A Shimmer Of Hope

When I was just three years old, my mother locked me in my bedroom closet because I wouldn't stop crying. The closet was dark. Darker than night. No crack of light leaked into the closet. I waited and hoped for Mommy to come and let me out. There was nothing but silence. My body was still trembling and I could start to feel the objects in the closet pressing into my body. I couldn't see anything and the darkness was terrifying. I closed my eyes thinking I could shut the darkness out. But that didn't work. Slowly, I curled up into a ball and pushed myself into a corner. Somehow the sturdiness of the wall seemed to calm me. I felt safer having something to lean on. Holding my bare knees with my arms, I began to rock back and forth on the hard floor. This was soothing. It never dawned on me to try and open the closet door. "I know she will come back and let me out. I just know it," I told myself. Minutes passed and turned into hours. By now, I was "gone." I had retreated into a safe place far from the reality of the situation. But who was in the closet? My body was still in the closet but Lorna had just been born. She was dealing with the terrifying ordeal. My mind had splintered off so I was safe and Lorna could handle the trauma. One of countless traumas I endured throughout my life. This is my story of living with DID for fifty-four years and being a successful survivor.