She sat in the chair, just staring off into space.
The fluorescent lights above her hummed with the same dull insistence as the clock on the wall, each second dragging itself forward. I shifted uncomfortably in the seat beside her, waiting for the psychiatrist to return with his notes. My hands twisted in my lap, restless, but she—who was also me—was perfectly still.
Dr. Halpern finally entered, his expression heavy with the weight of practiced care. He looked at both of us, though his gaze landed on me when he spoke.
“We’ve run the assessments. We’ve talked at length. I want you to understand this isn’t a judgment—it’s a framework, a way to make sense of what you’ve been living with.”
I swallowed hard, my throat already closing. “What is it?”
He set the folder on the desk. “Dissociative identity disorder.”
The words landed like a stone breaking the surface of deep water, rippling outward. I heard her inside—another voice, urgent, protective—Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. A third voice echoed softly, resigned, We always knew something was wrong.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, fighting back tears. “That means… there’s more than just me.”
“It means you found ways to survive things that were unbearable,” Dr. Halpern said gently. “Your mind gave you company when you needed it most. It’s not a flaw—it’s resilience.”
The chair creaked as I shifted. She—the one who had been staring off into space—seemed to breathe more fully now, her gaze sharpening with quiet defiance. I realized she’d been listening too, weighing the words, deciding if they were safe.
For the first time, I didn’t feel completely alone in that room.
But the truth pressed in, heavy and undeniable: my life wasn’t just mine. It was ours.
Therapy Bits 
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