Shattered to Pieces

Written by Navy

This is a heartbreaking tale of a young child who endured unimaginable trauma that shattered her into many fragmented parts. Each time she experienced abuse, neglect, or violence, a piece of her soul and spirit was torn away, leaving behind a broken and fractured version of herself. The scars of her past haunted her every step as she struggled to piece together the fragments of her shattered identity. Despite the darkness that consumed her, she found a way to live through her terror, day in and day out. This story is not yet finished because there are many more nightmares she has to face, and each fragmented identity has to find its peace.

My name is Navy, and I have been a silent observer of this child’s nightmare from the beginning. I have been with her through every tear shed and every scream of terror. My duty was to keep her memories hidden, tucked away in her subconscious until the time was right to reveal them. I watched as she struggled to make sense of the darkness that surrounded her, knowing that one day, she would have to confront the demons that haunted her. And now, as she begins to piece together her past, I stand by her side, ready to guide her and all the other broken identities through the memories that have been locked away for so long.

Making the decision was not easy, as we had faced constant rejection of our reality. Our family and doctors had repeatedly told us that we were just delusional, causing us to doubt ourselves as well. It was a struggle to trust our own experiences and feelings amidst the disbelief of those around us. However, everything changed when we met a therapist who truly listened and believed our story. Their validation and understanding gave some of us the courage to finally trust our truth and make the best decision for our well-being. Reaching this point was a long and difficult journey, but finding someone who believed in us makes all the difference. Some of us may have been conditioned to believe they are crazy, liars, and delusional, but even they are starting to doubt the validity of those beliefs.

Telling this story will validate our beliefs, challenging the narratives we have been told all our lives. It will allow us to share our truth and offer a different perspective, one that may have been dismissed or silenced in the past. By sharing this story, we can reclaim our voice and show that our beliefs are just as valid, if not more so, than those ingrained in us. This act of storytelling is a powerful form of resistance and affirmation, allowing us to assert our identity and challenge our beliefs. It is a chance to stand up for our beliefs and assert our right to shape our truth.

When we were born, our mother went into severe postpartum depression, and her mental health continued to decline. She separated from our Dad when we were one year old. She got together with a Man named Eric, and he was just as dysfunctional as our mother. Over the next two years, our Mom ended up in a mental hospital three times for extensive amounts of time. Eric was an angry alcoholic and a sex addict. He sexually abused us and often got beer bottles thrown at us. Our Mom was too absorbed with her mental health to protect us. The first time he raped us was when Mom was in the hospital, and he had us all to himself. The pain from that assault was more than we could take, leading to the beginning of dissociation and splitting.

The trauma sparked a rage deep inside that by the time Mom got back with our Dad; we had severe behavioral problems. Then, we were in a state of confusion and fear, not knowing who our true father was and constantly questioning if he would eventually betray us just like the first man did. As a result, we acted out by throwing tantrums and being defiant, believing that we needed to protect ourselves from potential harm. Seeing our behavior as unacceptable, our dad tried to correct it with disciplinary actions. Still, when our defiance only escalated, he felt compelled to send us to a child’s psychiatric hospital for further evaluation and treatment. It was during our time at the hospital that our minds fractured into more than 100 different personalities, each taking on a unique role to protect us from the pain and trauma we had experienced. This marked the beginning of our journey as a multiple personality, now called Dissociative Identity Disorder, where each alter served as a coping mechanism to help us navigate the complexities of our past and present realities.

The horrors that took place within those walls were beyond comprehension. The staff were not there to help us but to mold us into obedient and emotionless beings. The memories of the pain and suffering still haunt us to this day. Through electric shock, sleep deprivation, starvation, isolation in a quiet room with freezing temperatures, Being submerged in boiling water, and then instantly being submerged in an ice bath, and numerous other tortures were shattering one child’s mind into 100 different selves. But it doesn’t end there. They severely brainwashed some of the selves to be loyal only to them and not the ones that lived in our parts of the brain. Their actions only served to disrupt unity and further fuel the cycle of hatred and division within us. 

The system’s separate parts were highly praised and rewarded for their efforts in bringing us back to the hospital. They were taught that their hard work had not gone unnoticed and that their skills were invaluable to the mission’s success. However, the weaker members of the system had to be punished for their lack of contribution and effort. It was clear that only those who excelled and pulled their weight would be celebrated and rewarded, while those who fell behind would face consequences. Overall, the system was driven by a desire to succeed and was willing to do whatever it took to achieve their goals.

It was a shock to our parents when they were told that we had a psychotic disorder and were experiencing delusions that were not based on reality. They were hesitant to believe that we were truly experiencing these things and insisted that we needed to be medicated with antipsychotics to clear up our delusions. Despite our protests and attempts to explain that what we were experiencing was real, our parents were adamant that it was just our illness talking. It was heartbreaking to feel so misunderstood and dismissed by the people who were supposed to love and support us. Due to their loyalty, the faithful members of the system consistently performed their duties flawlessly, inadvertently leading us into the same hell hole repeatedly.

It became a vicious cycle that consumed us, convincing us that we were indeed crazy, delusional, and liars. The constant questioning of our reality and the disbelief from those around us only reinforced these beliefs. As we sought help from professionals, we were met with the same diagnosis time and time again. The stigma of being labeled as the crazy one in our family weighed heavily on our psyche, and over time, we began to internalize and accept this false narrative. The years of being told that we were delusional eventually led us to believe it was our truth, despite our memories that would prove them wrong. Despite learning about DID and truly understanding what it is, some insiders residing within the same body continue to believe that we are delusional.

But the story doesn’t end here. There was yet another hell that we were mandated to go to school. But, yet again, this was no ordinary school. Because we were a child with serious mental health issues, we attended a “special education class” that was located behind the playground, hidden within some trees. This secluded corner of the school was where we spent our days, isolated from the rest of the students. This led to an increase in abuse and our experiences being dismissed as the delusions of a severely psychotic child, despite no antipsychotic medication changing our perceived reality.

It was a nightmare that seemed never to end. The teachers, or more accurately, the demons disguised as teachers, wielded their power over us with a sadistic pleasure that sent shivers down our spines. We were forced to abandon all sense of self-respect and morality as we succumbed to their twisted demands. The rituals descended into darkness, leaving us feeling destroyed and violated. The sight of that poor, innocent puppy being sacrificed before our eyes still haunts my dreams, a cruel reminder of the consequences of defiance. We were trapped in a hell of our own making, prisoners of evil with nowhere to turn for help. The closed blinds were our shield from the outside world, concealing the horrors that unfolded within those walls. And as much as we try to forget, the memories of that experience with Evil will forever be etched in our minds.

As time went on, our parents became increasingly convinced that we were truly psychotic. Our dad’s behavior became increasingly sadistic, finding ways to control and restrict us. One particularly cruel punishment was when they would take us to Catalina Island every weekend, only to lock us in a dog crate for the entire duration of their trip. Our cries for help fell on deaf ears, with our mom apologizing but ultimately deferring to our dad’s authority. It was a frightening and isolating experience, leaving us feeling powerless and abandoned by those who were supposed to care for us.

You might think this is all too much to believe, and when I tell you the next thing, you may even question, like everyone else, if we are crazy. If we were, some medication would surely work, right? We have tried every antipsychotic there is, including Haldol and Thorazine, two of the strongest ones available, yet still, we hold on to these vivid memories. It’s a strange and unsettling reality that we have come to accept as our own. Or at least some of us have come to accept that there may be more to this world than meets the eye, more disturbing things that others just don’t accept despite the skepticism and ridicule from others. So I will tell you one more thing that we experienced.

It was a confusing and unsettling experience for us as children in the system, as it was assumed that our bodies were something to be modest about and protect. The women in the church seemed to have a twisted interpretation of spirituality and worship, using their bodies in a way that felt inappropriate and uncomfortable. Looking back, it is clear that the church had strayed far from the teachings of true Christianity, focusing more on rituals and appearances rather than the principles of love, compassion, and respect. Despite their belief that God’s love was present, they still believed that God was pleased with sexual behavior in groups. The traumatic experience of being involved in a sexualized expression of the Holy Spirit has left us wary of churches that emphasize speaking in tongues or being physically filled with the Holy Spirit. 

I saved the very last section of this story for a reason. It is a part that is traumatic for me to even write about. Abuse inflicted by family members is the most difficult to come to terms with. The sense of betrayal runs deep, cutting to the core of one’s being. In our case, my Dad and Grandpa were the perpetrators of this betrayal. It’s hard even to say the word “Grandpa” now, knowing the pain and suffering he caused. But for his protection, I will simply refer to him as Grandpa in this retelling of my story.

This betrayal was more than we could bear. We often prayed that God would just let us die. Chained to the bed and treated like sluts, all the while, we were supposed to be family. I won’t go into details, but the point was that this betrayal hurt more than any other trauma we had endured because at least it was not the family who should have loved and treasured us but instead sold us like slaves. The betrayal cut us to the core, leaving us broken and shattered. The pain of being betrayed by those who were supposed to protect us was a wound that would never fully heal.

When we finally decided to run away and leave home, we were met with disbelief and disappointment from our family, particularly our Dad. He had always believed that we were not mentally stable and needed to be on medication to function properly. Even until his death eight months ago, he never wavered in his belief that we were crazy and lost in our delusions. He would constantly remind us to take our medication, convinced that our mind was playing tricks on us and that we couldn’t differentiate between reality and fantasy. Despite his concerns, we knew deep down that leaving home was the best decision for our own mental health and well-being.

I have left out a lot of details of these experiences because to tell them all, this would end up being a book. I just had to write out the basics of our reality that until now, we have always believed they are delusions. But I wrote this story for my therapist so she could know everything she is dealing with. It was a healing experience to put some of these thoughts and experiences into words, even if I couldn’t include every detail. I hope that by sharing this with her, she can better understand the depth of my struggles and help me work through them.

It is crucial to hold on to your own reality and not let others dismiss or belittle your experiences. It can be difficult when even those closest to you question your perceptions, but it is essential to trust yourself and your instincts. Being called crazy can be damaging and hurtful, but it is important to remember that your truth is valid and significant. In a world where violence and abuse are everywhere, it is necessary to stay grounded in your own beliefs and not allow others to dictate what is real for you. It is important to listen to and validate the experiences of those who may have been dismissed as mentally ill, as there may be more truth to their claims than society is willing to acknowledge. Remember, you are the gatekeeper of your reality, and it is important to always stay true to yourself.