Instrumental. James Rhodes

and I will know within a few seconds what they need to hear and see in order to feel comfortable and amenable to me. It worked brilliantly with teachers – depending on the kind of person they were, I was either homesick, vulnerable, tough, plucky, cute, flirtatious, needy or independent. And it got me whatever I wanted. Extra time in exams, higher grades, extra chocolate, leave of absence from PE, pocket money. Whatever. The point is that I figured out by the age of ten that I could be in any situation and survive, sometimes even flourish, because I have the manipulative power of a superhero.

      Abuse sets you up for life to be a survivor. With that part of me that split off during the rapes running the show, I can exist with no money, no friends, nowhere to live and not only appear to be OK but actually appear to be thriving. During dark times friendships mean nothing; humans are seen only as routes to getting certain things – money, comfort, approval, a job, sex, and once their purpose is served it is on to the next one. The best ‘friends’ are the ones who I can keep coming back to for more and more over years – businesses always value repeat customers the highest, with good reason. Interactions are often simply transactions for victims of abuse. And sociopaths. That’s why diagnoses are so fucking difficult – autism, Asperger’s, PTSD, bipolar, various psychopathologies, narcissism, all share so many core attributes in the diagnostic manual. So I could be generous and say I have Asperger’s and therefore I am quite manipulative and struggle with empathy, or I could say I’m a psychopath who is incapable of empathy. Both fit. Take your pick.

      The problem, the great problem, is the following: while it serves a purpose, while you think you can remember all the lies, all the different characters you need to play depending on who you’re with, eventually, after a few years you begin, inevitably, to lose track. It starts to catch up with you. And you start to doubt yourself. And that’s when the trouble starts. You need to remember everything, and if you can’t, or aren’t quite sure if you’re ‘broken, broke victim’ to a certain person as opposed to ‘successful go-getter’ then everything falls apart. So turning up in a brand new BMW for a weekend away with a friend who believes you’re struggling to make ends meet requires serious explanation, more lies to keep track of, more information to retain. It is exhausting, terrifying and the stakes can be very high.

      One of my diagnoses was dissociative identity disorder, where I have a number (thirteen if you’re curious) of ‘alters’ who, depending on the situation, take turns to run the show. In effect that means I have thirteen people available as and when required, to do the job of one. It is like a military operation, and partially explains the memory problems, because the alters don’t always communicate with one another effectively, if at all. Some are good, some are cold; all share one common goal – to survive no matter what.

      There doesn’t seem to be a cure, as such, for DID but it can be managed. The alters can be identified, acknowledged, talked to and made friends with. The less useful ones can be told to keep quiet, the more helpful ones encouraged to assimilate with the whole. That was a fun few days with the doctor.

      And when it has got too much and I’ve had to walk away from a friend/relationship/colleague, when I’ve screwed things up because it all just got too complicated, it doesn’t really matter because I can just start again with someone else, but it’s frustrating to lose. Annoying to drop the ball and fail. Must try harder. It becomes almost a kind of game. And in a way it’s sad because most of my friends and family genuinely love me. They believe they know the real me, and even if they’ve got doubts about some aspects of my behaviour or personality, they naively, if charmingly, believe that those doubts simply make them smart and empathic because they can see my many layers and still love me and understand me. But there is a complexity to things that people who weren’t fucked as a kid just cannot understand.

      Example – a girlfriend asks me a question. An easy one.

      ‘What shall we eat for dinner?’

      A Normal will answer, ‘Chicken.’

      Perhaps, ‘Whatever you’d like, sweetheart, I’m easy.’

      Or, if we’re generous, ‘Pick a restaurant, darling, and I’ll take us there with pleasure.’

      A survivor (especially one with PTSD or similar) needs to run through the following questions silently and in a split second before giving his answer:

      Why is she asking?

      What does she expect me to say?

      How will she react if I do say that?

      What does she want to eat?

      Does she want me to suggest what I know she’ll like?

      Does she want me to suggest taking her out?

      Why?

      Have I done anything wrong?

      Do I need to make up for anything?

      What is the answer I want to give?

      Why?

      What will happen if I say that?

      Is it a trick question?

      Is it an anniversary?

      What did we eat yesterday?

      What are we eating tomorrow?

      What do we have in the fridge?

      Will she think I’m criticising her shopping skills?

      What does she want me to answer?

      What would her perfect guy answer?

      What would a guy in the movies answer?

      What would a normal person answer?

      Who do I want/need to be when I answer this?

      What would he answer?

      Is that answer acceptable?

      Is that answer in line with the ‘me’ she believes she knows?

      Am I happy with this answer?

      What is the probability she will be happy with this answer?

      Is that an acceptable percentage?

      If it fails, what is my get-out strategy?

      Can I backtrack without causing too much damage?

      What tone should I use?

      Should it be phrased as a question?

      A statement?

      An order?

      And on and on. In the blink of an eye. Kids at school who are being abused will take too much time to answer direct questions and appear evasive and startled. And they will be labelled ‘difficult’, ‘stupid’, ‘ADHD’, ‘rebellious’. They’re not. They’re in some way being fucked. Look into it.

      As you get older it becomes even more ingrained, like breathing. Sometimes, occasionally, it’ll take us unawares. Especially first thing in the morning or when we’re overtired. And so in case we’re not quite bringing our A game when we’re asked a question, we perfect the whole distraction routine: ‘God you’re looking beautiful’, ‘Fuck, my back just twinged’, ‘I love you so much’, ‘I was just thinking about when . . . (insert romantic memory here)’, or more commonly, we stare into space pretending to be lost in thought and not hearing the question when in fact our brains are already racing to come up with a suitable answer. Anything to buy enough time to figure out the goddamn suitable answer.

      We are multi-tasking, quick-thinking, hyper-aware, in-tune bastards. And it is a thankless, ceaseless, never-ending deluge of threat upon threat, fire after fire that has to be put out instantly. And because the body/brain cannot figure out the difference between real and imagined terror, they react as if we really are in the middle of a genuine war.

      War is the best word to describe the daily life of a rape survivor. There are threats everywhere, you cannot relax ever, you take whatever you can get whenever you can get it because you are so scared of it not being there tomorrow – food, sex, attention, money, drugs. And you keep going on a mixture of adrenaline and terror.