My Death Was Your Best Birthday Gift

Three years ago, I was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. A dark, suicidal alter was born inside my mind.

To take care of me, Helen quit her six-figure job.

David worked endless odd jobs after his regular shifts just to pay for my therapy.

My five-year-old sister, Lily, did everything she could to help around the house, always walking on eggshells around me.

Today was Lily's sixth birthday. Helen came to my room early in the morning.

"Lily has suffered so much because of you over the years," Helen said, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "Today is her birthday.