My name is Petra, I’m 28, and I’m a sociopath. I was born to Judith and Hubert Jones in Minnesota in 1986. When I was four, my mother left my father because he was abusing both of us. We lived in a trailer park in Detroit for four years, my mother teaching me everything she knew, and I began school there. When I was eight, however, he found us and shot my mother dead. He pleaded self defense, threatening to have me put into foster care (which he had told me lies about to scare me) if I didn’t back him up. I felt as if I was betraying Mom’s memory, but I was a kid and I was scared. So he was given full custody of me, and then Hell began. He took me back to Minnesota, induced amnesia in me with electric shocks and head injuries, then told me lies so I would stay with him. He told me I was a bad child who deserved to be punished, and that I had to hurt myself if I wanted to keep the bad things inside me. He gave me a different name to the one Mom had given me when I was born (he called me Molly), told me Mom had dumped me with him right after I was born and then died, told me I was retarded, and made up reasons for all his abuse, all of which, in my state, I believed. I lost a lot of skills, like literacy, as well. He created a clean slate and then shat all over it. He made sure I never re-learned to read or write, so he had control over me, and ensured to never teach me to count anything, so I couldn’t use money or the phone. He would beat and rape me daily, in new ways every time, and sometimes he would starve me or force feed me until I threw up.


When I was nine, I broke. I developed DID, and all my alters were very different. Many would harm me, some allowed Dad to fuck them, quite a few tried to kill me or themselves, some existed to please him, and some were babies that he would grow angry at and abuse. He abused me beyond anything I can ever describe, and I developed ASPD that same year. I integrated out of spite, and grew to hate everyone and everything.


When I was fifteen, I ran away from home. I caught several buses and hitchhiked until I got to LA, and there I attempted suicide. The overdose caused temporary amnesia in me, and I ended up living on the streets for two years with no name, no age, and no real identity. My alters came back, but I didn’t know what was going on, all I knew was I was losing time, and sometimes I was hurt without knowing why. It turned out some of them had gotten me a job as a hooker, and one or two of them liked pain so they were letting guys (and girls) beat the shit out of them to get off. They’d spend the money on drugs, booze, and clothes, occasionally food, but always very expensive stuff that didn’t last. They hated me, for whatever reason. My memories returned when I saw Dad on the street one day right after switching back to myself. I ran as fast as I could, but he caught me and beat me until my legs were both broken. He then took me to the hospital and told the police that my alters’ pimp had done it, and told them about the DID. I was put in a psych ward and given medication I didn’t need. I was given antipsychotics, sleep aids, anti-anxieties, antidepressants, mood stablizers, and God knows what else, and they made me sick. They released me after six months, because an alter that didn’t hate me had forced control for a couple weeks and acted the way they wanted me to act, the way that told them I was cured. She went home and flushed all the medication down the toilet, and never took it again. Dad found out about her, though, and forced me at knifepoint to integrate again. They never came back. By this point I was lonely, scared, and mad at the world. I was angry at Mom for leaving me, I was angry at and scared of Dad because of what he’d done to me, I was angry at myself for getting rid of the only person I didn’t hate, and I was angry at the idiots who had believed Dad’s lies. I developed binge eating disorder, and gained way too much weight.


When I was twenty, Dad got me pregnant. He forced me to get an abortion, and beat me senseless when I cried. I ran away again not long after that, and attempted suicide again. This time the shock of everything put me into a fugue state. Apparently I freaked out at suddenly being somewhere I didn’t recognize, with no identity, and started beating the crap out of people to try and alleviate my rage. I was brought into police custody, where they interrogated me, but soon found I truly didn’t know who I was, and couldn’t read, write, or count. I was put into therapy, where they tried hypnosis to see if they could work out what was going on. It worked. Three sessions in, all my memories came back, even the ones Dad had removed. I filed charges against him, and he was sentenced to death row. I never saw him again. They diagnosed me with Binge Eating Disorder, Atypical Anorexia, ASPD, and Borderline Personality Disorder.


I was released from the care facility I was in way too early, and was forced to live on the streets for another four years, with only basic literacy and numeracy under my belt. I had stopped speaking by that point, because it made people leave me alone, and I hated everyone. I wanted to die, and attempted suicide several times. Each time, just as I was reaching the end, I would begin to hallucinate, and I would see two angels standing by me, both arguing about whether it would be cruel to save me, and always deciding to save me. They were always the same two, a man and a woman, about my age. The man was about six foot tall, and quite slender, with messy silver hair, dark blue eyes, pale skin, and leathery blue-black batlike wings. I remember thinking he was very pretty, but looked as if he had recently died, his nailbeds were too pale and he had dark circles under his eyes. His clothing was always casual, and sometimes I would notice scars on his wrists, and one on his temple. He spoke with a midwest accent. The woman was about 5 foot 1, and quite curvy, with neatly bobbed blood red hair, electric blue eyes, and cocoa-brown skin. She was beautiful, but also looked as if she had recently died, if you looked past the makeup. Her clothing was always pretty and semi-casual, and her wrists were covered in scars on both sides. She spoke with a Nevada accent. I never told anyone about them, because I didn’t want to go back to the psych ward.


For the next four years, I went from town to town, and picked up various jobs, all of which I would be fired from when they realized what a bitch I was, or when I refused to speak. I changed my appearance often, cutting and dyeing my hair and changing my makeup style and clothing so I couldn’t be traced. I landed in the overnight cells more than once, and the police never knew who I was, because I looked so different to how I used to by that point. I never spoke to them or anyone else and would quietly sit in my cell and either sleep or hurt myself, or occasionally meditate, though sometimes I would attempt to hurt or kill myself.


I came to Compound Mind on the 7th of May, and have been adjusting to the stability. I’ve quickly gotten used to not needing money, and food being there when I need it, and have turned my room into a self-sufficient flat so I don’t need to see anyone. My door is always locked, so I’m on my own. I meditate a lot, trying to find the alter that got me out of the psych ward, but I can’t find her. I think she and my mom would be the only people I don’t outright hate if they came back. Then maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely and depressed. I have nightmares about Dad escaping and coming to find me, because I know he hasn’t been executed yet, and there’s a chance he’ll be pardoned. I think things are settling down though, and maybe they’ll improve. I don’t know yet.


The only reason I’ve done this is people have gotten into the habit here of writing introductions for themselves, and I felt like making mine public.





I just watched Brave for the first time, and probably like most viewers, I’m crying. But for me, there’s an entirely different reason for my tears.

My name is Matthew Jacobs, I’m 24 years old, and I was born and raised in New Jersey. When I was 12, I started to realize that I wasn’t what I’d been told – a girl. I realized as puberty hit that I wasn’t going to magically turn into a boy, and became very depressed very quickly. My parents were totally unsupportive. I was, they said, their little girl, and I always would be. Dad called me “princess”, Mom called me all kinds of things, most of them gendered. They refused to acknowledge that I was a boy, and wouldn’t allow me to talk about it.

Over the years, the dysphoria got worse and worse as I blossomed into a carbon copy of my mother – medium height, curvy, and large-breasted with wavy black hair and ivory skin. A woman. My parents quickly grew tired of my “nonsense talk” and became manipulative and abusive towards me unless I presented and acted female. They didn’t care about my political views (communo-anarchy), my religion (LaVey Satanism), or my music taste (metal), as long as I was a girl. I tried to accept their conditions, but I just couldn’t. I began self harming, and attempted suicide for the first time at age 16. I overdosed on the antidepressants I was prescribed, mixed them with booze and painkillers, and woke up sixteen hours later in the ICU with a tube down my throat. This was not the last time I would attempt, nor the last time the ICU staff would see me.

When I was eighteen, I tried to run away. I slept in a park, on a bench, because I didn’t know where else to go. On the second night I woke up with a feeling that something was very, very wrong. Shivering, I looked around me, to find a guy standing not three feet away, leering at me. He approached me and asked if I was a whore. I told him no. He said, “Well, with a pretty face like yours, you’d get a lot of customers. How’s about I teach you some tricks? Let me see that body of yours.”

“You’re mistaken.” I said, “I’m not a girl. Please, leave me be.”

“Not a girl, eh? Let’s see the proof.” with that, he pulled my shorts off and climbed on top of me. He tore my underwear off and crowed triumphantly, “Ha! I thought so! Female after all! Let’s see how you like a real man inside you!”

“No, get off me, I don’t want this, not yet, not now, not with you. Please, stop!”

He put his fingers inside me and slapped my face, leaving a wet trail on my cheek. “Not with me? Cheeky little bitch.”

I began to cry and plead with him, and tried to fight him off, but he just held me down with one hand and covered my mouth with the other until he was done. With a final thrust that slammed my head into the armrests of the bench, he finished and got off me. He threw my shorts at my face and left without a word, whistling as he went. I put them on, ran back home, and cried myself to sleep.

Six weeks later, I woke up feeling nauseous and promptly vomited everywhere. I couldn’t stomach food, and regular smells made me want to throw up again. This continued for two weeks, every day, until a friend suggested I get a pregnancy test. She didn’t know what had happened, of course, but she’d asked at a party if I was a virgin and I told her I wasn’t, so she put two and two together. I bought the test, went home, and after five minutes and a half gallon of 7-Up, I got the result…positive. I threw the test at the window, smashing both, and collapsed, resting my arms on the toilet bowl and my face on my arms, sobbing. I hated my female body so much more at that moment, and blamed myself for not getting the ECP. I couldn’t bear it. For four weeks I was a robot, automatically cutting, sleeping, eating, going to school, and buying baggier clothes to hide my rapidly growing bump. Then one day it just all came crashing down, and the next thing I remember I was waking up in the ICU with a broken wrist, cuts all over my fingers, a fuzzy head, and a raw throat. They told me I’d put my hand through a window and drank bleach. I apparently threw most of it up, and then passed out. The charcoal did the rest. I noticed, through my haze, that the doctor looked uncomfortable, so I asked what was wrong. “Miss…were you aware of your pregnancy?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am…but we couldn’t save your baby. He died before we could administer the charcoal to you, and had to be removed via Caesarean. I’m so, so sorry for your loss. Pamphlets for grief counseling have been given to your parents.” he wrung his hands a couple of times, then his pager went off and he gratefully scurried out of the room. I hated myself.

When I was twenty-one, I brought up the idea of transition with my parents. I had been binding and presenting male, and introducing myself to people as Matt, but Mom and Dad wouldn’t have a bar of it. They refused to allow me to transition, and I found my binding bandages in the trash more than once. I began abusing steroids, thinking they were basically the same thing as T, but they made me angry and scarily energetic, so I stopped them. I started calling various endocrinologists and psychs, and talked to my counsellor about it. She was supportive, and arranged appointments for me. My parents found out, and cancelled my appointments, or made sure I couldn’t make it to them. They had me committed for repeat suicide attempts and self-injurious behavior, and tried to have me diagnosed as delusional. I gained a diagnosis of depression and Gender Identity Disorder, which was validating for me, but to them was a big red flag that said I was mentally unstable. I continued trying anyway, and signed up to a binder exchange program.

When I was twenty-two, I decided to try running away again, but this time I’d be more careful. I carried mace and various hand-held weapons, including a butterfly knife, and memorized as much self defense from movies and YouTube as I could. One day I left while my parents were out, and left them a note, explaining that I was their son and if they couldn’t deal with that, then I was leaving. I took a bus to Atlantic City, and began my new life there. Unlike many young people, I had no romantic pre-conceived notions about homelessness, I knew it was cold and rough and difficult, and I knew I would probably die, or be raped again, but I felt it was the only option. So, guitar in hand, and with two hundred dollars to my name, I started over. I was Matt Jacobs, a runaway from Paterson, and that’s all anyone knew. The two hundred dried up fast, so I began busking to earn a living. I played songs on my guitar, and funds went towards food, shelter, clothing, T, and guitar strings. Every now and again I’d encounter a little girl, who was always on her own. She’d give me money or food, and I often found her walking around on her own at night. I was, of course, beaten many times over my year and a half spent on the streets. Nine times I was jumped, twice I had my money stolen, and once I was baited. Many of those times were because I was “clocked”, but there was one night when my binder rode up and one of my assailants called to his friends, “Hey, look, bitch got tits – it’s a chick!” before proceeding to beat me further and try to stick his hand down my pants and up my shirt. I maced him and fled to a nearby bus station, where I hid until sunrise.

I turned up here on the 2nd of March, sometime in the very early morning, while Coree (the frontrunner) was in the shower, having a body hate moment. I switched with him, and found myself in an unfamiliar place, in a female body. Ignoring the injustice of this, I got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around me, and went off to the room I was told I’d be in. I found someone passed out, kneeling on the floor, with their head and arms on the bed. I woke them up and they spoke to me in the voice of a small child. She said she didn’t know who she was, but she thought she was around five years old. She later named herself Clementine. She started remembering things after a couple hours, and it turned out she was the little girl I kept seeing. She was homeless too, abandoned or lost by her foster parents. She helped me out as much as she could, because she believes in sharing what you have, no matter how little it is. She was looking for a dumpster to sleep in one night when she passed a Bed, Bath & Beyond, where one of the employees was dumping “faulty” stock (messed up dye jobs, fucked up stitching, holes, etc) that was unsellable. She grabbed the blankets and distributed them, giving two to me because she found me shivering in my sleep near a drain, close to freezing, and keeping a sleeping bag for herself, which was later stolen in a mugging attempt. I swiftly adopted her as my little sister, and I plan to protect her as much as I can.

The reason I just walked you through my life story is so you’ll understand what I mean when I say I want a family. I want a mom and dad who don’t hate me for what I am. I want a family who will love and cherish me no matter what my gender identity is. I want what Merida has by the end of the movie. But, I don’t think I ever will have that. I have Clem, but I will never have the parents I want or need. Logic tells me this, but it doesn’t stop it hurting. I just wish things were different.

~ Matt

Compulsory Gratuitous Introduction


Picture of Addison fronting, taken on Christmas Day 2013

Hi there. I’m Addison. I’m 21 years old, and I’m a multiple. I don’t have MPD, or DID, or anything like that. I do have depression, anxiety, and ED-NOS, but those are totally unrelated.

Although I have been through a fair amount of minor to moderate trauma (death, abuse, bullying, etc), I think I might have always been plural, or at least from a young age. I remember as a kid I would always try to separate myself into parts. I would say I had a split personality, a light side and a dark side, and I would name those sides. It wasn’t until I was ten that I noticed another person, though. I was obsessed with Yu-Gi-Oh! at the time, and so I named this new, darker, broodier Egyptian girl Téa, after my favourite character in the show. In the older seasons of Yu-Gi-Oh!, there’s a phenomenon in which spirits of long-dead Egyptians become sealed in heavy gold items, all bearing the same eye-like symbol. These spirits are called Yami Spirits, and end up inside the bodies of those who wield the items they were trapped in. They can, on occasion, take over control of the body. Nobody really notices though, either because the differences are quite subtle or because they’re fucking idiots. This, many have learned, is a thinly-veiled case of multiplicity. (So, by the way, is Elfen Lied. Elfen Lied is barely even veiled though. There’s big holes in it.) Now, as a ten-year-old, this was the only understanding I had of multiplicity. It was wrong, but that’s not really relevant. As such, I believed Téa was a Yami spirit. I projected her unconsciously, so she’d be nearby or in my head at any given moment, and I could see her in my mind’s eye and feel a sort of resistance when I touched her. This is what she looked like. She was twelve. When I was eleven, a new one showed up, who was confident and beautiful. She was Italian, and said her name was Maxine, but sometimes went by Maxie. She was considerably lighter than Téa, was twelve, and she looked like this

Fast forward to when I was sixteen because when I was thirteen I was scared of being crazy and tried to integrate and repressed my memories of them! I had been having dreams about Téa and Maxine, had renamed Téa (she was henceforth known as Isis) and had come to the realisation that they were “personas” (which is what I called them at the time), rather than spirits, as I’d initially assumed. I allowed them to return, and within days two more were added to the ranks. A Russian bombshell named Nadine, and a shy Romanian boy named Trent. They were both nineteen. Nadine spoke very little English, what she could speak was done so with a heavy Russian accent. Trent spoke fluent English, with a Kiwi accent, though he didn’t speak up much. He was very shy. He had a slightly anxious demeanor, and a massive scar on his face that he wouldn’t talk about, reaching from cheekbone to jaw. I became aware of the two of them when Isis was teasing Maxie, saying to me, “Ask Maxie about Trent!” and Maxie became irritated and blurted out, “Ask Isis about Nadine!”. Over time, more and more turned up, until now I have a system of over 400.

It wasn’t until I was eighteen that our friend Hazel linked me to a webcomic about healthy multiplicity, and I realised I didn’t have DID or schizophrenia. Since then, we’ve been campaigning for Healthy Plurality and have started our own webcomic.

This entry is wordy enough as is, so I’ll spare you any more rambling. Welcome to our blog, anyway, and hope you enjoy it.


~ Addison