Wolves in the Distance

A makeshift tent in the wilderness, complete with fire ring and fire, becomes my home away from home. The flames lick my toes and warm them against the cold. I’ve gotten so lost I don’t quite know where I’m supposed to rest my soul let alone where I should next go. I’m a nomad in my own life, not that that’s such a bad thing. Beyond my fire ring I hear the howl of wolves, not that that’s such a bad thing either. The sound keeps me alive in fear and wonder and amazement. The fire brings me hope. Dissociative Identity Disorder is the same – the same as the howl and the tent and the fire. If I think about it, my head gets a little loopy. I can go from holding a loaded gun in my mouth to carrying that wisp of hope one might call integration, another might call salvation, another joy. I feel suicidal and at peace. I think I get lost in despair, only to find someone inside holds great promise and a bright future. I sink into my personal shame and then burst forth with acceptance of my selves and my past. I crawl into my tent after putting another log on the fire, and howl with the wolves.