharing about this one will help us feel a little lighter and heal. We are a loving soul. Even with all the fear and pain in this world, we never fail to lose connection with compassion and light. For us, there are no strangers, not really. All is connected, be it plant, animal or human. We're all one big cosmos. Hurting another is hurting oneself. Caring for another is caring for oneself. Simple. To us, anyway. Sometimes we offer people shelter, a safe space, in our flat. We have two rooms and the soul currently staying with us can close the door behind them, feel safe and sound in a warm, dry room for themselves. We offer food, a shower and clean clothes. An open ear and a kind heart for everyone who stays with us and wants to open up tp us. We're sick ourselves, so we don't do this often. The people who've stayed with us have left a lasting impact on us. Some stayed for a night, others for months, one even for two years. About a year ago, we met Name He was homeless and needed a safe space. He approached us when we mentioned we sometimes did this, taking someone in as long as they needed, to help them forge a plan to get more support, therapy perhaps, their own place to live. Nameand us hit off immediately, we just clicked. Both of us a bit eccentric, quick to laugh, and equally quick to close off again, all serious and lost in thought. Long story short, because we tend to write novels (we really do, write novels that is, author here!), and we're beginning to experience dissociation due to the unhealed trauma and--- Ah. Cut. Namedidn't like to hear "no". Namegrew dependent on us. Namedidn't want to leave. Namesaid he loved us and couldn't live without us. That we were his angel. That he'd hurt the ones we loved if we broke up with him. We didn't believe him at first, because he was so peaceful and kind at first. But when he started to lose his temper time and again, we feared he was serious. So we kept doing what he wanted us to do, because we were so scared he'd hurt the ones closest to us. He raped us. Not once, not twice... It went on for months. Our anus bleeds nearly every time we pass stool (sorry for the ugly detail). We didn't dare go to the police because we've experienced violence at their hands, too. Didn't dare reach out to a friend because Namethreatened to hurt them if we did. Names likely complexely traumatised, too. No excuse, just an explanation. He's apologised to us for his behaviour several times, with true remorse. But he just won't take a "no" from us. Last month we tried to break up with him, suggesting all sorts of options to him, a great psych clinic we've checked out ourselves, even personal recommendations, names of awesome psychologists, places he can be safe, be heard, be accompanied in his journey of growth and healing. But he only got angry, hit us for the first time, then apologised again immediately. When we asked him if our other loved ones were in danger, if he was going to cut the brakes of [...]'s car now (name censored for anonymity), he looked disbelieving, asking us what the hell we were talking about, why on Earth we thought him capable of such a thing, he'd never hurt [...], especially knowing how important they are for us, how much we love them... --- It was all strange, he kept saying we were the monster, not him (we never ever mentioned the word monster, would never label anyone such), tha--- Ah, damn, gotta cut off here, too much. Anyway, we said the wrong thing at some point, things got heated, he shoved us, and we fell and broke our left ring finger. The irony. Namegot scared then, of himself, we think, what he's capable of, and ran off. We haven't seen him since. He no longer rings our bell. He left our spare set of keys in our mailbox. His bed stuff sits in the corner of the second room in our flat, untouched, cuz we can't bring ourselves to wash and put it away. We don't enter that room anymore. Ah, this story is just too complex to tell in one go. Fuck. There's way more. Like our walls are covered in writings and drawings we did while dissociated. We don't remember any of it. Dissociative amnesia. It's all trauma stuff, everywhere, and we can't escape it. We barely sleep. Nightmares, sweats, we stool and pee ourselves. Our mother is dead. We drink every night, exercise and work all day. Our social worker is overwhelmed, everyone else seems to. We lose time and regain consciousness in other cities. Our dream city seems unreachable. We miss [...], whom we might never talk with or see again. Our memory keeps resetting, deleting itself, we're losing all sense of who or when we are. We've applied for assissted suicide. Parallel to this we're applying for therapy ('bout that, we've done therapy since age 13, and most of the healing we've done was done alone, more abuse in clinics and in relationships with so-called therapists) and apartments which are part of a larger complex, where residents with mental health issues and disability can live accompanied and supported by therapists, social workers and so on. Ah, toooo muchhhh... Thoughts are messy and jumbled. What we meant to write: We were raped. And no one listens. Because it shocks them, disgusts them, repulses them. "Our case is too complex", they say, therapists and doctors and friends and everyone. We're so alone. Like, dense-energy-level-alone anway, subtle energy... different story (we're a spiritual channel, side note). We just need a fresh start... maybe? Or... ah, we don't know. We miss [...]. We've written that. They got us. They never judged us. They always looked us in the eye, with warmth and empathy, no trace of fear. Now they all look away. And we're--- Fuck, we're so exhausted. To send or not to send? Ah, fuck it, we'll just send it. Every ounce of compassion and love is much needed and appreciated. We're so weary. "Dropped at birth from space to earth." ~ Name