This post has no intentions otherwise of two: venting out (since it's transfromative for what has been experienced) and illustrating how things are for some bizzare little anon lives out there. Consider it a story, maybe a micronovel of sorts.
I moved to a heavenly city in Europe, and everything is beautiful and cared for. It's very humane. For the sake of keeping public space that way, they have an active and diverse municipal service.
I was walking around, trying to bring myself into reality, because I'm very dissociated and scared of perceiving at all. According to some witnesses, I was tortured as an infant in an exact way that I later found in a list of what sects and traffickers do for producing DID in their children. My family had some conflict with former KGB, and it pulled the strings, since my town is basically soaked with their mafia. It was wits against wits, and we lost.
Sure, had some pedos and a lot of fights in my life later, but that initial torture season was THE reason behind most of my formative splits, because I was already mentally crushed. Ended up as polyfragmented DID, which is basically a very prolonged agony of someone who stubbornly wouldn't die of shock on the spot. Feels like you're a constantly rotated sand hourglass, except every piece of sand is your ability to be aware of something - including physical reality - and identify your Self compared to that something. A rudimental, archaic way to exist, and compared to normal humans and even those with lesser DID I'm like a lycophyte among flowering shrubs.
So I'm "collectively" trying to heal (or rather, overdevelop) this thing, been successful, and now completing it in a safest place I could never imagine existing. Morning, clean air, walking around the block, filling my tiny attention span with the summer green.
And there goes a municipal service pal, armed with a thin hose, and he sprays some liquid over the plants growing through the asphalt. He's very careful. His face covered. His spraying, precise. Right on the center of a grassy patch. Then next. Moving by. The spray smells sweet and acrid.
These little grasses, life sprouting from the place taken over, which was their own before, since the beginning of times, only recently layered for a sidewalk.
He didn't go and weed them out, oh no. He just made their condition insufferable. So that they die out on their own. Gladly, won't bear a fruit, won't leave a living root, anything. Slowly, miserably will cease, crumbling under artificial toxines, unimaginable to wild life and thus unprocessable.
The exact thing that was done to me.
To many others.
It struck me right beyond all the protective mechanisms I have, because I was opening up at that moment, promising the deeper layers that nothing bad's gonna happen.
I'm pretty tired of solving the puzzle of attaching positive impressions to my crumbled pieces.