Baby was broken. She was made out of broken pieces. My heart was broken and as a result I created Baby as a persona and defence mechanism to protect me from the outside world and their opinions. Baby was my armour, her make up my mask, her little outfits my costumes. I thought she caused chaos, but she was a product of chaos. She was deeply sad and that became part of the persona because I could achieve ‘sad girl’ much more easily than the original unintentional goal ‘girl next door.’ Baby was marginally more confident than me. Because she knew she looked better, and to her, that was all that mattered. Since the age of twelve that was all she knew. How she had been indoctrinated. How she had got burnt. You need to be skinny and pretty and quiet. These days I’m trying to live outside of all the boxes Baby lived within, even she pushed the boundaries sometimes. If people didn’t expect her to smoke, she’d smoke. If people didn’t expect her to kiss that boy, she’d kiss him. It wasn’t me, it was her. The line “it wasn’t, it was Patricia” means a lot to me, because that’s kind of it. Baby said and did some things that weren’t me. They were her. But I loved her, and forgive her for any mistakes she made. She was in a lot of pain, and while she didn’t feel guilt for the things she did, as soon as I recovered from the identity disorder, I did. But as I said, where Baby was quiet I’m loud. Where she was timid; I’m bossy. Where she was shy I’m more confident. Bigger, curvier, older, wider, and stronger. I love her and miss her, but the identity died out. I grieved, I mourned her and now I’m happier. More free and myself than ever.