Should I Come Out?

May is Mental Health Awareness Month.  I announced on Twitter recently that I was mentally ill (it's no big secret), and proceeded to name some of my ailments.  I have a laundry list of them you know.  I'm pretty sure it cost me some followers.  (Oh, well.  If they can't handle me crazy, they don't need to be in my life.)  So far, that is all I have done to spread awareness.  But I've been thinking of doing more.  I am seriously considering coming out to a friend in Real Life about my being mentally ill. I keep weighing the pros and cons, and I repeatedly keep coming back to the point of it being really important to have support.  We don't have a ton of support.  I mean, I have our shrink, and Husband, and social media, like Twitter.  I can't tell you how many times a simple @ tweet directed to me has affected my mood in a positive manner, perhaps even pulled me away from the edge of insanity.  It feels good to send out a message in a cyber bottle, and have someone from around the world answer that message, and give me words of encouragement,  or just make me laugh. I think the narcissist in us loves being singled out.  Of course, at least one of us hates the attention and would rather no one pay us any mind.  It's an inner struggle most every day.

If I do decide to come out to someone, I need to plan out what I will say, how I will put it into words.  So let me think about that for a minute.  What exactly do I want to tell them?  How much information do I need to share?  I certainly don't want to overwhelm them with too much, too soon.  And it would be a shame to tell more than is necessary and cause myself greater embarrassment.  Yes, this will be very embarrassing.  And what about their questions?  I need to be prepared with answers to the basic questions which they are bound to ask me after I drop such a bomb on them.  I don't even know which of my illnesses to share with them; certainly not all of them-that'd be too much information.  So I need to pick an ailment, and prepare a little speech about it...  But first, before any of this comes to pass, there's something even more important that I must do.  I must decide which friend I want to reveal my secret to.  I know that whomever I choose will forever see me in a different light after my confession, so I have to choose carefully.  Whom do I feel closest to? Whom do we need support from?  Who do I trust enough to tell?  That last question is easy. Answer: No one. I don't trust anyone enough to tell them about my mental health issues.  I'm afraid, I admit it.  Afraid I'll be thought less of, afraid I won't be invited to socialize anymore, afraid the person I tell will spread rumors about me.  It would be a huge risk on my part to open up to an outsider.  I don't take this decision lightly.

When, or if, I decide to open up to someone, I need to make sure that person understands that this is a very private matter and that I'd rather not have everyone in town know about my condition.  They need a strong ability to keep a secret.  I have to assume that whomever I tell will most likely tell their spouse, and that fact makes the decision even harder.  Right now, the only people who know about my DID are my doctor and my husband.  I've only come to accept this diagnosis myself as of January, so all of this is new territory for me.  I'm still learning about myself, about the different me's, about who and what we are.  I can't imagine trying to explain all that to another person.  How can I, when I don't even understand it myself?  I am still learning to recognize my parts, so I couldn't possibly introduce them to an outsider.  I know what the first question out of their mouth would be: "How many of you are there?"  This is the question everybody always asks, and I wish I had the answer.  The truth is, I don't know how many of me there are.  I've identified a half dozen personalities, but there are still more voices inside my head which haven't been singled out.  So I don't know how many K's there are. Hmm. Perhaps telling about my Dissociative Identity Disorder would be too much; I don't want to overwhelm my friend(s).  Maybe I should confess only to something simpler, something easier to come to grips with, like my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or Social Anxiety Disorder.  I'm pretty sure my friends already have their suspicions about these things, so it wouldn't be such a stretch for me to just come out and admit that I have these disorders.  I'm fairly certain that whomever I choose to tell will be understanding and sympathetic, and I don't think it will have any sort of negative impact on our friendship.  Knowing that then, why is it so hard for me to imagine revealing my secrets?  What am I so afraid of?

stig·ma [stig-muh]

noun, plural stig·ma·ta  [stig-muh-tuh, stig-mah-tuh, -mat-uh], stig·mas.
 

a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one's reputation.  Social stigma is the severe disapproval of, or discontent with, a person on the grounds of characteristics that distinguish them from other members of a society.

 

 

That's your answer. The stigma of mental illness is what I'm afraid of.  Don't think that there isn't one-it's alive and well and I've seen it firsthand.  I know what it is to be discriminated against because of my mental status. I know how it feels to be the butt of jokes at the workplace. I've seen that look that people get in their eye just as soon as my mental health is brought up. It is impossible to fully understand it unless you've experienced it.  People treat you differently.  Medical doctors often think the physical ailments I complain about are simply "in my head".  They are afraid to prescribe medications as I'm seen as a suicide risk.  At work, I'm not trusted with important tasks or asked for input on anything serious.  People seem to think that because I'm mentally ill, I'm less intelligent than they are. I'm not taken seriously. Or I'm thought to be lying, or making up stories.  There are a thousand different ways in which to discriminate against the mentally ill. Unfortunately, I've dealt with quite a few of them; I'm not eager to deal with any more.  So perhaps I'll just keep my mental illness to myself.  After all, I'm very good at keeping secrets.  As far as Mental Health Awareness Month goes...I assure you, I am aware.

 

About a Wedding

I spent most of  yesterday in bed, sleeping, in an attempt to recover from my exhausting weekend. But oh, what a weekend it was!  On Friday, I drove my husband and my mother 7 hours to Savannah, Georgia to attend my nephew's wedding.  From the moment we got there, it was a non-stop whirlwind of activity and celebration up until (and after) we left Sunday.  We stayed in a breathtaking 2 story loft type residence inside an old cabinet making business.  I loved the exposed brick walls, 15-foot ceilings, industrial-looking pipes everywhere-it was very urban and modern and funky.  We had a downstairs apartment with 2 bedrooms and a kitchen and a huge great room with pool table and 50" flatscreen TV; my sister and her husband and my niece and her boyfriend stayed in the upstairs apartment, which was just as hip plus had a fireplace and a balcony.  Savannah is an amazing old city.  In case you've never seen the movie "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil", I'll tell you that Savannah is gorgeous. 

The Savannah Historic District is one of the nation's largest; this city is just a beautiful old Southern coastal town with beautiful architecture and gigantic shade trees dripping with Spanish moss, and 22 different parks with fountains and old statues and cobblestone streets complete with horse-driven carriages.  There's a waterfront area where artists set up their easels and paint and artisans sell their crafts and street musicians perform.  There are delightful little cafe's and pubs, and my husband and I found our way to a few of these Friday afternoon. The wedding festivities began with a rehearsal dinner Friday night. I didn't attend that, but it was my responsibility to get my mother dressed and do her hair and makeup.  After everyone left for the rehearsal dinner, I was able to breathe easier, and my husband and I went off on our own and walked the streets of downtown and had dinner at an eclectic little place which offered $2 beer.  After some sightseeing, we headed back to get ready for the pre-wedding cocktail party, held at a fancy old restaurant/bar.  I intentionally skipped all my meds just so I could drink at the party.  And drink I did!  I think I was trying to make up for my lack of Xanax.  After several drinks, my brother-in-law brought me my own bottle of champagne, every drop of which I drank...and then a second bottle appeared.  I drank and danced and smiled and pretended to be at ease, but truthfully I was a nervous wreck. For a person with Social Anxiety Disorder, this was the ultimate test:  It was crowded and noisy and I was surrounded by hundreds of strangers, all of whom seemed young and thin and beautiful.  But I hung next to my husband and my mother, and so I felt somewhat shielded from the dangers of the reality outside my little bubble.  It was so wonderful to spend time with my big sister, whom I rarely get to see as she lives on the other side of the country.  She introduced me to someone as "her beautiful sister" and I took that as a sarcastic comment but my husband said she was being sincere. It's not that I think she'd try to be mean to me, it's just that I'm paranoid by nature and always assume the worst.  We stayed for a good long while, long enough for me to see my 83-year old mother drink and dance with several young men, including her grandson (the groom).  I was thrilled to see her having such a good time, and she said it was the most fun she's had since Daddy died.  After she was too tired to go on, my husband and I took her back to where we were staying and put her to bed.  There was another party to attend, but I didn't think I could handle another crowded social function, so instead we stayed in and my husband made me margaritas (my sister stocked our kitchen with snacks and our bar with liquor!) and he opened a bottle of Captain Morgan's and we did some more partying by ourselves.  I got so drunk that I ended up hugging the toilet for a good part of the evening.  Oh well, it was totally worth it.

The next day was hectic and entailed a breakfast get-together where I consumed much champagne and orange juice.  I intentionally skipped my meds again so I could enjoy all the champagne I wanted.

 I LOVE champagne.  After breakfast, everyone scattered  to do their own thing and my hubby and I went sightseeing.  We walked all over town and ended up in a frozen drink bar.  From a wall of colorful assorted frozen drink machines, I chose the blue one.  I ordered my drink and then saw the sign which proclaimed that the drinks are made with 190 proof pure grain alcohol and are much stronger than regular bar drinks.  Needless to say, I thought that drink was going to put hair on my chest!  We headed back to the apartment to prep for the wedding.  I helped Mom get dressed and did her makeup and hair and Mom left to get wedding pictures made.  Husband and I had an hour to ourselves before we had to leave for the wedding.  Which means that I was ready on time, but that there was enough time for me to get very anxious.  I stuck some Xanax in my purse but really didn't want to take any because I wanted to drink at the reception.  Well, once my husband and I were all decked out in our formal attire (he looked so snappy in his bow tie!) we headed down the street 2 blocks to catch the trolley which my nephew had hired to take everyone to the church.  The wedding was beautiful and afterwards we headed to a mansion for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.  Servers clad all in black milled about with trays of food and wine, and there was an open bar which we took full advantage of.  I admit, I didn't do any mingling.  I knew no one but a  handful of relatives there, so I wasn't comfortable talking to anyone.  I put Mom in a chair and got myself a Cosmopolitan and spent the next hour or two chatting with my husband and trying not to have an anxiety attack.  It seemed to take an eternity, but at last it was time for dinner, and the wedding party filed into the ballroom and everyone went to their assigned seats.  I was so relieved to find that we were sitting with my mom and sister and niece.  I had a cocktail with me, then a man came around and poured champagne, and then after that a man came around with 4 different kinds of wine. I chose white.  The dinner was ultra gourmet--filet mignon and a single gigantic shrimp served with asparagus. It was much fancier than I am able to describe.  I ate very little but drank plenty.  After that there were speeches and toasts and dancing and general merrymaking.  I can't remember how I got back to the apartment...  it seems that my husband and I did some more drinking that night and I guess I passed out at some point; I woke up in the wee hours of the morning wearing my clothes.  There was no sleeping in that day, for we had to make the journey home.  I stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee, then started packing my suitcase.  For a 3-day trip, we had a ton of luggage.  Plus a cooler filled with drinks and plastic bins filled with snacks and all of Mom's medical equipment...it looked like we were moving.  I think it took Husband 20 minutes to load the car.  It was raining the day we left, and that seemed to match the mood of everyone as we said our goodbyes.  It was sad-Mom cried.  The drive home was long-about 8 hours-and exhausting.  I kept having to stop to throw up, presumably from all the drinking I'd done the night before.  Finally we pulled into our driveway.  I hated that our trip was over but was also glad to be home.  Then I saw the evidence of the stress of the trip.  I found that my legs had been picked at and scratched at and were all bloody and raw.  My upper arms were also covered in sores due to compulsive skin picking.  I don't remember doing it but it's obvious that it was a reaction to stress and the pressure of being around so many strangers.  I skipped all my meds for 3 days and went "all-natural" -something was bound to happen.  And so I dealt with the anxiety by drinking too much and picking at my skin. Also bit my nails but not as bad as it could have been.  In retrospect, I don't think I could've had a better time.  And I'm so proud of myself for not freaking out during all the excitement.  My doctor had warned me I'd probably dissociate during the wedding, but I don't think I ever did.  I remember the ceremony. I remember the reception. I got a little floaty and distracted during dinner, but I think I successfully stayed in my body for most of the whole event... Wow!  This weekend gave me not one, but two things to celebrate.

You're Making Me Blush

I get embarrassed easily.  This might not sound like a big deal-you probably get embarrassed too-but to me there is an all-consuming fear, a fear of humiliation, which makes it difficult for me to go out in public.  I'm so afraid of being embarrassed that I will have panic attacks in situations wherein I think people are looking at me.  They might not actually even be looking at me, but in my mind they always are, and I will see them staring and laughing at me.  I'm never sure if they're really laughing or pointing...  I don't know if these things I see are hallucinations or if they're true.  These fears of mine can be triggered by perceived or actual scrutiny from others.  Makes no difference, I'm going to panic either way.

"Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD),  is characterized by intense fear in social situations, causing considerable distress. The diagnosis of social anxiety disorder can be of a specific disorder  (when only some particular situations are feared) or a generalized disorder.  Generalized Social Anxiety Disorder typically involves a persistent, intense, chronic fear of being judged by others and of being embarrassed or humiliated by one's own actions."  Google coughed up this description of myself.  No big surprise there.  I don't remember when I was first diagnosed with this condition, but I've suffered from it since elementary school, roughly age 10.  It's gotten worse as I've grown older, except for that period of time in our mid-20's when The Kellie was usually in charge of our life.  (I really should tell you about her sometime-she's the life of the party-in real life and in my mind)

SAD is the main reason I usually stay home.  I don't venture out in public very often, and if I do I (usually) must have Husband by my side and I definitely must be doped up on anti-anxiety medications.  I can't go out in public unless I'm drugged.  In fact, I won't go until I have some sort of chemical thing happening in my brain.  If I think the pills are taking too long, I'll start drinking.  Sometimes at night I'll smoke some pot.  Whatever it takes to make me feel "ready for Reality", and able to handle the stares, the looks, the laughs, the whispering, all of which I perceive no matter where I go.  This even applies to situations, like parties, where the people involved are my friends; I still think they're making fun of me, and I get embarrassed.  It's incredibly uncomfortable to be in a crowded room-the jumbled roar of whispers contains my name and everything They are saying about me is negative.  They make fun of my clothes, my hair, my body, my face, my intellect, my personality, my whole being.  They point out specific flaws-like that mole on my face or the surgical scar I have-and torture me relentlessly with their insults.  I am humiliated, I feel like there's a spotlight shining on me and everyone in the universe is laughing at me.  I can't tell you how embarrassing it is when I actually do something physical-like spill a drink.  Oh dear God, now that really makes me turn red (and then I have to flee the room so I can cry).

This fear of embarrassment makes it impossible to relax in a social setting.  I am tense and on edge pretty much any time I'm out in public.  I try to hide as best I can-sitting in a dark corner whenever possible and wearing sunglasses indoors-but I still can't escape the feeling I have of being scrutinized.  Now not only does the SAD make it difficult for me to go out, but add to that the paranoia and insecurity I feel at all times... OK, now multiply that feeling by 100, and you might get an idea of what it's like for me to be around other people.  I'd move somewhere that had no people, but I'm afraid of being alone.  A walking contradiction.  Yes, yes I am.

How I Became a Walking Drugstore

Since the diagnosis which I've had for years has practically been scratched off my chart, so to speak, I figured this was a good time to review what disorders we DO have, or at least the ones we've been branded with,  be them true or false.  Now my mind is still reeling over the statement Dr. H made yesterday ("I don't think you have schizophrenia") and I can't help but wonder if maybe some-or all (?!) of the doctors from my past have been wrong.

The first time K ever saw a psychiatrist was when her parents had her committed, at the age of 16,  to a psych hospital, for what they deemed my being inappropriate and out of control.  Bizarre behavior led my parents to believe that I was on hard drugs (which was ridiculous; I'd never even smoked pot) when in fact I was just suffering through major depression with suicidal tendencies.  I think I tried to kill myself for the first time somewhere around this time, but that memory just won't come back to me no matter how hard I try to remember.  So, I tried to kill myself plus my parents thought I was strung out on heroin, hence I ended up being committed to a hospital.  First psychiatrist of my life, Diagnosis: Manic/ Depressive (a couple of  years later called Bipolar II).  This woman put me on Lithium and suicide watch, then proceeded to tell me that I wouldn't be so depressed if I'd just wear more colorful clothing. The audacity!  I was hospitalized for 3 months, during which time I was given a handful of different medications and yet I continued to dress all in black, and I kept writing gloomy and dark poetry.  I think they released me after they decided that I was no longer suicidal, or else they were just sick of me.  I continued to see that same psychiatrist (she had a different sports car for every day of the week, and I can't stand people who are obsessed with money and possessions) until the day came when we had a family session, and my parents were told by this shrink that they, in part, helped contribute to my mental problems.  My father was furious, and my mother was angry and in shock. They were good parents, they really were.  They grabbed my arm and pulled me out of that office and I never saw that doctor again.  (although I realize now that my parents probably did have something to do with my problems, even though they always had good intentions)

The next doctor proclaimed I had Major Depressive Disorder and put me on a handful of antidepressants. I can't remember how long that lasted.  When I graduated from high school, I moved to a new city and was without a doctor for a while.  Bad idea.  Two intentional overdoses followed Freshman year at college.  After the second overdose, I decided it best for me to seek help with my mental "issues", and so I went to the local hospital and inquired about mental health services for low-income persons (I was just a student after all).  I don't remember that, but I somehow know that it happened.

K found a psychologist who worked on a sliding-scale fee and who was near her apartment and she began to see this man every week.  Sometimes he would make us take tests, all sorts of tests, sometimes written tests with questions, other times it was puzzles for K to solve, and one time he simply asked us to fold a piece of paper.  Believe it or not, this was one of the more difficult tasks for us, for it had to be PERFECT and it took me a long time to fold the paper; these tests led to our new (additional) diagnosis of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and some new medication.  K's OCD is easy to spot, although she's not your stereotypical hand-washer or compulsive cleaner. (Actually, one of the K's is a cleaner who's afraid of dirt)  K is an organizer, a list-maker...with a compulsion to turn the toilet paper around so that it rolls over the top rather than being pulled out from underneath.  Silly things like that.  K saw this psychologist for about a year, until the day came when he told her that she needed medication and he was going to have to hook her up with a psychiatrist, but all of that would have cost money, money which K simply did not have.  So we left that place and went unsupervised and unmedicated ("all natural") for what seemed like a long time...but we can't be sure how long.

K had gotten married at the age of 19, and pretended to be "normal" and went "all natural" and thus didn't take any medication or see any therapist during the year that her marriage lasted.  After the messy divorce, K became very manic-her worst episode ever up to that point-and went a bit crazy and started partying and dating lots of guys and going shopping and doing a lot of risky, stupid things such as dabbling in drugs and driving really fast.  This lasted for a couple of years, and K thought she was happy and having fun, like a regular college student...and then she crashed at the age of 23.  She fell into a deep, dark pit of despair, the likes of which she'd never known and from which it seemed she'd never crawl out of.  Somehow, someone helped us find a new doctor.  I can't remember much after that, I know there were more pills and more labels (Borderline Personality Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder, Bulimia, Panic Disorder) and this pattern of going from doctor to doctor and getting pill after pill went on until K abruptly disappeared and turned up on the other side of the country.

K didn't go there alone-she was much too insecure and frightened by being out in public.  She had a friend with her, who knew she had a history of depression but who had no idea the extent of K's illness.  They lived in this big, new city for a couple of months before K had a freakout and her friend had to take her to the hospital. (K got lost coming home from work; she totally forgot where she lived and had to call her roommate to come get her) They poked and prodded and questioned K all night.  When it was finally over (a couple of days later? I don't recall), K had a pocketful of prescriptions and the name of both a psychiatrist AND a neurologist.  The neurologist took pictures of our brain, and determined that K was having little mini seizures in her head, and I believe these seizures are what destroyed much of K's memory.

The psychiatrist made us fill out a mountain of paperwork and assessment tests and then there were hours of interviews and therapy sessions, and in the end, he gave K (who was 27 by this time) her new, improved diagnosis: Schizophrenia.  That word scared the living daylights out of K, and she went into a state of bewildered shock.  She turned up hours later at a girlfriend's apartment; apparently K had walked miles from the hospital to the girl's place (this was K's best friend, whom she trusted with info about her mental illness) and K burst into tears when she got there and had a meltdown and proclaimed that she didn't want to be schizophrenic, that it was too serious a condition, that it frightened her.  It took her a very long time (years) to come to terms with that particular mental health label.  How twisted it is that I've now been told I don't have this, after it took so long for me to accept that I did have it.  (sigh)

And so that diagnosis stuck, and after that wherever K went and whenever K would change doctors, she'd fill out all the required forms and papers and she always had to list her mental problems and so she wrote down what the doctors had always told her, and for the most part, each new doctor simply looked at her chart, took it as fact, and prescribed more medication: anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers and anxiety meds.  This is how she lived her life throughout her young adulthood.  See a therapist, take medication, get better, quit taking the meds, have a meltdown, repeat.  In the spring of 2002, K had just found a new therapist.  This therapist she found listed in a local new-age magazine, and K, being quite superstitious,  took that as a "sign".  This therapist, Patty,  was the best one K ever had.  K liked her from the start, and they connected and K trusted her and she truly seemed to care about K's mental health and quality of life.  She worked in tandem with a psychiatrist who prescribed even more medication for K. This situation remained constant for 7 years.  During those years, K would get to a really good, stable place and then she'd quit taking her meds and have a meltdown and have to start over with the pills and she went from one extreme to the other-either drowning in a sea of despair or elated to the point of skipping down the sidewalk.  Patty was there to help K deal with her obsessive thoughts, or depression, or fears...she sometimes gave K homework assignments designed to provide insight into the mind of K and her subconscious.  One of these assignments was to draw a picture of what K believed herself to look like.  I believe this was a self-image/self-esteem test.  At the next session, K showed up with at least half a dozen different pictures.  Now I didn't realize this until just recently, but about 2 years after K first started seeing Patty, the term Dissociative Identity Disorder came out of her mouth.  K wrote about it in her diary, but then forgot about it.  Perhaps it was just more than she could handle, so she removed herself from the reality of this diagnosis and went on with her life and blocked out anything that had to do with that disorder.  Therapy during those years is difficult for us to remember, but I have little snippets of memories, like a few seconds of film; one of these mini-memories is Patty asking us what our name was.  We didn't know the answer to the question...we were K, weren't we?  In another partial memory, Patty is telling us that different people have come to therapy in our body.  All of this was news to K, or at least I think it was...damn this memory loss!  We were just starting to make strides in this therapy, these sessions which focused on who K was and what had happened to her as a child (she clearly had all the classic symptoms of sexual abuse). I believe Patty might have suggested K had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I remember someone said it.

Just when K seemed to be making progress, just when things were beginning to come out, just when K was starting to open up and be completely honest with Patty....well that's when the unthinkable happened.  K got dumped.  She drove to her therapy session that day, just as she did every week or every other week if she was doing well, just as she'd done for 7 years.  When she got there, she was eager to talk to Patty, she had a lot to say, but Patty sat her down and got all serious and told K that she had missed an appointment the week before. At this particular mental health facility, they had a rule: you can only miss 3 appointments. After that, you are automatically dropped for being a non-compliant patient.  Well, K remembered that one day she had been trying to call them to change her appointment but no one would answer the phone.  We called repeatedly throughout the morning and afternoon.  It was Memorial Day, so K determined that they must've been closed for the holiday.  This is why K missed that last appointment.  She really did try to call and reschedule, honestly she did.  But she was being dumped, and this HURT, terribly, K takes everything so personally, and so it hurt her feelings that Patty didn't want to see her anymore.  From somewhere deep inside us, this angry K suddenly appeared and acted like a total bitch and said horrible, insulting, rude things to Patty.  I watched from outside my body, and couldn't believe what was happening.  It just didn't seem real, it couldn't be true.  K stormed out of Patty's office, got into her car, and hauled ass out of the parking lot.  She started bawling almost immediately, and did so for the entire hour's drive back to her home.

K's world was turned upside down.  Since her psychiatrist worked together with her therapist, K certainly didn't want to see that psychiatrist anymore.  She called and cancelled her next appointment.  For the first time in seven years, K was without a doctor or a therapist.  She had some medication, but would soon run out.  She started frantically trying to find a new doctor.  But it is harder than you'd imagine to find a psychiatrist who accepts Medicare and Medicaid.  We were losing hope, then we called Dr. H's office, and the lady on the phone was so nice and helpful and we explained to her that we really needed to see the doctor, that we'd run out of medications and we were having some withdrawal symptoms as well as feeling unstable.  They got me in quickly, and even though my medical records had not been faxed from the other doctor's office as had been requested, the doctor met with me and we talked for over an hour.  I left feeling hopeful.

Our last psychiatrist, who'd worked alongside Patty, well, we hated her.  She was an evil bitch who didn't seem to give a rat's ass about me and how I was doing, she just wrote out my prescriptions; when I came in crying, she'd increase my dosage.  I never felt anything but distaste for that woman.  This new doctor, Dr. H, well she had shown me more compassion in one session than that other shrink had shown me in years.  I had medication refills now, and I was eager to start therapy sessions with Dr. H.  That was 2 years ago.  It took Patty two years to label me DID, and it took two years for Dr. H to find out about my dissociative disorder.  That brings us to the present day.  We have had 2 sessions in which we discussed dissociative states.  She's ready to get to work it seems; she asked me to bring the diaries which are the evidence of our illness.  I'm terrified, yet excited at the thought of beginning the healing process, of accepting what and who we are, and of learning to love K as she is, in spite of her faults.