Chapter Text
He was 3. Of course, a 3 year old wouldn’t pay much mind to stuff like this, as they weren’t very smart- but Chittaphon knew better. He knew that this was bad, and he wanted out. What did he even do to deserve this? What did he do wrong?
Tears streamed down his face as he cried for his mom, dissociating away from the moment and trying not to feel anything. He didn’t want to feel the burns and the hits, he didn’t want to feel any of it. He just wanted to go to bed with his mom and not think about it.
He was 3. He didn’t deserve that.
It was after court when Chittaphon was finally happy. They had decided his father would go to jail. At the time he was only 5, but he knew in his heart this was the right thing. He smiled as he hugged his mom, not letting go until he drifted off to sleep.
He ended up in the hospital that night, not knowing what had happened. When the doctors came in, sad looks across their faces, Chittaphon was confused. Where was his mom? Why was he here?
Dead. She was dead.
He was just turning 6 when his grandfather passed away, leaving his grandmother to take care of him all by herself. He was sent to his aunt’s house to live with her instead. He didn’t feel comfortable whatsoever. He would never feel comfortable again, he had thought. He didn’t want to adjust anymore, as his life was always changing. It was hard. It was really hard.
It wasn’t until he was 12 that he got the diagnosis. Dissociative Identity Disorder, DID. He was confused at first, not knowing what any of the things meant or how to manage his life with this new discovery, but he was stuck with it. He did a lot of research that night and throughout the next few months, learning everything he could.
He learned to take control. He still struggled, of course, and his peers didn’t help when he tried to tell them why he would forget their names or forget that they had playdates sometimes, but he still tried. He tried so hard.
It was December 12th when he had finally met him officially. Ten, another alter of his, had taught him how to get into this thing called the ‘inner world,’ or the ‘headspace.’ He had practiced really hard, trying to see into it and feel it for weeks on end. That one December day however, he felt his warm embrace wrapped around him.
“Good job.” Ten had whispered in his ear, still wrapped around the younger boy. “I’m proud of you.”
Chittaphon smiled, pulling away and looking around. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, just a small living room with a bit of messed up and ratted furniture, but it was his headspace. His front room. He could finally see it, and he felt ecstatic about it.
The alter in front of him was tall and thin, black strands of hair falling in front of his face. His hair was semi-long, but nothing too out of the ordinary from what he’d see at school. Ten was apparently a lot older than him. Chittaphon was only 13, after all. Ten was 25.
Youngheum, another alter, had made an appearance a few times, but it was only now that he had showed up with Chittaphon. Chittaphon had gotten into the inner world a few times by now, but he had never officially met Youngheum until now, either.
Youngheum was nice and gentle, and he was currently calming Chittaphon down from a major relapse he had with a few different issues. The boy was sweet, not much older than Chittaphon. He was 16 or 17, no one could tell (not even him), but he acted like the man of the house most times. He always knew what to do and when to do it, and he always knew how to help, no matter the situation.
Chittaphon had thrown up. He felt sick to his stomach after that meal, and he couldn’t keep it down. He felt devastated, not knowing what anyone else in the system would say about it, but Youngheum kept him calm. He kept him soothed, and it was okay.
That day was a long day, but it felt okay in the end. Youngheum was there, and it was okay.
March 3rd. Today was name day.
Their system was smaller than average, but they were like a family nonetheless. There were about 6 of them, all just trying to survive in one body. However, this family needed a name. They needed something to be called collectively that wasn’t just “Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul.” Their psychiatrist was with them, providing as much help as she could.
“What’s something you guys all like? Or something meaningful, perhaps?”
Chittaphon thought for a moment, not knowing what to say. An idea popped into his head, most definitely passive influence from a child alter, and he perked up, smiling. “Coconut Ice Cream.”
And so they were Coconut Ice Cream, from now onwards (until they wanted to change it again, that is).