Chapter Text
Virgil had thought today would be good. Foolishly.
It wasn't anything out of the norm, but the norm was still awful. Laying in his bed, Virgil imagined how his feelings would make a great psychological horror experience for any normal person.
How privileged.
He sighed. He was being dramatic. It was just scary to him. He couldn't remember anything. He could hear and see and feel things, but it didn't quite reach his brain the right way. Like a surface stripped smooth of all it's texture, and he was left running his hands over it, aching for any kind of irregularity.
He wanted something new, please. A new song to loop, a new piece of clothes to feel on him, a new sight. Something to break the fog and fatigue of life. Something to focus on.
You could focus on cleaning, a helpful thought chimed in. Yes, thoughts, that's what they were, because Virgil wanted to accept this part of him the least. He tried to tell himself self-acceptance is important, what's the harm in trying new perspectives, but that train of thought quickly faded away into the same dull, textureless static like everything else around him.
He had heard that shit so many times. Be yourself! Love yourself! Show kindness to yourself! The same people who told him that then promptly left him. Woops. Suffice to say, that line of thought didn't feel very reliable anymore.
If he was a better, braver person, he might stop denying what was literally in his face- his head, technically. He might accept that those thoughts aren't just thoughts, they're people, they deserve to be just as much of a person as him, they're equal and they just want the best. He might accept that yes, he really is fucked up; yes, there really are so many of them; yes, they are valid no matter how fragmented.
He was not brave. Not by a long shot.
He hated himself. Not them, but himself particularly. He was such a coward, such an asshole- oh, and so pathetic that he was lying here doing this instead of anything else. He could clean, yeah. He wanted to draw. He wanted to read. He wanted to listen to this new podcast. Despite wanting to do anything, he just didn't.
Executive dysfunction, a thought told him. Maybe a sign of ADHD, plus the need for novelty; he should look into it. Virgil told the thought to please shut up now. He had already let them convince him he might be autistic after years, he was not up to accept a new thing.
Had it been years? How many had it took?
Virgil could not remember, unsurprisingly. That always pissed him off, he couldn't remember shit. Today it was particularly bad, woohoo. (What day was it? Has he gotten up today? Eaten? Drank water? Gone to the bathroom? What happened yesterday?)
It was actually pretty dehumanising if he thought about it too hard. He didn't even get to remember himself or his life. Entire years, gone. Just wandered off, apparently. His whole life was screwed- ask him to make a timeline of it, he'd never get it back to you.
A very significant symptom of DID, he was informed. He knew. He just didn't want to acknowledge it. In his opinion, his life had not been that bad. Well, he didn't remember most of it, but... He would know, okay!?
He sighed into the empty air.
There were so many damn signs. The neverending confusion with his gender and sexuality that seemed to always change, the sudden want to go by a different name and then hate it after a while, ever-inconsistent opinions and thought processes, the random dysphoria, the fucking voices, perhaps.
He just felt like he was being crazy. He was being dramatic, or he was just trying to be quirky. He didn't want to be fucking quirky, this felt awful! He hated it. He hated every second of it. Maybe he was just trying to delude himself because he wants to get more attention via being mentally fucked, and was only starting to believe it because of confirmation bias.
"Then, what does it mean if we're still here no matter how little attention we get?" Was one of the replies among the people thoughts calling him hopeless and stupid. Ugh. Reasoning.
He groaned. He just wanted to forget about all of this- the one thing he would gladly lose his memories of.
At the same time, he kind of hated the idea of forgetting. The thoughts- they had been with him forever. They were like family, in a weird way. They had helped him through everything, raised him, loved him.
He didn't want to leave his family, even if he was being terrible to them and not accepting them. They didn't need to be hated just for wanting to exist like him.
Wow, he might as well be a metaphor for homophobic parents or something. He was just on a deeper layer of woke.
He heard a laugh. At least they could find comedy in his tragedy. He hated how it made him feel warm, happy. He hated himself for hating it.
...Okay, he might feel a bit more open. Just a bit.
He was still scared, and very aware of it. He was scared of accepting everything. It all felt a little cliché- not wanting to accept your issues because you don't want to be as damaged as they say you are. And in the process, you just end up damaging yourself more. He was pretty sure that was a common experience, at least from the tidbits of memory he had.
He wished he could get rid of that fear. He could say an infinite amount of things to himself- fakers know they're faking, why would you want to suffer, you obviously hate it- but he knew he would stop paying attention. Having bad thought processes and a dogshit attention span really does not make it easy to use positive self-talk and cope like a big boy.
He was scared of other people, too. He was scared people would look at him and say that there's no way, they know him and he would never have that! They would be able to tell! He was scared that as soon as he gets too comfortable expressing himself, he'll just be a laughingstock. Look at this crazy guy, acting like he has so many thoughts alters.
Alters. Yeah, they were alters. Headmates. That was... a step in the right direction. Probably. Honestly, there is no non-DID answer as to why he's in so much distress over the idea. He let out a weak laugh at himself. Wow, he is so dense.
Virgil concluded that he didn't want to live being scared. Of himself, of others. What good would that ever do him in the long run? Suppressing and denying himself- himselves?- just for others to like him sounds sad and futile.
He still felt out of it and unmotivated, but baby steps, yeah?