Antonym

Mykayla Johnson

I’ve always hated my life. I was bound to eventually.

When I was six, my oldest brother, Dayven, committed suicide. He was fourteen years old. A year younger than I am now. At the time I couldn’t cope. I was six, what did you expect? I had another brother. Kristian was a year old than me. Seven when Dayven killed himself. He stopped speaking that day.

My parents ignored Kristian. He looked too much like Dayven. They ignored me and my sister too. I was deprived of my parents love because I supported my brother’s silence. Our sister, Emilia, took care of us. She was four years older than me. She died on Kristian’s fourteenth birthday.

She was taking us out to eat that day. We hadn’t decided where we wanted to go yet. The drunk driver came out of nowhere. The drunk, a woman in her twenties, steered her car into Emilia’s side. Emilia was killed instantly. The woman ended up unscathed, just a few scratches. My brother and I were in the hospital for a month.

My parents are always praying to God, asking what they did to deserve a life like this. Why they ended up with a family of screw-ups. Why two of their children are dead. Why their remaining children consist of a sixteen year old son who hasn’t spoken in nine years and a fifteen year old daughter who was just recently diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder.

Dissociative identity disorder, formerly known as multiple personality disorder, is a severe lack of connection in my thoughts, memories, feelings, actions, and/or sense of identity. Like the previous name suggests, I have multiple personalities.

My parents are under the impression that if they don’t tell me what my other personalities are like, they’ll go away. They have me in multiple therapies and on medication. I’m banned from all technology and grounded from my non-existent friends.

I don’t know why my parents told me that I’m not allowed to contact any friends, it’s not like I have any. Everyone avoids me and Kristian. Who would willingly talk to the freaks?

For nine years, Kristian and I have only had each other. We also had Emilia, until she died. Our parents couldn’t care less about us, they give us a roof to live under and the food and clothes we need to survive. We buy other personal items with the money we earn at our jobs. We don’t have to pay for our cell phones. They took mine away when I was diagnosed and only left Kristian’s so he could text them when he needs to.

Kristian will ‘talk’ to me. It’s not really talking, just him writing while I respond out loud. He’s the only reason I know of my other personalities. My other selves are a little strange, if you ask me. One is a twenty five year old Welsh woman who travels the world and lives off her musical talents by performing in pubs. Her name is Gretchen and she is apparently loudmouthed and rude. The other is an eighteen year old bisexual male who works in a bookstore. His name is Keith and he is apparently extremely flirtatious. I am not actually participating in their occupations, but that’s what I say I do for a living when asked while I believe I am one of these two. Also, I am a female, so before you ask, yes, it is possible for someone with this disorder to believe they are a different gender.

If you’re curious, my real name is Mykayla Johnson. I am currently fifteen years old. It is the summer before my sophomore year. What am I doing right now? Breaking my parents’ rules and logging on to my internet accounts that I technically shouldn’t have.