I’m the only who knows me. And I’m the only one I want to be around. It’s not really peaceful inside my mind any more. I keep poking it. I’m not sure if my goal is integration or cleavage. It would be so nice to cleave off the parts of me that aren’t helpful, but I don’t think that’s possible. At the same time, I’m not sure how you integrate those parts into a whole. A rotting uterus is a rotting uterus. It has to go. It can’t be salvaged. But trauma isn’t a rotting uterus. It just feels like one.