(spoilers ahead)
When I started writing this book, Fern and Ivy were two distinct people. My original intention was to follow The Great Gatsby’s story line pretty closely, while expanding its themes based on our evolution as a country and culture in the hundred years since its publication:
How have the shadows of the American Dream darkened even further since then? What happens when we look at it through the eyes of young women rather than men—when we add climate change, the further consolidation of wealth and power, white supremacy, the corporatization of politics and media, the commodification of young women’s bodies? And how do we burst through the coded homoeroticism in Nick Carraway and Jay Gatsby’s relationship and make it hella queer?
But something happened in the middle of my first draft that threw me for a loop. One morning, out of nowhere, Fern and Ivy told me they were the same person. Or more correctly, Ivy told me that Fern was a manifestation of a self she did not yet consciously know how to access, but desperately needed. (It may sound strange, but these are the very best, and most elusive, moments of writing—when our characters surprise us and take the lead and start telling their own story.)
I have lived with trauma, dissociation, addiction, and mental health issues my whole life. And while I do not have the experience of living with Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder), I have done a lot of therapy known as Internal Family Systems work—or “parts” work—in my own healing journey. This is the idea that we all have several parts, or personalities, inside us, all with different roles. There are parts of us that are still little children: maybe they are terrified, or ashamed; maybe they act out in various ways. There are parts of us that are more grown (or more awakened, if we want to take the Buddhist psychology approach), that we can rely on for compassion and love and wise guidance.
I became interested in exploring Fern as a part of Ivy, as a personality inherent within her, one that maybe the scared, reactive, and traumatized parts of Ivy would both yearn for and fight against.
This book is not meant to be a literal depiction of Dissociative Identity Disorder, which can manifest differently for different people, but a fictionalized interpretation of what might resemble aspects of that experience. I did a lot of reading, I consulted with psychologists who specialize in personality disorders, and I asked a person with DID to read a draft and give feedback. If I have failed at representing the experiences and struggles of those with DID in any way, the failures are my own.
Though I do not have the experience of multiplicity, I know what it is to need to listen to my parts, to find compassion for them, to challenge them, to ask them for help, to tell the ones that are scared and wanting to act out that the grown-up me can take care of things. That I can take care of her.
May we all find this power, and this courage. May we remember that we are not alone. May the wise and resilient parts of us assure all our scared and wounded parts that we will be okay, and that together we will find a path to healing.
Love,
Amy