<p>There is a tension within me. It is not the tension of muscles — though there is often that — but the tension between contrasting ideas. I have been through my dialectical behavioral therapy. I have learned that this is a thing to be understood within one’s core, to be held with care and love. I <em>get</em> that. It is a thing that I have not just intellectualized, but a thing that I have internalized. I do not struggle with the idea of dialectics, of dichotomies.</p>
<p>I had read the sign, and had immediately fallen down into the space defined by that dichotomy, the gap between had-to-be and could-not-be. Dichotomy? Dialectic? There was no telling anymore, no matter how many times I’d tried to paste one word or the other onto the two phrases. Were ‘dichotomy’ and ‘dialectic’ a dichotomy or dialectic?\footnote{\cite{plu}}</p>
<p>I choke down a half-laugh-half-sob.\footnote{\cite{plu}}</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There is a tension within me, and it lies between expectations and desires. There is this expectation that I simply must take up more space than I ought, and also this desire that I deserve to take up space.</p>
<p>I ought to, yes? I ought to be able to be seen. I deserve to validated. I want that recognition that I am a person and thus deserve to exist.</p>
<p>More, I need it on a more practical level. If I am to be a writer, then surely I need that recognition in order to live. I must market myself. I must prove that what I write is worth reading.</p>
<p>I take my dreams, my idle musings, and I wrap them up in pretty cloth and set them down on the page. I dream of growing old, and of hyperfixation. I dream of an expansion of self, of what it must feel like to undergo some sort of duplication, change, following each to their logical end as they arise. </p>
<p>In the Post-Self books, characters can create copies of themselves with vanishing ease, and those copies are free to go on and live their own lives, facing divergence, leaning into individuation as though it were a quotidian joy. Then, if they so choose, they may merge back down with the instance from which they were spawned, and with them, all of their memories may go with.</p>
<p><em>All artists search. I search for stories, in this post-self age. What happens when you can no longer call yourself an individual, when you have split your sense of self among several instances? How do you react? Do you withdraw into yourself, become a hermit? Do you expand until you lose all sense of identity? Do you fragment? Do you go about it deliberately, or do you let nature and chance take their course?</em> \footnote{\cite[164]{qoheleth}. The character speaking, Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, speaks in italics, which has been preserved here. I do not make the rules, I simply foist them upon the reader.}</p>
<p>Who, then, has this merged instance become? Are they who they were? And yet, so much of identity is formed from the experiences we have, the memories that we form. Are they not also that ephemeral up-tree instance? Some mix of the two? And how much? Half and half? The down-tree instance may keep only a portion of the memories, rather than merging them all wholesale; how does that change things? There may be conflicting memories, where identity rankles; when these are reconciled, does that affect identity more or less?</p>
<p>These questions attract more than a little attention from those who experience plurality, whether in the form of Dissociative Identity Disorder or some form of medianity.</p>
<p>I can see the allure, there, myself. Of course I can.</p>
<p>I teased myself when the first book in that series, <em>Qoheleth</em>, came out that if I had an nickel for every time I accidentally wrote something with heavy plural undertones that nonetheless made me doubt my own identity, I would have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, as the quote continues, but it is weird that it happened twice. After all, hadn’t I received all of that attention from plural folks with regards to <em>ally</em>? “I think it’s my favorite plural memoir”, Rax wrote,\footnote{\cite{rax}} yes?</p>
<p>And then <em>Toledot</em> came out. And, six months later, <em>Nevi’im</em>, and <em>Mitzvot</em> six months after that.</p>
<p>Five hundred thousand words about a people whose lives were defined by their ability to fork and individuate. Half a million words of almost-plurality heaped around me, edging me out of the corners where I had previously hid, forcing me to stand, visible, in the centers of rooms where I might be perceived.</p>
<p>When <em>ally</em> came out, when I got that review from Rax, I tripped over a crack in my identity and fell to my hands and knees, skinning my palms, barking my shin against this potential conceptualization of self.</p>
<p>I don’t know. I can’t tell. I can’t tell if you’re me, if the adversary is me, if “that third-of-three parts, that part defined by negative space and shadow and blind spots” is me.</p>
<p>I can’t tell if hypomanic Madison is me. I can’t tell if depressed Madison is me.</p>
<p>Sometimes she feels separate. Depressed Madison, I mean. Sometimes she feels like another person who is doing different things, and I feel trapped up within my head, watching her act–</p>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Or not.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>–or not, and I feel like nothing I say or do can get her to change the things she does or does not do. Nothing I say or do can change the way she feels.</p>
<p>It sent me into my five thousand word tailspin where I asked dozens and dozens of questions of my ally, of myself, as I tried to nail down the panic that came with being confronted by this idea of plurality.
((Struggling against expectations versus desires esp re: feeling like I deserve to take up space))</p>
