If you're a new reader, and would like to "skip to the good stuff"....this page contains links to the blog posts explaining K's story, and a couple written by different K's.
The Lost Blog Post (history of our mental health as told by a different K)
Major Breakthrough or Break From Reality? (K has an important realization)
The Discovered Diaries (clues to our past and present)
The Mystery Blog Post (written by a different K)
Help From Afar (an email from the ex-boyfriend to my husband, regarding my switching)
Peeling Off An Old Label (life-changing news about our diagnosis)
How I Became A Walking Drugstore (a breakdown of our past diagnoses)
How To Be Our Friend (tips on how to get to know us)
What's Wrong With Us? (we talk about Dissociative Identity Disorder)
Another Day, Another K (switching)
My Own Reality Show (what it's like inside our head)
Showing posts with label MPD/DID. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MPD/DID. Show all posts
Friday, June 1, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
An Animated Day
Today (Wednesday) has been quite a trying day, but interesting at least. We were supposed to be at therapy at 9:30 this morning. I found out around 9:00 that the car wouldn't crank. Luckily, my husband was home and getting ready to go to work at 10:00...so I called my psychiatrist and told her I'd be a half hour late. Obviously I started the day off on a highly stressful note, and that is my greatest trigger, so it really came as no surprise that I had a rough day. Hubby drove us in his car when we left, and he had to stop at the drugstore on the way to work. I waited in the car, and by the time he came back I was no longer in my body. I struggled to pull myself back inside my head, but it was a hopeless battle. I dissociated and don't remember anything until he's getting out of the car, and I see that we are at his job, and like a robot I get out of the car and walk around to the driver's side and get behind the wheel... Hubby kissed me goodbye then disappeared inside but I just sat there in the car with the engine running for a long time. I was trying to figure out how to make the car move. Everything began to physically transform and the inside of the car took on an animated appearance, like a cartoon. I began to operate on auto-pilot. Driving to my doctor's office was exactly like being in a video game. I don't know how else to describe it. My hands weren't really touching the steering wheel; it seemed very far away, much too far for me to reach. I was looking through the windshield and it was unreal, everything was far in the distance and out of focus. I had the distinct feeling, nay knowledge that I was untouchable, unstoppable, impervious to harm. I knew I could not, would not wreck the car or have any sort of accident or run-in with the police. It wasn't possible, for all of this was just a game. Not real. I don't know how long it took to get to the psych's office; everything was in slow motion yet seemed to be flying by very fast at the same time. I don't understand how that was possible, but that's how it seemed to us. Once in the parking lot, I just sat in the car for a long time with the air blowing in my face. I pulled the visor down to look in the mirror and was quite upset to see that the reflection looking back at me was wearing bright red lipstick.
I do NOT wear bright lipstick, although we're aware that some of the K's do. I unceremoniously wiped it off with the back of my hand, then just stared stupidly at the red streaks coloring my pale skin. Decided I just didn't care-what difference did it make?-and just left the red lipstick smeared all over my hand. Finally walked into the building but it felt more like I was gliding or floating or something. I couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet. I made it inside and walked up to the counter and signed my name, but not without some difficulty. I was unable to write in cursive; I had to print my name, and the handwriting was shaky. I had taken 1 mg Xanax while in the car at my husband's job, and as soon as I sat down in my usual corner chair I took another 1 mg. There were a number of people in the waiting room with me; I'm not sure how many because I kept my head down and wouldn't look at anyone. I pulled my legs up underneath me and tried to curl up into a ball in my seat... and the waiting started. I was antsy and anxious and very eager to see my psychiatrist, as I'd been under a lot of stress since our last appointment. I got out my notebook and tried to make a list, but just couldn't focus...I was too distracted by the thought that everyone in the room was staring at me. I kept looking down, or took out my journal and flipped through it, or played with my phone, perhaps even tried to tweet I can't remember now. I just couldn't think about anything except how things were in what looked like claymation...3D cartoons of sorts. I was looking around the room in wonder when this guy came in the door... He was younger than K's body but walked like an elderly person, all hunched over and wobbly and he shuffled across the floor using a crooked wooden can and his jeans were hanging very low around his hips, exposing his striped boxer shorts, and for whatever reason, he scared us. K's heart began to pound just as soon as she laid eyes on him (even though she never looked directly at him) and of course our luck would have it that he came over and sat down in the chair right beside us. Panic started welling up inside me. My body was turned away from the strange young man, and I was intentionally looking across the room, through the other people, staring at the wall with nothing in my head except the irrational fear I felt of the person to my left. I wasn't sure I could handle it, and thought briefly about going outside and sitting in the car, but I was terrified my name would be called while I was out and I'd lose my place and have to wait even longer to see the doctor. So we sat there, panicking, in the middle of a childlike environment filled with caricatures of people...and then my name was called. The receptionist walked over to me and asked me to come with her. I was confused but did as I was told; I wondered if we were being scolded for some reason. She walked us out the door and around the building to a back door, while explaining to us that the toilet had overflowed and how sorry she was for the inconvenience. It was bizarre to me, but so was everything right then. Now I'm in the psychiatrist's office and I'm trying to explain to her how everything feels like a video game...and she asked me if I was a different person. I can remember all these things because we wrote them down in our notebook. We take notes in therapy now and it is really helping us. So she asked me if I was a new K, but I didn't know the answer to the question. It's strange to not know who you are. I really can't even begin to put it into words. You feel lost and empty and...like nothing. I told her I didn't know for sure who I was at the moment, and that I felt "switchy". I don't remember the rest of the session, except for one part: she was telling me how to use a calendar to keep up with time, so that I can remember when things happen. I guess that sounds silly to someone with a normal grasp of time, but to someone who struggles to keep up with what day of the week it is, this is a really big deal. She asked me if something happened this past Sunday or last Sunday, and I didn't know the difference. I admitted that I never knew when things happened, that I use old text messages as clues to how I spent my time. So she told me to get a calendar and take notes on it, like it was a diary. Write down when I go places, when I do things. She said it'd help me put my lost time together. I intend to try it. I don't remember the rest of the session, nor do I remember driving home. The rest of the day is scattered and disconnected. I can only recount bits and pieces of it...someone bought McDonald's fries and K doesn't eat at McDonald's anymore, hasn't in years. I remember we decided that perhaps if we took a nap, that the proper K would be with us whenever we woke up. I might have tweeted about that, I'm not sure. Then there's a big chunk of time missing, where I'm assuming I was napping. Next thing I know, I'm putting on an act for my mother, and pretending everything is normal as I put her to bed. After that, I found myself hanging out with my husband in our bedroom, and I remember him asking questions like "Which K are you?" and "Are you switching on me?". Again, I remember because I made notes about all these things. I found the questions intriguing. I don't remember anything else after that. I think his questions flipped some switch in my brain, and my reality shifted once again. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in bed in my clothes and wearing my glasses. And that's when I began to write this blog post.
I do NOT wear bright lipstick, although we're aware that some of the K's do. I unceremoniously wiped it off with the back of my hand, then just stared stupidly at the red streaks coloring my pale skin. Decided I just didn't care-what difference did it make?-and just left the red lipstick smeared all over my hand. Finally walked into the building but it felt more like I was gliding or floating or something. I couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet. I made it inside and walked up to the counter and signed my name, but not without some difficulty. I was unable to write in cursive; I had to print my name, and the handwriting was shaky. I had taken 1 mg Xanax while in the car at my husband's job, and as soon as I sat down in my usual corner chair I took another 1 mg. There were a number of people in the waiting room with me; I'm not sure how many because I kept my head down and wouldn't look at anyone. I pulled my legs up underneath me and tried to curl up into a ball in my seat... and the waiting started. I was antsy and anxious and very eager to see my psychiatrist, as I'd been under a lot of stress since our last appointment. I got out my notebook and tried to make a list, but just couldn't focus...I was too distracted by the thought that everyone in the room was staring at me. I kept looking down, or took out my journal and flipped through it, or played with my phone, perhaps even tried to tweet I can't remember now. I just couldn't think about anything except how things were in what looked like claymation...3D cartoons of sorts. I was looking around the room in wonder when this guy came in the door... He was younger than K's body but walked like an elderly person, all hunched over and wobbly and he shuffled across the floor using a crooked wooden can and his jeans were hanging very low around his hips, exposing his striped boxer shorts, and for whatever reason, he scared us. K's heart began to pound just as soon as she laid eyes on him (even though she never looked directly at him) and of course our luck would have it that he came over and sat down in the chair right beside us. Panic started welling up inside me. My body was turned away from the strange young man, and I was intentionally looking across the room, through the other people, staring at the wall with nothing in my head except the irrational fear I felt of the person to my left. I wasn't sure I could handle it, and thought briefly about going outside and sitting in the car, but I was terrified my name would be called while I was out and I'd lose my place and have to wait even longer to see the doctor. So we sat there, panicking, in the middle of a childlike environment filled with caricatures of people...and then my name was called. The receptionist walked over to me and asked me to come with her. I was confused but did as I was told; I wondered if we were being scolded for some reason. She walked us out the door and around the building to a back door, while explaining to us that the toilet had overflowed and how sorry she was for the inconvenience. It was bizarre to me, but so was everything right then. Now I'm in the psychiatrist's office and I'm trying to explain to her how everything feels like a video game...and she asked me if I was a different person. I can remember all these things because we wrote them down in our notebook. We take notes in therapy now and it is really helping us. So she asked me if I was a new K, but I didn't know the answer to the question. It's strange to not know who you are. I really can't even begin to put it into words. You feel lost and empty and...like nothing. I told her I didn't know for sure who I was at the moment, and that I felt "switchy". I don't remember the rest of the session, except for one part: she was telling me how to use a calendar to keep up with time, so that I can remember when things happen. I guess that sounds silly to someone with a normal grasp of time, but to someone who struggles to keep up with what day of the week it is, this is a really big deal. She asked me if something happened this past Sunday or last Sunday, and I didn't know the difference. I admitted that I never knew when things happened, that I use old text messages as clues to how I spent my time. So she told me to get a calendar and take notes on it, like it was a diary. Write down when I go places, when I do things. She said it'd help me put my lost time together. I intend to try it. I don't remember the rest of the session, nor do I remember driving home. The rest of the day is scattered and disconnected. I can only recount bits and pieces of it...someone bought McDonald's fries and K doesn't eat at McDonald's anymore, hasn't in years. I remember we decided that perhaps if we took a nap, that the proper K would be with us whenever we woke up. I might have tweeted about that, I'm not sure. Then there's a big chunk of time missing, where I'm assuming I was napping. Next thing I know, I'm putting on an act for my mother, and pretending everything is normal as I put her to bed. After that, I found myself hanging out with my husband in our bedroom, and I remember him asking questions like "Which K are you?" and "Are you switching on me?". Again, I remember because I made notes about all these things. I found the questions intriguing. I don't remember anything else after that. I think his questions flipped some switch in my brain, and my reality shifted once again. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in bed in my clothes and wearing my glasses. And that's when I began to write this blog post.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
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.
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]
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.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Psyched To Be Here
I had therapy Wednesday. The only reason I know that is because it's written on my calendar, and I look at my calendar weekly because I need to know when I have to go out in public, e.g. a dentist's appointment, therapy, a birthday party. (I actually have to prepare myself mentally to be around other people, sometimes for days) I'm trying to strain my brain and remember what happened in that therapy session. I honestly can't recall anything at the moment. Let me concentrate harder... I still can't remember. Damn. I have no memory of showering and/or getting dressed, no memory of driving to her office, no memory of sitting in the waiting room. Perhaps I should check my phone and go back through all my texts, and then read all my Tweets from the past 2 days, and check my journal for any entries made in the past 48 hours. This is so frustrating. I wanted to write about my session, but I can't remember it. Not any of it. Hmm.
OK, something's coming back to me now- I showed her my journal. Yes, I remember that. I read her parts of my journal, the parts written by other me's. (Hey, I'm starting to recall stuff now!) I talked to her about how I switched over the weekend, and remained a different K for about 2 days. I have evidence-notes and lots of lists and partial blog posts and various writings, all written by person(s) other than "me". Also, there is mention by the one known as Switch Kellie of another K coming to our assistance, the one known as The Cleaner. So there's that. I talked about being 2 different me's for a few days. I mean, I switch for short periods of time rather frequently- I'll suddenly change into someone else and get a wild look in my eye and say something out of character or do something odd or my voice and/or language will change, but it could be for an afternoon or even just a moment-but as far as a complete transformation goes, well that happens less often. It does happen however. It all depends upon my stress level and my mood and my environment, among a hundred other things. When this incident occurred, all the factors were conducive to switching, and so the other K's took over, and my style of dress changed to something more pulled-together (for Switch Kellie) or something very casual (for The Cleaner) and my likes and dislikes (Switch Kellie drinks tea instead of coffee) and habits, both good and bad-all these things changed. Some differences were more subtle and probably only I would notice them. But I was a different K, no bones about it.
So this past week was eventful, to say the least, and I at times had to take extra anti-anxiety medication. And I was really looking forward to seeing my doctor. To be honest, I was hoping that I'd show up for therapy and be one of the K's who appeared over the weekend. Even though my psychiatrist has witnessed me as a different K (she has met Switch Kellie before), I still feel the need to prove myself to her. I want her to actually see me switch, so that she knows once and for all that I'm being serious. There are many doctors who don't believe in multiple personalities or MPD/DID. Now granted, Dr. H has never done or said anything to make me believe that she doubts me. In fact, she's sometimes asked me about the other K's, which implies that she accepts their existence. And one time I flat out asked her if she thought I was full of shit, and she looked me in the eye and smiled and said, "I don't think you're full of shit." So this whole paranoia thing is really unnecessary...I think the reason I feel the need to prove myself, to give evidence of my dissociation, is because I've been accused of faking it before. What's even worse is that it was a family member who proclaimed I was a liar. That still hurts when I think about it. Maybe I should discuss that incident in therapy one day.
OK, I've been going back through my Tweets and text messages and emails and diary entries and lists and anything else I can find with clues. I have a better idea of when I switched (approximately April 14) and for how long, and what I did during those times, and where I went. Also, who I encountered, who saw me "out". And then there's the Tweet from April 17 which says "Back in my head and body now", so I guess that's when I officially felt like the world had stopped spinning so fast. Thinking about these things now, it all feels like a dream, or like a story I was told or a movie I watched. It seems like it happened to someone else, not to me. I can remember seeing things happening, but it just comes across as so surreal now. And of course, there are huge chunks of missing time and lost memories.
I went to a bar that weekend. Boy that was tough; I can remember how I felt so out of place while I was there. And everyone seemed to be staring at me, like I had a neon sign hanging over my head that flashed "MENTALLY ILL". The bartender that night was a friend, but she doesn't know me as the K that came into the bar; I wonder if she noticed the difference. First of all, I ordered Diet Coke without vodka. Unusual. Secondly, she probably thought it was strange, since for the first time ever, I chose NOT to sit at the bar, but rather to go off someplace where there were no people (I was hiding). Also, I didn't speak to my friend very much at all...I hope she doesn't think I was rude. Was I rude? I'm not sure. My husband wanted to go check out the band, so he left me alone, just for a few minutes, but it felt like hours. I could feel the eyes of everyone on me, and I was nervous and had to pop a Xanax. It was really hard being in that environment, surrounded by strangers, when I myself felt like an outsider in my own world. That's it exactly! I felt like an outsider in my very own body. My thoughts were not my own; they were foreign to me. But here I am, and I am fine, I survived AGAIN and no one other than my husband and my shrink knows about me switching.... except maybe anyone who might have stumbled upon certain Tweets during those in-between-me times. Perhaps no one even noticed. After all, I've been faking normality for more than 30 years now, so I've gotten quite good at it.
I'll tell you one more thing about my psychiatrist's appointment. She made absolutely certain, before I left, that the receptionist made me an appointment for next week, and for the week after that as well. I thought that was really top-notch of her. My last doctor would never have been so thoughtful as to do that. This doctor stood there at the desk with me while the receptionist tried to find an opening. Dr. H insisted that it be in one week's time. I am really beginning to like her, maybe even trust her a little bit. (!) I am holding onto her 24-hour emergency number as though it's my most-prized possession; I put it in my wallet along with my appointment reminder cards and her business card. I don't have pictures of my kids or my dogs in the clear plastic windows in the center of my wallet; I have my psychiatric information. How fitting. If anyone ever finds my wallet, they're going to see that I'm just a nutcase with no money but a lot of lists.
OK, something's coming back to me now- I showed her my journal. Yes, I remember that. I read her parts of my journal, the parts written by other me's. (Hey, I'm starting to recall stuff now!) I talked to her about how I switched over the weekend, and remained a different K for about 2 days. I have evidence-notes and lots of lists and partial blog posts and various writings, all written by person(s) other than "me". Also, there is mention by the one known as Switch Kellie of another K coming to our assistance, the one known as The Cleaner. So there's that. I talked about being 2 different me's for a few days. I mean, I switch for short periods of time rather frequently- I'll suddenly change into someone else and get a wild look in my eye and say something out of character or do something odd or my voice and/or language will change, but it could be for an afternoon or even just a moment-but as far as a complete transformation goes, well that happens less often. It does happen however. It all depends upon my stress level and my mood and my environment, among a hundred other things. When this incident occurred, all the factors were conducive to switching, and so the other K's took over, and my style of dress changed to something more pulled-together (for Switch Kellie) or something very casual (for The Cleaner) and my likes and dislikes (Switch Kellie drinks tea instead of coffee) and habits, both good and bad-all these things changed. Some differences were more subtle and probably only I would notice them. But I was a different K, no bones about it.
So this past week was eventful, to say the least, and I at times had to take extra anti-anxiety medication. And I was really looking forward to seeing my doctor. To be honest, I was hoping that I'd show up for therapy and be one of the K's who appeared over the weekend. Even though my psychiatrist has witnessed me as a different K (she has met Switch Kellie before), I still feel the need to prove myself to her. I want her to actually see me switch, so that she knows once and for all that I'm being serious. There are many doctors who don't believe in multiple personalities or MPD/DID. Now granted, Dr. H has never done or said anything to make me believe that she doubts me. In fact, she's sometimes asked me about the other K's, which implies that she accepts their existence. And one time I flat out asked her if she thought I was full of shit, and she looked me in the eye and smiled and said, "I don't think you're full of shit." So this whole paranoia thing is really unnecessary...I think the reason I feel the need to prove myself, to give evidence of my dissociation, is because I've been accused of faking it before. What's even worse is that it was a family member who proclaimed I was a liar. That still hurts when I think about it. Maybe I should discuss that incident in therapy one day.
OK, I've been going back through my Tweets and text messages and emails and diary entries and lists and anything else I can find with clues. I have a better idea of when I switched (approximately April 14) and for how long, and what I did during those times, and where I went. Also, who I encountered, who saw me "out". And then there's the Tweet from April 17 which says "Back in my head and body now", so I guess that's when I officially felt like the world had stopped spinning so fast. Thinking about these things now, it all feels like a dream, or like a story I was told or a movie I watched. It seems like it happened to someone else, not to me. I can remember seeing things happening, but it just comes across as so surreal now. And of course, there are huge chunks of missing time and lost memories.
I went to a bar that weekend. Boy that was tough; I can remember how I felt so out of place while I was there. And everyone seemed to be staring at me, like I had a neon sign hanging over my head that flashed "MENTALLY ILL". The bartender that night was a friend, but she doesn't know me as the K that came into the bar; I wonder if she noticed the difference. First of all, I ordered Diet Coke without vodka. Unusual. Secondly, she probably thought it was strange, since for the first time ever, I chose NOT to sit at the bar, but rather to go off someplace where there were no people (I was hiding). Also, I didn't speak to my friend very much at all...I hope she doesn't think I was rude. Was I rude? I'm not sure. My husband wanted to go check out the band, so he left me alone, just for a few minutes, but it felt like hours. I could feel the eyes of everyone on me, and I was nervous and had to pop a Xanax. It was really hard being in that environment, surrounded by strangers, when I myself felt like an outsider in my own world. That's it exactly! I felt like an outsider in my very own body. My thoughts were not my own; they were foreign to me. But here I am, and I am fine, I survived AGAIN and no one other than my husband and my shrink knows about me switching.... except maybe anyone who might have stumbled upon certain Tweets during those in-between-me times. Perhaps no one even noticed. After all, I've been faking normality for more than 30 years now, so I've gotten quite good at it.
I'll tell you one more thing about my psychiatrist's appointment. She made absolutely certain, before I left, that the receptionist made me an appointment for next week, and for the week after that as well. I thought that was really top-notch of her. My last doctor would never have been so thoughtful as to do that. This doctor stood there at the desk with me while the receptionist tried to find an opening. Dr. H insisted that it be in one week's time. I am really beginning to like her, maybe even trust her a little bit. (!) I am holding onto her 24-hour emergency number as though it's my most-prized possession; I put it in my wallet along with my appointment reminder cards and her business card. I don't have pictures of my kids or my dogs in the clear plastic windows in the center of my wallet; I have my psychiatric information. How fitting. If anyone ever finds my wallet, they're going to see that I'm just a nutcase with no money but a lot of lists.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Bad Twitter Vibes
We're struggling today. Something happened yesterday or last night (we think) or at the very least it was quite recently, and it's upset us and we are unable to move on past this incident. I don't know how to get over it without discussing it with my psychiatrist, but I don't see her until next week, and I can't wait that long for someone to console us. So I'm going to tell the tale here, at the risk of embarrassing one or all of us K's on Twitter. That's where all this started. Twitter.
I began using Twitter sometime in December of 2011, from what I can tell, although we had the account for much longer; I created my blog close to New Year's Eve. I used the account before December to occasionally tweet to my husband, and to myself. That's right, I tweet to K. It helps us remember things, people, places, events. So I think I tweeted to myself for about 2 years before I ever followed or was followed by anyone. I was completely anonymous on Twitter. I told no one that we had an account or a blog. NONE of my real-life friends know I have a blog or Twitter account. I used the blog to empty my mind of all the crap that was pounding in my head at most every moment of every day. I wrote in our blog as a way to release my confusion, frustration, and tension. I could say how I felt, and no one would ever know or judge me. But I was severely depressed in December, and someone in our head got the idea that perhaps we could find some type of support group online using Twitter. Or at least, find another person, anyone, who understood what it is we go through everyday. What I'm talking about is our dissociation. Hallucinations, voices, lost time, severe memory loss. All of these things together make my everyday life quite a challenge on many days. We have good days and bad days. Sometimes we forget we're ill. Other days we are so ill that we cannot function at all.
So anyway, I began to search Twitter for someone "like me". I don't even know now how I found anyone at all....I can't remember. But somehow we found some people who were at least similar to us, for example a woman with OCD, and we began to follow them, and this led to people following me, and so on and so forth. Now I can't recall exactly when this happened, but at some point I came across a person on Twitter who had a blog and who wrote about the same kinds of experiences that I have. This person described symptoms just like mine, and I was thrilled to know that I'm not the only one. I began to read her blog from the very beginning; it took me weeks, even months, to read all her posts from the beginning of her blog. But I got to this one part in her blog where she talked about finding someone online who was "just like her".
I was elated-this woman had gone through a situation exactly like my current one. She had found someone who seemed would understand her and her illness. Of course I'm not giving any names, but this woman contacted the other woman she'd found, and apparently they ended up becoming friends. Now let me say this first and foremost-I was NEVER expecting to be friends with the woman with the blog. I was just hoping she might answer a few questions, or give me some advice about how to handle my symptoms or at least what to say to my shrink. I was first diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder way back in 2004, but shortly after that I had to move and so I lost both my psychiatrist and my psychologist, who was helping me explore my diagnosis and treatment options. When I moved, I forgot. That's right, I forgot my diagnosis. I guess it was just too much for us to handle and so we pushed it out of our mind. I forgot about the therapy sessions in which I'd "switched" and I forgot about all the different "me"s who had shown up for therapy.
What was left in my memory was my prior diagnosis, which was Schizophrenia. I'd been diagnosed with that around 1998, and that was the label I wore for all these years. I saw different doctors, but they always assumed that my diagnosis was correct, simply because I heard voices in my head. I know now that this is not indicative of being Schizophrenic, it's just a classic symptom. So basically, what happened was I'd been going through my day-to-day life thinking I was Schizophrenic. I certainly had some of the same symptoms-hallucinations, delusions, loss of train of thought, social withdrawal, and paranoia, in addition to the voices which I heard in my head. So this diagnosis seemed to fit, and it was assumed by each doctor that I saw that this was the proper diagnosis. No one had ever explored other options, except for that one psychologist who'd finally identified the real problem but whose diagnosis I had forgotten.
I'm telling you all this so that you understand how it is that I believed myself to be Schizophrenic when in fact I wasn't. I wore the label for years, as scared as I was of it. I told only a couple of people whom I trusted, including my sister. Fast forward a few years, and K began dating a man who was in college, studying psychology. It was he who first declared my misdiagnosis. He said he simply did not believe I was schizophrenic, but rather that I had some sort of dissociative disorder (Apparently I had "switched" in front of him before). I knew nothing of such disorders, but it was only a few months later when my psychologist threw out the term Dissociative Identity Disorder. I really don't remember too much from that period in my life. It feels like a hundred years ago. But I've lost my place in this story and to be honest we don't even remember what it was that we were writing about. I hate when that happens, and it happens frequently. Oh yes, now I remember.
I found the woman with the blog who had the same symptoms that I had. I thought, after reading her blog, that I had finally found the answer to all my questions about what was wrong with me. I've been called "mentally ill" since I was first hospitalized at the age of 16, and I've been diagnosed with a dozen or more different disorders, but I've never had a doctor give me a satisfactory explanation as to why or how. This woman's blog opened my eyes to this new term, which was somehow strangely familiar to me. Dissociative Identity Disorder. It seemed to ring a bell somewhere deep inside of us but I just couldn't put my finger on it. But what I did was this: I began reading everything I could find on DID. Every book at the library was checked out and read. I Googled and Wikipedia'd and read any information I could locate on this disorder.
Around this time, I found an old diary which talked about my diagnosis of DID, and it was a tremendous help; I took it to my psychiatrist. But what was most informative to me was this other woman's blog. She described my experiences perfectly, although of course we lived very different lives. I decided that I absolutely had to contact this woman, just as she'd done when she'd found someone else "like her". I figured if she could do it, if she could find a similar soul and communicate with them, then so could I. Again, I never expected to become good friends with this woman, I just wanted some advice from someone who suffered from DID. I got her email address off her blog and I guess it took me days to get the courage to write the email, I can't remember. I just remember that when I sent the email, I was excited. I was excited by the thought of her emailing me back and telling me she understood. That she'd been there, that she'd gone through the same things. When she didn't respond to my email, I realized that I'd told her about the blog but forgotten to give her the address, so I sent another email, this time with all my contact information as well as my blog URL. I thought maybe she would read my blog and agree that I was DID and that perhaps she could help me figure out what to say to my newest psychiatrist, who had not yet fully diagnosed me but who was in the process of doing so.
Well, I waited for what seemed an eternity, and I never heard from the woman. She never responded to my emails. I thought I must've come across as some psycho stalker or something; I couldn't remember what the emails had said. I was discouraged but determined to make contact with her, for she was the single person I'd come across in my entire life who seemed to understand the symptoms we have. Months had passed since we sent the email, or at least I think so. One of the K's is very bold and wanted to send her a Direct Message on Twitter. Well, that's how we found out we'd been UNfollowed. Now we know for a fact that she had followed us at one time, for we never delete our messages and so we still had the email from Twitter, telling us she'd begun to follow us. That could, in fact, be how we found her in the first place; I just don't know (damn this memory loss!). But I tried to send a DM and that's how I found out she was no longer following us. So without thinking about it much, I sent a Tweet, saying she'd begun following me in January and I wanted to DM her but she must've unfollowed me because I couldn't do that and she responded, very coldly I thought, "I never followed you back. You have our email." So my feelings were hurt. I admit it, I'm overly sensitive. But for her to assume that I'd followed her first really pissed me off. SHE followed ME first, and I had an email to prove it. Anyways, I took this straight to heart and got my feelings hurt and I never did send her another email.
However, I continued to read her blog.and learned how she'd been able to better understand her illness through her writing. So I wrote. A lot. I blogged, I had a diary on my laptop, I had a hardbound journal, I had a sketch diary. I wrote and wrote, and indeed began to learn things about myself and my symptoms. The first time I read a blog post that had been written by one of the other K's, it really freaked me out. I mean, there was now solid evidence that I was going through something major. Still, I didn't mention it to my psychiatrist. I just continued to research, to read, to learn.
I don't know how I had the courage to do it, but I actually went so far as to contact the other woman with DID, the one that had advised my blog writer when she'd written her an email. I was scared to death that she was going to be mean to me, like I felt the first woman had been. But she wrote me back and was very nice. She told me a few things about dissociative disorders and said while she didn't have time to be a great source of support (she's very busy), she'd do her best to answer the occasional email or Tweet. I have since made contact with her a handful of times (we think) and she's always been very nice. However, I found out, upon reading her blog, that she considers herself to be cured. She no longer suffers from DID-she'd gone through something called integration, in which all of the personalities merge. So I was back at square one. The one person I'd communicated with was no longer suffering from the illness I was trying so hard to understand. So I continued my search. I was successful in finding a woman who has a dissociative problem, but after I emailed her I found out that she does not have DID. Still, she became, and remains, a tremendous source of support for me, and I owe her so much for all the advice she's given me since I first contacted her. She's the person who told me how to create a blog actually. Her blog is brilliant, and I'd post a link but again, don't want to embarrass anyone.
It was a gradual process, but I began to find others like me, other people who heard voices and lost time, and I even found a few with DID. Now it's extraordinarily difficult for me to talk to strangers, as I suffer from Social Anxiety Disorder, and I fear most people. So just sending an email to someone I don't know is very difficult for me. Which is one reason I'm proud of us-we actually reached out to some people on Twitter and met some folks with similar disorders and symptoms and we attempted to be social and supportive in the hopes that what goes around would come back around. And it did for the most part. I met some wonderful people, who didn't think less of me because of my mental illness, who didn't judge me, who understood moodiness and depression. Still, it bothered me that the DID woman with the blog never wrote me back.
Then one day, she wrote a blog post, and I gained some insight into her feelings. She blogged about how much she appreciated her readers, and that she was so happy to be able to help others struggling with similar disorders. She wrote that she loved getting emails from people who'd been helped through her blog. So I decided to once more send her an email-I thought since she said she appreciated the positive response from her readers, well I thought she'd like to hear how much she'd helped me. But before I could find the courage to send such an email (I mean, this would've been the third email sent to her, and that was like stalker material), she wrote another blog post. This one stated that she didn't read the blogs of other mental patients, because she found them to be triggering. Well, that certainly made sense to me, as I am often triggered by things I see or read. So I never sent the email to thank her for her help, the help she doesn't even know she's given me. I'm afraid of her now. I really am. She hurt my feelings twice, and I can't risk getting hurt a third time. I began to focus more on the people I'd met on Twitter, and on my own blog.
I was starting to communicate with a number of Tweeps and actually, for perhaps the first time in my life, I felt accepted in spite of my psychiatric condition. I gained confidence and started initiating conversations with people on Twitter. This is unbelievable to me as I write these words-I have NEVER been able to approach a stranger and start a conversation. So I seemed to be making progress, getting better. Plus, I was sometimes offering my support and experience to help others on Twitter, sometimes a young girl who was cutting, sometimes a man with an anxiety problem. I felt like I was doing something that made a difference. I felt like I was helping as well as being helped, and this made me happy.
At last I had the courage to bring up the subject of dissociation with my doctor, and was happy when she agreed with me, that yes, I had a dissociative disorder. She didn't say I had DID-it will take a long time for her to positively identify my disorder-but she told me I was on the right path. So I continued my reading and researching, and talking to people with DID. They all seem to think that DID fits me like a glove, and I have come to believe that too, but I won't know for sure until my doctor has treated us for a long time, probably years. I am impatient but understand her point. She wants to get to the heart of our illness and see what's really going on in my head. My biggest fear at this point is that we'll have to relive the childhood trauma which she believes is the cause of this illness. Otherwise, I'm feeling more positive and confident and social. I even got an invitation to join a DID support group, which I did. The people there seem incredibly supportive and understanding. Hopefully I'll be courageous enough to participate in the group.
But now here's where the bad part comes in again. One night, maybe last night, I'm just not sure, I was on Twitter, just lurking really, not talking to anyone, just reading the timeline, and I noticed a person with whom I'd communicated several times was on there and seemed to be having a very difficult time. So I thought I'd reach out and let her know that she wasn't alone. Well, I'm not sure how it happened, but she misunderstood me and got all upset and accused me of yelling at her. I was shocked. I'd never had a disagreement with anyone on Twitter. And, as is my nature, I took it personally. It completely smashed my self-esteem and I was crushed at how mean she'd been to me when I'd only been trying to help. I guess I'm not very good at offering help or advice. And so I've come to a decision. I've decided that I won't be using Twitter as I had been doing up to this point. I'm not going to try and help people, for it only sets me up for rejection and ridicule and failure and pain. I'm going to take some time off from Twitter; my husband says I'm obsessed and spend far too much time online anyways.
So I will continue to blog, as it is something that I do for myself, not for anyone else. The blog is my outlet for my madness. I'm always surprised if someone reads it, and delightfully stunned if I get a comment. But it seems to help me better understand the different K's, we communicate with each other through the blog you see. So that's pretty much all I wanted to say. That I was blogging and using Twitter to help myself get better and find support, but that I'd been hurt and felt like I failed. And so I'm not going to do the Twitter thing for awhile. At least, I'm going to try and stay away from it. I DO have an obsessive personality, so it will be nearly impossible for me to give up my current obsession cold turkey. But it must be done. My feelings are hurt and my confidence is blown. I'm scared to use Twitter right now. I shall miss my new Tweeps, and I'll definitely miss the support I received from the other mentals out there. But this is how I feel right now. I'm hurt. It's going to take me some time to get over it. I take everything so personally, it's a character flaw I have no control over. So there you have it. That's why I won't be on Twitter for awhile. It's also why I don't trust anyone on Twitter anymore. Too much negativity. Too many bad vibes. Too much disappointment.
NOTE: Not all of the K's necessarily feel this way. Some of us may continue Tweeting. And we'll definitely continue blogging,as it seems to make us feel more "sane". Hopefully, I'll see you Tweeps again soon. I just have to be sad for awhile, and we need to be alone to sufficiently sulk. That's all I need right now-just a private pity party for the girl who made a fool out of herself, not once, but three times. I wonder if I'll ever have the courage to speak again to someone in need. I wonder if I'll ever be able to comfort someone, cheer someone up, make someone smile. I have my doubts. It seems everything I do now is wrong.
I began using Twitter sometime in December of 2011, from what I can tell, although we had the account for much longer; I created my blog close to New Year's Eve. I used the account before December to occasionally tweet to my husband, and to myself. That's right, I tweet to K. It helps us remember things, people, places, events. So I think I tweeted to myself for about 2 years before I ever followed or was followed by anyone. I was completely anonymous on Twitter. I told no one that we had an account or a blog. NONE of my real-life friends know I have a blog or Twitter account. I used the blog to empty my mind of all the crap that was pounding in my head at most every moment of every day. I wrote in our blog as a way to release my confusion, frustration, and tension. I could say how I felt, and no one would ever know or judge me. But I was severely depressed in December, and someone in our head got the idea that perhaps we could find some type of support group online using Twitter. Or at least, find another person, anyone, who understood what it is we go through everyday. What I'm talking about is our dissociation. Hallucinations, voices, lost time, severe memory loss. All of these things together make my everyday life quite a challenge on many days. We have good days and bad days. Sometimes we forget we're ill. Other days we are so ill that we cannot function at all.
So anyway, I began to search Twitter for someone "like me". I don't even know now how I found anyone at all....I can't remember. But somehow we found some people who were at least similar to us, for example a woman with OCD, and we began to follow them, and this led to people following me, and so on and so forth. Now I can't recall exactly when this happened, but at some point I came across a person on Twitter who had a blog and who wrote about the same kinds of experiences that I have. This person described symptoms just like mine, and I was thrilled to know that I'm not the only one. I began to read her blog from the very beginning; it took me weeks, even months, to read all her posts from the beginning of her blog. But I got to this one part in her blog where she talked about finding someone online who was "just like her".
I was elated-this woman had gone through a situation exactly like my current one. She had found someone who seemed would understand her and her illness. Of course I'm not giving any names, but this woman contacted the other woman she'd found, and apparently they ended up becoming friends. Now let me say this first and foremost-I was NEVER expecting to be friends with the woman with the blog. I was just hoping she might answer a few questions, or give me some advice about how to handle my symptoms or at least what to say to my shrink. I was first diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder way back in 2004, but shortly after that I had to move and so I lost both my psychiatrist and my psychologist, who was helping me explore my diagnosis and treatment options. When I moved, I forgot. That's right, I forgot my diagnosis. I guess it was just too much for us to handle and so we pushed it out of our mind. I forgot about the therapy sessions in which I'd "switched" and I forgot about all the different "me"s who had shown up for therapy.
What was left in my memory was my prior diagnosis, which was Schizophrenia. I'd been diagnosed with that around 1998, and that was the label I wore for all these years. I saw different doctors, but they always assumed that my diagnosis was correct, simply because I heard voices in my head. I know now that this is not indicative of being Schizophrenic, it's just a classic symptom. So basically, what happened was I'd been going through my day-to-day life thinking I was Schizophrenic. I certainly had some of the same symptoms-hallucinations, delusions, loss of train of thought, social withdrawal, and paranoia, in addition to the voices which I heard in my head. So this diagnosis seemed to fit, and it was assumed by each doctor that I saw that this was the proper diagnosis. No one had ever explored other options, except for that one psychologist who'd finally identified the real problem but whose diagnosis I had forgotten.
I'm telling you all this so that you understand how it is that I believed myself to be Schizophrenic when in fact I wasn't. I wore the label for years, as scared as I was of it. I told only a couple of people whom I trusted, including my sister. Fast forward a few years, and K began dating a man who was in college, studying psychology. It was he who first declared my misdiagnosis. He said he simply did not believe I was schizophrenic, but rather that I had some sort of dissociative disorder (Apparently I had "switched" in front of him before). I knew nothing of such disorders, but it was only a few months later when my psychologist threw out the term Dissociative Identity Disorder. I really don't remember too much from that period in my life. It feels like a hundred years ago. But I've lost my place in this story and to be honest we don't even remember what it was that we were writing about. I hate when that happens, and it happens frequently. Oh yes, now I remember.
I found the woman with the blog who had the same symptoms that I had. I thought, after reading her blog, that I had finally found the answer to all my questions about what was wrong with me. I've been called "mentally ill" since I was first hospitalized at the age of 16, and I've been diagnosed with a dozen or more different disorders, but I've never had a doctor give me a satisfactory explanation as to why or how. This woman's blog opened my eyes to this new term, which was somehow strangely familiar to me. Dissociative Identity Disorder. It seemed to ring a bell somewhere deep inside of us but I just couldn't put my finger on it. But what I did was this: I began reading everything I could find on DID. Every book at the library was checked out and read. I Googled and Wikipedia'd and read any information I could locate on this disorder.
Around this time, I found an old diary which talked about my diagnosis of DID, and it was a tremendous help; I took it to my psychiatrist. But what was most informative to me was this other woman's blog. She described my experiences perfectly, although of course we lived very different lives. I decided that I absolutely had to contact this woman, just as she'd done when she'd found someone else "like her". I figured if she could do it, if she could find a similar soul and communicate with them, then so could I. Again, I never expected to become good friends with this woman, I just wanted some advice from someone who suffered from DID. I got her email address off her blog and I guess it took me days to get the courage to write the email, I can't remember. I just remember that when I sent the email, I was excited. I was excited by the thought of her emailing me back and telling me she understood. That she'd been there, that she'd gone through the same things. When she didn't respond to my email, I realized that I'd told her about the blog but forgotten to give her the address, so I sent another email, this time with all my contact information as well as my blog URL. I thought maybe she would read my blog and agree that I was DID and that perhaps she could help me figure out what to say to my newest psychiatrist, who had not yet fully diagnosed me but who was in the process of doing so.
Well, I waited for what seemed an eternity, and I never heard from the woman. She never responded to my emails. I thought I must've come across as some psycho stalker or something; I couldn't remember what the emails had said. I was discouraged but determined to make contact with her, for she was the single person I'd come across in my entire life who seemed to understand the symptoms we have. Months had passed since we sent the email, or at least I think so. One of the K's is very bold and wanted to send her a Direct Message on Twitter. Well, that's how we found out we'd been UNfollowed. Now we know for a fact that she had followed us at one time, for we never delete our messages and so we still had the email from Twitter, telling us she'd begun to follow us. That could, in fact, be how we found her in the first place; I just don't know (damn this memory loss!). But I tried to send a DM and that's how I found out she was no longer following us. So without thinking about it much, I sent a Tweet, saying she'd begun following me in January and I wanted to DM her but she must've unfollowed me because I couldn't do that and she responded, very coldly I thought, "I never followed you back. You have our email." So my feelings were hurt. I admit it, I'm overly sensitive. But for her to assume that I'd followed her first really pissed me off. SHE followed ME first, and I had an email to prove it. Anyways, I took this straight to heart and got my feelings hurt and I never did send her another email.
However, I continued to read her blog.and learned how she'd been able to better understand her illness through her writing. So I wrote. A lot. I blogged, I had a diary on my laptop, I had a hardbound journal, I had a sketch diary. I wrote and wrote, and indeed began to learn things about myself and my symptoms. The first time I read a blog post that had been written by one of the other K's, it really freaked me out. I mean, there was now solid evidence that I was going through something major. Still, I didn't mention it to my psychiatrist. I just continued to research, to read, to learn.
I don't know how I had the courage to do it, but I actually went so far as to contact the other woman with DID, the one that had advised my blog writer when she'd written her an email. I was scared to death that she was going to be mean to me, like I felt the first woman had been. But she wrote me back and was very nice. She told me a few things about dissociative disorders and said while she didn't have time to be a great source of support (she's very busy), she'd do her best to answer the occasional email or Tweet. I have since made contact with her a handful of times (we think) and she's always been very nice. However, I found out, upon reading her blog, that she considers herself to be cured. She no longer suffers from DID-she'd gone through something called integration, in which all of the personalities merge. So I was back at square one. The one person I'd communicated with was no longer suffering from the illness I was trying so hard to understand. So I continued my search. I was successful in finding a woman who has a dissociative problem, but after I emailed her I found out that she does not have DID. Still, she became, and remains, a tremendous source of support for me, and I owe her so much for all the advice she's given me since I first contacted her. She's the person who told me how to create a blog actually. Her blog is brilliant, and I'd post a link but again, don't want to embarrass anyone.
It was a gradual process, but I began to find others like me, other people who heard voices and lost time, and I even found a few with DID. Now it's extraordinarily difficult for me to talk to strangers, as I suffer from Social Anxiety Disorder, and I fear most people. So just sending an email to someone I don't know is very difficult for me. Which is one reason I'm proud of us-we actually reached out to some people on Twitter and met some folks with similar disorders and symptoms and we attempted to be social and supportive in the hopes that what goes around would come back around. And it did for the most part. I met some wonderful people, who didn't think less of me because of my mental illness, who didn't judge me, who understood moodiness and depression. Still, it bothered me that the DID woman with the blog never wrote me back.
Then one day, she wrote a blog post, and I gained some insight into her feelings. She blogged about how much she appreciated her readers, and that she was so happy to be able to help others struggling with similar disorders. She wrote that she loved getting emails from people who'd been helped through her blog. So I decided to once more send her an email-I thought since she said she appreciated the positive response from her readers, well I thought she'd like to hear how much she'd helped me. But before I could find the courage to send such an email (I mean, this would've been the third email sent to her, and that was like stalker material), she wrote another blog post. This one stated that she didn't read the blogs of other mental patients, because she found them to be triggering. Well, that certainly made sense to me, as I am often triggered by things I see or read. So I never sent the email to thank her for her help, the help she doesn't even know she's given me. I'm afraid of her now. I really am. She hurt my feelings twice, and I can't risk getting hurt a third time. I began to focus more on the people I'd met on Twitter, and on my own blog.
I was starting to communicate with a number of Tweeps and actually, for perhaps the first time in my life, I felt accepted in spite of my psychiatric condition. I gained confidence and started initiating conversations with people on Twitter. This is unbelievable to me as I write these words-I have NEVER been able to approach a stranger and start a conversation. So I seemed to be making progress, getting better. Plus, I was sometimes offering my support and experience to help others on Twitter, sometimes a young girl who was cutting, sometimes a man with an anxiety problem. I felt like I was doing something that made a difference. I felt like I was helping as well as being helped, and this made me happy.
At last I had the courage to bring up the subject of dissociation with my doctor, and was happy when she agreed with me, that yes, I had a dissociative disorder. She didn't say I had DID-it will take a long time for her to positively identify my disorder-but she told me I was on the right path. So I continued my reading and researching, and talking to people with DID. They all seem to think that DID fits me like a glove, and I have come to believe that too, but I won't know for sure until my doctor has treated us for a long time, probably years. I am impatient but understand her point. She wants to get to the heart of our illness and see what's really going on in my head. My biggest fear at this point is that we'll have to relive the childhood trauma which she believes is the cause of this illness. Otherwise, I'm feeling more positive and confident and social. I even got an invitation to join a DID support group, which I did. The people there seem incredibly supportive and understanding. Hopefully I'll be courageous enough to participate in the group.
But now here's where the bad part comes in again. One night, maybe last night, I'm just not sure, I was on Twitter, just lurking really, not talking to anyone, just reading the timeline, and I noticed a person with whom I'd communicated several times was on there and seemed to be having a very difficult time. So I thought I'd reach out and let her know that she wasn't alone. Well, I'm not sure how it happened, but she misunderstood me and got all upset and accused me of yelling at her. I was shocked. I'd never had a disagreement with anyone on Twitter. And, as is my nature, I took it personally. It completely smashed my self-esteem and I was crushed at how mean she'd been to me when I'd only been trying to help. I guess I'm not very good at offering help or advice. And so I've come to a decision. I've decided that I won't be using Twitter as I had been doing up to this point. I'm not going to try and help people, for it only sets me up for rejection and ridicule and failure and pain. I'm going to take some time off from Twitter; my husband says I'm obsessed and spend far too much time online anyways.
So I will continue to blog, as it is something that I do for myself, not for anyone else. The blog is my outlet for my madness. I'm always surprised if someone reads it, and delightfully stunned if I get a comment. But it seems to help me better understand the different K's, we communicate with each other through the blog you see. So that's pretty much all I wanted to say. That I was blogging and using Twitter to help myself get better and find support, but that I'd been hurt and felt like I failed. And so I'm not going to do the Twitter thing for awhile. At least, I'm going to try and stay away from it. I DO have an obsessive personality, so it will be nearly impossible for me to give up my current obsession cold turkey. But it must be done. My feelings are hurt and my confidence is blown. I'm scared to use Twitter right now. I shall miss my new Tweeps, and I'll definitely miss the support I received from the other mentals out there. But this is how I feel right now. I'm hurt. It's going to take me some time to get over it. I take everything so personally, it's a character flaw I have no control over. So there you have it. That's why I won't be on Twitter for awhile. It's also why I don't trust anyone on Twitter anymore. Too much negativity. Too many bad vibes. Too much disappointment.
NOTE: Not all of the K's necessarily feel this way. Some of us may continue Tweeting. And we'll definitely continue blogging,as it seems to make us feel more "sane". Hopefully, I'll see you Tweeps again soon. I just have to be sad for awhile, and we need to be alone to sufficiently sulk. That's all I need right now-just a private pity party for the girl who made a fool out of herself, not once, but three times. I wonder if I'll ever have the courage to speak again to someone in need. I wonder if I'll ever be able to comfort someone, cheer someone up, make someone smile. I have my doubts. It seems everything I do now is wrong.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
What's Wrong With Us?
I've been avoiding writing this blog post because to be honest, I'm still somewhat hesitant to accept the fact that I have this. I was first diagnosed with DID back in 2004, but I've been hiding it ever since (from everyone, including my family and my doctors) and I thought I had it under control. I was in denial all these years, and some of the K's are still in denial at this very moment.
Dissociative Identity Disorder is a psychiatric diagnosis whose essential feature is the presence of two or more distinct identities or personality states that recurrently take control of a person's behavior. It is also known as Multiple Personality Disorder. Memory loss which goes far beyond normal forgetfulness accompanies this condition when an alternate part of the personality becomes dominant. At least two distinct personalities must be present in order to receive this diagnosis.
Symptoms of DID: (I have 14 of the following 20 symptoms)
Individuals diagnosed with DID frequently report severe physical and sexual abuse as a child. The psyche splits into separate identities so as to distance the abused person from the trauma which is happening. Many people, myself included, block those traumatic memories in their mind because they are unable to process and accept what has happened to them. DID is a coping mechanism.
Co-morbid mental illnesses are the rule rather than the exception in all dissociative disorder cases, with 82% of DID patients being diagnosed with at least one other psychiatric diagnosis in their lifetime. DID co-morbidities include anxiety disorders such as posttraumatic stress disorder (up to 80%), social phobia, panic disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Other common co-morbid conditions include mood disorders such as major depressive disorder. Also common are substance-related disorders, eating disorders such as bulimia nervosa, and somatoform disorders. In addition, a majority of those diagnosed with DID meet the criteria for borderline personality disorder. Studies have shown that DID patients are diagnosed with five to 7.3 co-morbid disorders on average - much higher than other mental illnesses.
I have a number of co-morbid disorders, but at this point I'm uncertain just how many. This is probably the reason I've had so many different psychiatric diagnoses over the years, and also the reason it took so long for a doctor to conclude I have DID. While I was first labeled with a dissociative disorder more than a decade ago, I have received very little treatment for it. This is because the first doctor to diagnose me had barely scratched the surface of our therapy when I suddenly had to move to another city. My next doctor, whom I currently see, has diagnosed me as definitely having a dissociative disorder, but we are just now starting to explore my condition. This is because I hid it from her for two years, and she had no idea about my symptoms until I came to therapy one day in a switched state. A very different K had therapy that day. Dr. H was very understanding, which is a blessing, for many doctors believe that DID is just a myth.
OK, so now you know about my disorder, probably about as much as I know. No, I cannot remember my childhood abuse specifically, but I do have certain memories which seem to support the existence of trauma. Namely, I have childhood memories which are completely inappropriate for children to have. That's all I'm going to say about that subject.
Now, I would like to someday introduce you to the K's. However, the truth of the matter is this: I don't know them all. I have a number of "alters" which I can recognize, but I have no idea how many of us there are. I'm still learning about this condition and I know very little at this point. I know that my "switching" can happen at any time but seems to coincide with stress. I know that I very often leave my body, and sometimes watch as another "me" interacts with the world; it's very strange to hear a voice coming out of your mouth when you are not talking. I also have a persistent feeling that I am not really living my life, but rather that I'm watching a movie of this life, with me being the lead character.
All of this is difficult to explain. I have trouble talking to my psychiatrist about my thoughts and feelings. I feel strange. Disconnected from the world. I've always, my whole life, felt different from everyone around me. I've been hearing voices and hallucinating since I was 4, but I didn't realize that this was abnormal-I thought everyone experienced these things. By my teens, I'd realized that the hallucinations were not supposed to happen, so therefore I kept them a secret. I told no one. When I was first sent to a psychiatrist at the age of 16, I was careful not to tell her very much about the real me, for fear she'd have me locked up in an insane asylum. This fear has followed me to this very day. In fact, just last week while I was in therapy, I was crying but unable to tell my doctor what was wrong for fear she'd have me hospitalized. For this reason, I believe my DID therapy is going to be a long and difficult process. Thank God I have a doctor who does indeed believe in such a disorder. Now we just have to figure out who K really is, and what happened to her to cause this splitting of her mind. I think that scares me most of all. I'm not sure I want to remember my childhood trauma(s). Supposedly you can't heal unless you come to terms with the cause of your pain. I'm just afraid that once I remember the cause, it'll just create MORE pain. I already have problems with feeling guilty; I don't need to be made to feel even more guilty, in addition to feeling dirty and ashamed. Plus, what if I find out my abuser was someone I was close to, and it destroys my relationship with that person? What if I'd rather not know who hurt me? What if I can't handle the truth?
Dissociative Identity Disorder is a psychiatric diagnosis whose essential feature is the presence of two or more distinct identities or personality states that recurrently take control of a person's behavior. It is also known as Multiple Personality Disorder. Memory loss which goes far beyond normal forgetfulness accompanies this condition when an alternate part of the personality becomes dominant. At least two distinct personalities must be present in order to receive this diagnosis.
Symptoms of DID: (I have 14 of the following 20 symptoms)
- Current memory loss of everyday events
- Depersonalization
- Depression
- Derealization
- Disruption of identity characterized by two or more distinct personality states
- Distortion or loss of subjective time
- Flashbacks of abuse/trauma
- Frequent panic/anxiety attacks
- Identity confusion
- Mood swings
- Multiple mannerisms, attitudes and beliefs
- Paranoia
- Pseudoseizures or other conversion symptoms
- Psychotic-like symptoms such as hearing voices
- Self-alteration (feeling as if one's body belongs to someone else)
- Somatic symptoms that vary across identities
- Sudden anger without a justified cause
- Spontaneous trance states
- Suicidal and para-suicidal behaviors (such as self-injury)
- Unexplainable phobias
Individuals diagnosed with DID frequently report severe physical and sexual abuse as a child. The psyche splits into separate identities so as to distance the abused person from the trauma which is happening. Many people, myself included, block those traumatic memories in their mind because they are unable to process and accept what has happened to them. DID is a coping mechanism.
Co-morbid mental illnesses are the rule rather than the exception in all dissociative disorder cases, with 82% of DID patients being diagnosed with at least one other psychiatric diagnosis in their lifetime. DID co-morbidities include anxiety disorders such as posttraumatic stress disorder (up to 80%), social phobia, panic disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Other common co-morbid conditions include mood disorders such as major depressive disorder. Also common are substance-related disorders, eating disorders such as bulimia nervosa, and somatoform disorders. In addition, a majority of those diagnosed with DID meet the criteria for borderline personality disorder. Studies have shown that DID patients are diagnosed with five to 7.3 co-morbid disorders on average - much higher than other mental illnesses.
I have a number of co-morbid disorders, but at this point I'm uncertain just how many. This is probably the reason I've had so many different psychiatric diagnoses over the years, and also the reason it took so long for a doctor to conclude I have DID. While I was first labeled with a dissociative disorder more than a decade ago, I have received very little treatment for it. This is because the first doctor to diagnose me had barely scratched the surface of our therapy when I suddenly had to move to another city. My next doctor, whom I currently see, has diagnosed me as definitely having a dissociative disorder, but we are just now starting to explore my condition. This is because I hid it from her for two years, and she had no idea about my symptoms until I came to therapy one day in a switched state. A very different K had therapy that day. Dr. H was very understanding, which is a blessing, for many doctors believe that DID is just a myth.
OK, so now you know about my disorder, probably about as much as I know. No, I cannot remember my childhood abuse specifically, but I do have certain memories which seem to support the existence of trauma. Namely, I have childhood memories which are completely inappropriate for children to have. That's all I'm going to say about that subject.
Now, I would like to someday introduce you to the K's. However, the truth of the matter is this: I don't know them all. I have a number of "alters" which I can recognize, but I have no idea how many of us there are. I'm still learning about this condition and I know very little at this point. I know that my "switching" can happen at any time but seems to coincide with stress. I know that I very often leave my body, and sometimes watch as another "me" interacts with the world; it's very strange to hear a voice coming out of your mouth when you are not talking. I also have a persistent feeling that I am not really living my life, but rather that I'm watching a movie of this life, with me being the lead character.
All of this is difficult to explain. I have trouble talking to my psychiatrist about my thoughts and feelings. I feel strange. Disconnected from the world. I've always, my whole life, felt different from everyone around me. I've been hearing voices and hallucinating since I was 4, but I didn't realize that this was abnormal-I thought everyone experienced these things. By my teens, I'd realized that the hallucinations were not supposed to happen, so therefore I kept them a secret. I told no one. When I was first sent to a psychiatrist at the age of 16, I was careful not to tell her very much about the real me, for fear she'd have me locked up in an insane asylum. This fear has followed me to this very day. In fact, just last week while I was in therapy, I was crying but unable to tell my doctor what was wrong for fear she'd have me hospitalized. For this reason, I believe my DID therapy is going to be a long and difficult process. Thank God I have a doctor who does indeed believe in such a disorder. Now we just have to figure out who K really is, and what happened to her to cause this splitting of her mind. I think that scares me most of all. I'm not sure I want to remember my childhood trauma(s). Supposedly you can't heal unless you come to terms with the cause of your pain. I'm just afraid that once I remember the cause, it'll just create MORE pain. I already have problems with feeling guilty; I don't need to be made to feel even more guilty, in addition to feeling dirty and ashamed. Plus, what if I find out my abuser was someone I was close to, and it destroys my relationship with that person? What if I'd rather not know who hurt me? What if I can't handle the truth?
Monday, March 5, 2012
Twitter to the Rescue
[I still have the second half of my two-part blog post called "The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation" ready to go. It really should probably be posted here, now, but I still don't have the courage to publish it. I'm just too ashamed, too embarrassed, too humiliated to let people read about the secrets contained in that post. I might just sit on it forever.] So instead... I've been racking my brain trying to think then of what subject would best follow two posts (really just 1 1/2) about self-harm. I've decided that I don't know, and I'm just going to empty my head and see what this post ends up being about. My mind is working at a furious pace right now; I can't even put into words how fast the thoughts are coming at me and the voices are all excited and talking at once and I'm overwhelmed when I pause to listen to the inner workings of my brain, to all the conversations. This is exhausting, all this thinking. I never went to bed last night because of it, because of all the noise in my head, all the ideas bouncing around in my skull. I believe it started yesterday afternoon but it could have been the day before. I just can't remember. All I can say for sure is that I've been reading, researching, studying, Googling, Wikipedia'ing obsessively about dissociative disorders, especially Dissociative Identity Disorder. I've also tried to develop some friendships online, and more importantly, I've been seeking out others who suffer from dissociative disorders such as I do. Keep in mind that my Social Anxiety Disorder makes it unbelievably difficult for me to reach out to people, to talk to people, and especially to initiate communication with strangers. So I must pat myself on the back for making the effort. (only one person I tried to talk to was rude to me) It seems to be paying off in ways I hadn't even imagined. Not only have I met a few people online with whom I enjoy chatting and who I'm hoping to one day call my friends, but I'm beginning to develop a bit of a support system, which I desperately need. I've never had a support system before. I've hidden my mental illness from everyone, my whole life, so I don't have any real-life friends I can talk to about it, I've never confided in a boyfriend, hell my own sister didn't even know I was ill until just a few years ago. My father never understood how I could have everything a person needs and still be depressed. Now, it's just my mother, and she's too old and set in her ways to be open-minded enough to even talk to about all of this. So I hide my symptoms from her. I avoid her when I'm having an especially hard time. Sometimes I just have to disappear. Wow, I guess that sentence takes on a whole new meaning when it's used in reference to someone who may be suffering from DID.
You must remember that this is all new territory for us-I'm still in a state of shock about my psychiatrist telling me the other day that my Schizophrenia diagnosis was incorrect. I wore that label for more than a decade, and I suffered discrimination and ridicule and self-hatred because of it. It's been a heavy diagnosis to bear, and I am beyond thrilled to find out that it is wrong. I am NOT Schizophrenic! So then, what am I? Well, my shrink tells me that I am definitely suffering from a dissociative disorder, she just doesn't have enough information yet to properly name it. I found my diary from 2004 wherein my doctor first attached the possibility of DID to my chart, and I've been reading about all the "episodes" I'd forgotten. My psychiatrist wants to use that diary in our sessions. It seems I've been in denial for the past 8 years. I've been doing some reading on the different types of dissociative disorders, and more importantly, I actually found a few people on Twitter who suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorder or who have problems with dissociation. These ladies have been wonderful and have helped me tremendously in a very short period of time. I learn a great deal from reading their blogs. I had some basic questions which they were happy to answer for me. One of them put me in touch with another one who directed me to a Yahoo group specifically for people suffering from this type of disorder. As I said earlier, my doctor hasn't officially diagnosed me as having DID, but from what I've read, from what I've been told by people who have it, and based upon my symptoms, I'd say DID is a good fit. In fact, I've never found a disorder which seemed to describe me as well as DID does. So, for the moment, I'm going to study all I can about Dissociative Identity Disorder. If it turns out I have something else, well then we'll just study that instead when the time comes. But I really and truly feel that I'm closer than I've ever been to being properly diagnosed and treated for my mental illness(es).
I've been going from doctor to doctor since 1986, and each one gave me a new diagnosis and a different explanation for my thoughts and behaviors. And then there are the medications-Oh the thousands of pills I must've consumed at this point. Anti-depressants, tranquilizers, SSRI's, anti-psychotics, sedatives, hypnotics, sleeping pills, uppers, downers. So many pills. I wonder sometimes-a lot of the time actually-what I'd be like if I didn't take the medication. Now to be realistic, I am far too ill to go "all natural" and give up all medications. I have gone down that road many times, thinking each time that I could do it, I could handle it, I could live without chemical assistance. Each time, I failed miserably, and always ended up feeling much, much worse than I'd ever felt even before I began taking the pills. The truth is, I have something wrong with my brain. It does not work as it's supposed to. I am destined to take some sort of medication for the rest of my life. But what kind? Which pills? My sister believes I'm overly-medicated and wishes I'd take only the bare minimum. Just what I need to function day-to-day. But how do we figure out which pills those are? I currently take seven prescriptions, a dozen pills a day. Surely some of those are unnecessary, wouldn't you think? I mean, if I'm not really Schizophrenic, it seems we should be able to drop some of the pills I'm taking everyday. But instead of cutting down on our meds, at my last therapy session my shrink actually added a prescription to my regimen. Maybe she's just trying to pull me out of this pit of despair I've been living in since October. I don't talk much about my depression, because it really is one of the lesser of the mental evils for me at this point in time. I've been depressed my whole life. I'm used to it. I know how to do it. I'm good at it. But I must admit, my traditional holiday blues this year have lingered, as they're usually over by mid-February. So yes, I guess I AM more depressed than usual, and struggling to maintain my sanity. I find it extremely hard to get out of bed, to shower, to get dressed. Mostly I sit around in my pajama's, reading and talking to myself and wallowing in our misery. My energy level is at zero. If my body worked out as hard as my brain does, I'd be built like a supermodel. (except much shorter) All this excessive thinking, this obsessing, has me physically exhausted. Yet sleep doesn't come easily, especially when it's supposed to. No, whenever I lie down to catch up on my rest, that's when my brain seems to be at its most active. Maybe someone inside me is doing this on purpose to get my attention. We don't know what to think anymore. I'm a hundred emotions all at once-I'm excited, I'm scared, I'm sad, I'm worried, I'm eager, I'm anxious... I just want to get to the meat of the matter. I want to know what is wrong with me and I want to know how to get better. If that means pills, OK. If it means weekly therapy sessions, OK. I am willing to do whatever it takes to get to a point in my life where something makes some sort of sense, because nothing ever has before.
You must remember that this is all new territory for us-I'm still in a state of shock about my psychiatrist telling me the other day that my Schizophrenia diagnosis was incorrect. I wore that label for more than a decade, and I suffered discrimination and ridicule and self-hatred because of it. It's been a heavy diagnosis to bear, and I am beyond thrilled to find out that it is wrong. I am NOT Schizophrenic! So then, what am I? Well, my shrink tells me that I am definitely suffering from a dissociative disorder, she just doesn't have enough information yet to properly name it. I found my diary from 2004 wherein my doctor first attached the possibility of DID to my chart, and I've been reading about all the "episodes" I'd forgotten. My psychiatrist wants to use that diary in our sessions. It seems I've been in denial for the past 8 years. I've been doing some reading on the different types of dissociative disorders, and more importantly, I actually found a few people on Twitter who suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorder or who have problems with dissociation. These ladies have been wonderful and have helped me tremendously in a very short period of time. I learn a great deal from reading their blogs. I had some basic questions which they were happy to answer for me. One of them put me in touch with another one who directed me to a Yahoo group specifically for people suffering from this type of disorder. As I said earlier, my doctor hasn't officially diagnosed me as having DID, but from what I've read, from what I've been told by people who have it, and based upon my symptoms, I'd say DID is a good fit. In fact, I've never found a disorder which seemed to describe me as well as DID does. So, for the moment, I'm going to study all I can about Dissociative Identity Disorder. If it turns out I have something else, well then we'll just study that instead when the time comes. But I really and truly feel that I'm closer than I've ever been to being properly diagnosed and treated for my mental illness(es).
I've been going from doctor to doctor since 1986, and each one gave me a new diagnosis and a different explanation for my thoughts and behaviors. And then there are the medications-Oh the thousands of pills I must've consumed at this point. Anti-depressants, tranquilizers, SSRI's, anti-psychotics, sedatives, hypnotics, sleeping pills, uppers, downers. So many pills. I wonder sometimes-a lot of the time actually-what I'd be like if I didn't take the medication. Now to be realistic, I am far too ill to go "all natural" and give up all medications. I have gone down that road many times, thinking each time that I could do it, I could handle it, I could live without chemical assistance. Each time, I failed miserably, and always ended up feeling much, much worse than I'd ever felt even before I began taking the pills. The truth is, I have something wrong with my brain. It does not work as it's supposed to. I am destined to take some sort of medication for the rest of my life. But what kind? Which pills? My sister believes I'm overly-medicated and wishes I'd take only the bare minimum. Just what I need to function day-to-day. But how do we figure out which pills those are? I currently take seven prescriptions, a dozen pills a day. Surely some of those are unnecessary, wouldn't you think? I mean, if I'm not really Schizophrenic, it seems we should be able to drop some of the pills I'm taking everyday. But instead of cutting down on our meds, at my last therapy session my shrink actually added a prescription to my regimen. Maybe she's just trying to pull me out of this pit of despair I've been living in since October. I don't talk much about my depression, because it really is one of the lesser of the mental evils for me at this point in time. I've been depressed my whole life. I'm used to it. I know how to do it. I'm good at it. But I must admit, my traditional holiday blues this year have lingered, as they're usually over by mid-February. So yes, I guess I AM more depressed than usual, and struggling to maintain my sanity. I find it extremely hard to get out of bed, to shower, to get dressed. Mostly I sit around in my pajama's, reading and talking to myself and wallowing in our misery. My energy level is at zero. If my body worked out as hard as my brain does, I'd be built like a supermodel. (except much shorter) All this excessive thinking, this obsessing, has me physically exhausted. Yet sleep doesn't come easily, especially when it's supposed to. No, whenever I lie down to catch up on my rest, that's when my brain seems to be at its most active. Maybe someone inside me is doing this on purpose to get my attention. We don't know what to think anymore. I'm a hundred emotions all at once-I'm excited, I'm scared, I'm sad, I'm worried, I'm eager, I'm anxious... I just want to get to the meat of the matter. I want to know what is wrong with me and I want to know how to get better. If that means pills, OK. If it means weekly therapy sessions, OK. I am willing to do whatever it takes to get to a point in my life where something makes some sort of sense, because nothing ever has before.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Peeling Off An Old Label
Yesterday, (I'm pretty sure that was yesterday...) our husband took us back to see the psychiatrist again. A different K went this time than had gone last time; I think that's because our doctor specifically requested that K come, instead of Switch Kellie, and somehow our mind just unconsciously pushes a button of some sort and we are another K, with different thoughts and emotions. (I didn't realize this was abnormal until I was about 30 years old.) Now, sitting here drinking my coffee, and wishing that I had a cigarette, even though I no longer smoke, I wonder if I'm the K that went to see the shrink or if that was someone else. I'm not sure because when I think back to the appointment, I can recall parts of it, large chunks actually, but it's all a bit blurry, like I've smeared Vaseline onto the camera lens. Did that happen to me or what is someone else, someone whose consciousness I sometimes share? I remember one part very well, and this is important too--the psychiatrist told K that she doesn't believe she's schizophrenic. This is HUGE.
K was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 27, and every doctor since then has just agreed with the diagnosis (and usually tacked on a new label to go along with it, labels such as BDD and GAD) rather than trying to dig a little deeper and see if perhaps she didn't have something DIFFERENT. So. This is life-altering news. Everything that K believes herself to be is false. All these years, she's been living with the stigma, and with the shame, and with the despair which stemmed from this diagnosis, and now we find out that the diagnosis is (most likely) WRONG. K is simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Thrilled to find out that she probably does NOT have schizophrenia, yet terrified of what she really DOES have, and also afraid that one of the K's IS schizophrenic. More labels... Take one off and put another one on in its place. Sigh. K didn't mention to her mother what the doctor had said about doubting the presence of schizophrenia, and I can't remember if she told her husband or not....that information is no longer with us. I hope that she told him, he needs to know what the current status of his wife is. Plus, it'd just be nice to know once and for all what the hell is really wrong with K! We've been drug through the mud and given the run-around so many times over the decades.... K no longer has any faith in doctors. This "new" doctor-who, it turns out, has been treating us for 2 years!-seems very willing to help K, and she makes K feel comfortable and perhaps even safe. That's what the shrink told us yesterday; that her office is a safe haven for K, and that when she's there, she doesn't have to be afraid.
The shrink, Dr. H, talked with us for a while about different ways we can go about treating K. I asked her if she'd had any experience with mapping therapy (wherein the different personalities are charted) and she admitted that she had never done such therapy. She did NOT say that she was opposed to it. She also didn't say that she believed integration was the best route to take, and I feel that's important. (Integration is organization of different aspects of the personality into a hierarchical system of functions, or one, unified personality) We, the K's, are afraid of integration. The Smart One is all for it-she just wants to be "normal" and be able to live a productive life and perhaps have a successful career in the arts. The Good Daughter would like very much to feel more connected with her environment, with her mother, with her husband. She's in favor of integrating all the different aspects of K into one being, assuming that being would be a positive addition to the world around her. Some of the K's (like The Little Girl) are dead-set against integration, for this state of feeling split apart, of feeling shattered, this is all we've ever known and while it may not always be pleasant or convenient or logical, we're used to it-it is who and what we are. (I think...)
The best part of the therapy session was when Dr H told us that she'd like to use the old diaries that we found, that she believed we could learn a lot about K and her different personalities from these books. (See Blog Post "The Discovered Diaries" from January 9) K was elated that the doctor recognized the importance of the diaries. They could change my life as we know it. I just knew it, I knew when I found those diaries and read them, I KNEW they were important to K's recovery. This could change everything. We're all on the edge of our seats. What's going to happen to us? What will become of the K's? Who will come out to meet the doctor, and who will stay hidden? Who will we ultimately become?!? (panic attack coming on-I have to go take a pill now)
K was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 27, and every doctor since then has just agreed with the diagnosis (and usually tacked on a new label to go along with it, labels such as BDD and GAD) rather than trying to dig a little deeper and see if perhaps she didn't have something DIFFERENT. So. This is life-altering news. Everything that K believes herself to be is false. All these years, she's been living with the stigma, and with the shame, and with the despair which stemmed from this diagnosis, and now we find out that the diagnosis is (most likely) WRONG. K is simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Thrilled to find out that she probably does NOT have schizophrenia, yet terrified of what she really DOES have, and also afraid that one of the K's IS schizophrenic. More labels... Take one off and put another one on in its place. Sigh. K didn't mention to her mother what the doctor had said about doubting the presence of schizophrenia, and I can't remember if she told her husband or not....that information is no longer with us. I hope that she told him, he needs to know what the current status of his wife is. Plus, it'd just be nice to know once and for all what the hell is really wrong with K! We've been drug through the mud and given the run-around so many times over the decades.... K no longer has any faith in doctors. This "new" doctor-who, it turns out, has been treating us for 2 years!-seems very willing to help K, and she makes K feel comfortable and perhaps even safe. That's what the shrink told us yesterday; that her office is a safe haven for K, and that when she's there, she doesn't have to be afraid.
The shrink, Dr. H, talked with us for a while about different ways we can go about treating K. I asked her if she'd had any experience with mapping therapy (wherein the different personalities are charted) and she admitted that she had never done such therapy. She did NOT say that she was opposed to it. She also didn't say that she believed integration was the best route to take, and I feel that's important. (Integration is organization of different aspects of the personality into a hierarchical system of functions, or one, unified personality) We, the K's, are afraid of integration. The Smart One is all for it-she just wants to be "normal" and be able to live a productive life and perhaps have a successful career in the arts. The Good Daughter would like very much to feel more connected with her environment, with her mother, with her husband. She's in favor of integrating all the different aspects of K into one being, assuming that being would be a positive addition to the world around her. Some of the K's (like The Little Girl) are dead-set against integration, for this state of feeling split apart, of feeling shattered, this is all we've ever known and while it may not always be pleasant or convenient or logical, we're used to it-it is who and what we are. (I think...)
The best part of the therapy session was when Dr H told us that she'd like to use the old diaries that we found, that she believed we could learn a lot about K and her different personalities from these books. (See Blog Post "The Discovered Diaries" from January 9) K was elated that the doctor recognized the importance of the diaries. They could change my life as we know it. I just knew it, I knew when I found those diaries and read them, I KNEW they were important to K's recovery. This could change everything. We're all on the edge of our seats. What's going to happen to us? What will become of the K's? Who will come out to meet the doctor, and who will stay hidden? Who will we ultimately become?!? (panic attack coming on-I have to go take a pill now)
Thursday, January 12, 2012
My Newest Obsession
I've mentioned before that K has an obsessive personality and tends to go overboard when she gets an idea in her head. Well, the idea currently inhabiting her brain space is the possibility-nay, likelihood of her being diagnosed with a dissociative disorder. Based on the clues which I seem to be leaving myself-notebooks, lists, folders on my laptop filled with helpful websites, and the all-important diaries-I was first labeled MPD/DID back in 2004. I'm looking at the calendar and seeing that it is now 2012, which can only mean one thing: I've been in denial for about 8 years, or so it would seem. My theory is that the paranoia took over and I refused to accept the diagnosis, for I certainly didn't want to be THAT crazy... I've been under a doctor's care-regularly, without a break-since 2002. So that must mean that it took my therapist and psychiatrist roughly 2 years to figure out what was going on with me. Apparently I've been misdiagnosed over and over again, for all these years, ever since I saw my first psychiatrist at age 16. Every doctor I see takes notes and makes a diagnosis based upon the "me" that is sitting in the doctor's office. I can't say for sure how many of the K's went to therapy, with that wonderful therapist whom we loved so much, (who later dumped me after 7 years together) but I have recalled a memory or two in regards to that period of time and my current state of mind. I thought I'd share these memories with you (plus, it'll help me remember again in the future)
I remember one time going in to see the therapist (this was about 5 years ago) and she asked me to do a homework assignment; I was to draw a picture of the way I viewed myself. I think the assignment was supposed to help me with my Body Dysmorphic Disorder and self-esteem issues. Well, she was blown away the next week when I showed up with a whole handful of pictures of different K's, each with her own fashion sense and musical tastes and hobbies. I didn't get what the big deal was; I just did the exercise as it was assigned to me. Now I'd give anything to get hold of those drawings again. I can see some of them in my mind, but it's all fuzzy, like it was a dream. I think perhaps I'll do this exercise again and see what happens next time. I wonder how many drawings there will be...?
Another interesting memory is really several similar memories, all taking place at different points in time. I remember my therapist asking me what my name was. I remember that well.... in fact she asked me for my name on half a dozen or so occasions that I can recall. I never knew what to say. I never knew the answer to the question. Although the question stirred something within me, I couldn't put my finger on the point of it all. So I forgot about it, until recently. Now it's true that I've probably developed an unhealthy obsession with Google and Twitter and the web in general. In fact, I'm so focused on doing "research" on the subject of DID that it pisses me off I have to stop for eating and sleeping. There's no time for such trivial matters! I'm working on a deadline here! I don't know how much longer I can stick around and take care of things. All I can remember clearly about my being here, in this "lifetime" is that I once had my own office and kept lots of photos, to remind me of my life-literally-and when everything fell apart, (as it always inevitably does) I ran away to a different state and became a different ME. And that's how I usually handled working a job-stay and do well until the pressure builds and we snap and disappear, go away. But I've totally gotten off the track of our subject! Damn! I HATE when that happens, when I "lose my place" and have to reread everything I've written and try and figure out where I left off. Sigh.
I can't remember what the point of all this was, I just wanted to share with you my theory about K. I think she's got DID, and I think she's been in denial for years because it's too frightening a diagnosis for her to bear. Also, I've been researching and have found that DID is the same as MPD, so those 2 diagnoses, made by different doctors at different times in my life, were actually the same thing and thus gives us more reason to believe that K does in fact has this disorder. I just wish I had read all those diaries and journals I've been keeping all my life. So much time has been wasted at this point already...
I remember one time going in to see the therapist (this was about 5 years ago) and she asked me to do a homework assignment; I was to draw a picture of the way I viewed myself. I think the assignment was supposed to help me with my Body Dysmorphic Disorder and self-esteem issues. Well, she was blown away the next week when I showed up with a whole handful of pictures of different K's, each with her own fashion sense and musical tastes and hobbies. I didn't get what the big deal was; I just did the exercise as it was assigned to me. Now I'd give anything to get hold of those drawings again. I can see some of them in my mind, but it's all fuzzy, like it was a dream. I think perhaps I'll do this exercise again and see what happens next time. I wonder how many drawings there will be...?
Another interesting memory is really several similar memories, all taking place at different points in time. I remember my therapist asking me what my name was. I remember that well.... in fact she asked me for my name on half a dozen or so occasions that I can recall. I never knew what to say. I never knew the answer to the question. Although the question stirred something within me, I couldn't put my finger on the point of it all. So I forgot about it, until recently. Now it's true that I've probably developed an unhealthy obsession with Google and Twitter and the web in general. In fact, I'm so focused on doing "research" on the subject of DID that it pisses me off I have to stop for eating and sleeping. There's no time for such trivial matters! I'm working on a deadline here! I don't know how much longer I can stick around and take care of things. All I can remember clearly about my being here, in this "lifetime" is that I once had my own office and kept lots of photos, to remind me of my life-literally-and when everything fell apart, (as it always inevitably does) I ran away to a different state and became a different ME. And that's how I usually handled working a job-stay and do well until the pressure builds and we snap and disappear, go away. But I've totally gotten off the track of our subject! Damn! I HATE when that happens, when I "lose my place" and have to reread everything I've written and try and figure out where I left off. Sigh.
I can't remember what the point of all this was, I just wanted to share with you my theory about K. I think she's got DID, and I think she's been in denial for years because it's too frightening a diagnosis for her to bear. Also, I've been researching and have found that DID is the same as MPD, so those 2 diagnoses, made by different doctors at different times in my life, were actually the same thing and thus gives us more reason to believe that K does in fact has this disorder. I just wish I had read all those diaries and journals I've been keeping all my life. So much time has been wasted at this point already...
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Time For Words
Here we go again. I wonder how long I've been doing this? and by "This" I mean coming to reality, waking up from my dreamworld, snapping into focus. I'm back, I've been here very recently, perhaps in the last 24 hours, I can't say for sure because of the damn time thing. K has no concept of time, not time the way you know it, but rather we have what we affectionately refer to as "Kellie Time". I'm still having trouble in learning which words to use, which phrases are proper, which ideas hold "true" (whatever that means). I think that perhaps Kellie is hoping to come to a good stopping point before she takes a break from her studies to write a blog post. Blog post. How funny. Kellie is such a non-techie, in spite of the fact that her astrological sign, Aquarius, is supposedly very much into computers and technology and gadgets and the like. Oh dear. I've just come to the somewhat distressing realization that this could take an exceptionally long time to complete, this latest project. Perhaps even a lifetime. (I wonder how long that is...)<--- Naturally, we know how long a "lifetime" averages, we know this based upon what we've learned in school and in books, and besides that, these days it's simply a matter of going to your favorite search engine and asking. Currently, the life expectancy of a female living in my country of residence is 80.8 years. Now we must compare that age to the one which we find on K's birth certificate, and in doing so we see that Kellie is roughly half-way through her current physical body's life expectancy. That's too bad; I think perhaps, if this Mental Illness had been correctly diagnosed and properly treated sooner in Kellie's life, then she might've been able to recover enough to live a productive and dare we say "normal" life, maybe even excelled in a career, most likely in the arts. But I'm jumping way, way ahead in our story, so let's stop and rewind, now hit "Play" again. Listen to this. Kellie is quite creative and artistic and always has been, for as long as she's been alive practically. She started drawing around the age of 3 and has done so throughout her life. Kellie likes to keep a diary, at least some of us do, and a lot of times these diaries don't have words, but rather they have drawings, because it's so much easier for Kellie to express herself through drawings and sketches and doodles than in words. She is quite good with words, or at least she used to be, before her memory problems became so pronounced. Granted, the substance abuse which came about in her 20's and early 30's certainly did nothing to help her memory problems. Kellie was always worried about what the drugs, I guess we can go ahead and say it out loud now, the marijuana Kellie likes to smoke, would do to her memory.
She didn't want to impair her memory in any way, and she used to give that as her main reason for NOT smoking pot, but of course she loosened up, so to speak, in college, and began experimenting with drugs and then the obsessive-compulsive nature of Kellie took over and it went downhill from there. As the problem with drugs grew larger, her memory recall grew smaller. Certainly, if she had known for sure that her memory would be so adversely affected, she would never have allowed herself to smoke so much of it, and in the end become the thing that I, the smart one, feared so much back in those days, and that is a pothead. Kellie used to laugh at them when she'd see them on TV or whatever; she's always been fascinated by and drawn to the hippie culture, for as long as she has been physically alive. I say that with no disrespect directed towards hippies whatsoever, I must make that perfectly clear. Kellie loves 1960's and 1970's culture, and I suppose it's interesting to note that many of the Kellie's have a particular decade which they are most drawn to and influenced by, and what we are experiencing right now people, right at this very moment, is I believe something important, something of a clue, so to speak-could that fact, the fact that different Kellie's have their favorite decades...maybe this is a clue as to their ages? Hmm. I suppose, if I pause to think about it, each Kellie has her own favorite everything, from music to clothing to books-I could go on but surely you see the point. Each Kellie has her own distinct sense of being, her own style, her own sense of "self". I don't personally know all of the Kellie's, and I don't know whether any of us have ever met or who knows whom....well, I take that back, I DO know some of the Kellie's, or at least I'm aware of their existence. There is the Good Daughter, who takes care of Mom and sees that she gets what she needs and feels loved and needed. Kellie is NOT the Good Daughter, and I don't believe that Mom knows Kellie, but it's likely that she's met her considering she's "known" Kellie for so many years. This is really and truly exhausting, I have to interject that. It's currently 5:42 A.M. on Sunday, January 8, 2012. We, or I, I being the Smart Kellie, the one who gets things done, the one who takes care of things, I have been having a fascinating conversation with Kellie's husband. He's really above and beyond anything that Kellie ever could have hoped for or expected to find in her life. The Kellie had lots of lovers and was very popular, and she had a number of marriage proposals at different points in time throughout her life, but The Kellie is most definitely NOT the marrying kind. I'm not sure whether I should take this opportunity to talk about The Kellie or whether I should just continue on with my work, with my research, with my "mission". That's how I described it to K's husband, that I'm on a mission, that I'm here to take over the reins for awhile and see that things get done and business is taken care of. I am in current need of supplies, namely notebooks and pens, with which we can take notes and keep track of our research, which is currently, and I believe correctly directed at Dissociative Identity Disorder. I think this is what Kellie has, but I can't say for certain as I am not a licensed medical doctor and haven't studied psychology and psychiatry in the classic senses of the words i.e. I never went to school to be a shrink. However, I DID take some psychology courses while I was in college, and I've always been intrigued by and fascinated with the subject, and have always enjoyed reading about the subject, perhaps because we are so ill. Kellie has always believed that if she learns enough about her illness, she might be able to get well, and for her sake, and I guess for the sake of all of us, us being the Kellie's, I hope that is true. I, myself, that being the Smart Kellie, or as our husband called us earlier, Switch Kellie. That's a label which he says I gave myself, but which I have only a vague memory of, and it's more like he gave me the name and I remember hearing it than it is like me giving myself the name.
I have no idea whether we've stated this fact before, and since Kellie's memory is so horrendous it's really impossible for me to say without re-reading it, but I am quite concerned with Kellie being taken seriously, and Kellie being embarrassed. Now, mind you, I'm not the one who gets embarrassed easily, that is very Kellie, but NOT The Kellie of course. I, being the Smart Kellie, am worried that I, we, Kellie won't be taken seriously. I have very strong fears regarding these matters, and it would seem to stem from the fact that as a child I was often accused of lying and I was NOT lying and it was so incredibly frustrating for us, and still is apparently. Now we must stop for a moment here and clarify the facts as I know them, and the facts are these: My sister's husband does NOT believe we're ill. He thinks that Kellie has been making it up her whole life just to get attention and get out of her responsibilities. I guess he feels that way because he's never seen any indication that we were ill. I've certainly never spoken to him about these matters, but once a long time ago, Kellie did something wrong, I can't remember now what it was, but it was bad and Mom and Dad called my sister and things were said and tears were shed, and in the end my brother-in-law wrote an email to my father, telling him that Kellie was a fake and a liar. He pointed out that if she were truly so ill, that she'd have no way of going out into the world and buying pot and rolling a joint and getting high and whatnot. So he seems to think that Kellie is just a junkie or something. (That's ridiculous, although The Kellie certainly is an addict; I'll tell you about her later) There's so much to be said and so little time in which to say it! I don't know how to make that any clearer. I, being in my current state of awareness, have a job to do, a mission to accomplish, a goal to reach, and that goal is Kellie's recovery. We want nothing more than for Kellie to be well. (Although Kellie herself doesn't really want to be classified as "normal", for she feels that to be normal is boring)
While we were talking to Kellie's husband earlier (he's asleep now, as it's currently 6:17 A.M.), it occurred to us that it were as though we, he and I, were meeting for the first time or like we had just begun dating and were still getting to know each other. I rather enjoyed that aspect of the evening, I have to admit that. I found him to be intellectually stimulating as well as creative and interesting and unique in a way that Kellie really relates to and is genuinely attracted to. He is something special and I think that Kellie truly could not have a more suitable life partner. He's a writer, and therefore Kellie appreciates his artistic and sensitive nature, and loves him for his creativity and talent. He's a very good writer actually; dark but good. But I digress. I was telling you about our conversation... this seemed to last a very long time, or as long as say, an LSD trip lasts, which I guess is subjective as well as literal. It was so much fun talking to him, and getting to know him and hearing him tell us about what he likes and what he collects and what his interests are. I was trying to tell him things about myself as well, things like the fact that I do NOT smoke cigarettes, although Kellie did for years before finally quitting in May 2010 (because of the ARDS incident) although we must admit that she's been cheating lately due to stress factors, and the fact which The Kellie chain-smokes. I intended to tell him how I drink hot tea rather than coffee, although I very much like coffee; Kellie LOVES coffee and is an absolute caffeine fiend. Since I kept coming out with information which seemed important, I remarked that perhaps Kellie's husband should start keeping notes, which is ironic because of my whole obsessive need to make lists and such things; you'd think that I would want to take the notes myself, and let me assure you, I am, but it is just that there is more to be studied here than Kellie could actually remember or I could write down. So at some point, Kellie's husband brought out his cell phone, and it has a recording device built into it, and so he placed it in front of us and turned it on and told us to speak. At first I was too self-conscious to talk, too embarrassed as it were. But after a while, I don't know how long of course, I forgot about the recording and began to just relax and be myself (LOL) and talk to him without thinking of the device. It seemed as though I were really making strides towards progress, or at least as much progress as can be made without the help of a trained psychiatrist or psychologist. I can't say how long we recorded our conversation, and I have no idea what we talked about-I can't remember now-but I can recall the specific moment we stopped recording, for Kellie's husband laid down on the bed and I approached him and told the cell phone in my hand that he was going to sleep and that I guess it was time to stop talking to him and let him rest or something. And so we were able to get back to our project, which is currently this. What is this? Oh yes, the blog. I believe that the creation of the blog was in fact a trigger, that something inside Kellie switched on whenever she created the blog, and that I came out to take over and tell the story because I'm better with words than she is. We both seem to enjoy words though, to a magnified amount, and much of Kellie's art contains words embedded within the pictures. I recently looked at photographs of some artwork that Kellie had done, and I was immediately struck by the fact that she has completely different styles at different points in time; this seemed important to the story of Kellie and therefore I'm writing it down.
OK, now we really must get back to our research, there's so much work to be done, so many hours of reading which needs catching up on and notes which need to be made. Also, Kellie's husband told her things that we need to remember, things like the fact that I, whom he is now calling Switch Kellie, but whom I have been referring to as Smart Kellie, told him that I appear whenever things get very bad. He said that I said that Kellie was stressed out and that this was the reason for my arrival. I have tried repeatedly to recall when I was last present in this existence, this lifetime, this "reality" but I cannot remember. I have a journal which was last used in October of 2010, so it would seem that I've not been here for at least that long, as I like very much to write and am always trying to write things, lists, prose, lines of poetry, things of that nature. It was me who wanted the new journal for Christmas that first year we were married, and it's that very journal to which I am referring now. I've begun to use that journal again, in case I need to tell you. It's being used as a tool, as a guide, as a point of reference I guess one could say. Kellie can use the journal to find out what's been happening. Now granted, this particular journal is not nearly as interesting as the purple velvet one, the one we found the other night or day or whenever that was, the journal in which we first (I think) mention Dissociative Identity Disorder as our diagnosis. That journal was written beginning in January of 2004. I don't know when we quit writing in it; from what I can remember, it became too much for us to handle, I or we or any of the Kellie's. The stress of watching her father die was just more than she could bear, and in the end Kellie went to a very dark place and we didn't write there, or at least I've not found any writings from that time period. I do know about paintings from back then, but we no longer have those.
I've just opened the window blinds and I see that it is raining. We love the rain, Kellie simply adores the rain and always has. Which I guess might explain one of the reasons Kellie was so happy when she lived in Seattle, Washington, since it rains there for the majority of the year. Funny we should remember that time period as being so happy, yet in the end, Kellie was in a very dark place and could've easily died. But that's another story for another day-I don't want to be a buzzkill. I've got so much to tell you, so much to share with you! I cannot stress enough how important it seems to me to write all of this stuff down, to put it in writing so that we have some sort of proof, some sort of evidence that we existed. Kellie has a fear of being forgotten, of not being remembered, which is hilarious when you look at it in the sense that I'm looking at it now, and that is, that Kellie is afraid of going unnoticed, while at the same time we are so incredibly self-conscious that we cannot stand for people to look at us. Interesting, wouldn't you agree? I've made several interesting discoveries in this, this most recent episode, as the husband called it. Like an episode of a television show. Kellie is the star of the show, and there are different co-stars and various extras, along with wardrobe and costuming and sets and even a soundtrack. I've always compared it to a movie; Kellie is living a movie that others can see but no one can recognize that it's not real, that it's only a movie. One time, a long time ago, Kellie had an "episode", and during that episode she became so frightened that she called her best girlfriend to come over and stay with her, for she was afraid to be alone. I can't imagine how hard that phone call must've been, for that friend had never seen us "switch" before and she didn't know us. I wonder who made it, the phone call. I wonder which one of us knew to do that? Perhaps it was me, as I'm the responsible one, the one who takes care of Kellie. I don't know if there are others who are responsible or mature or whatever. I have no way of remembering that, except for my precious notes, which I've unfortunately not been keeping for the past 2 years so I'm lost in all of this, I have nothing to help me with recall.
She didn't want to impair her memory in any way, and she used to give that as her main reason for NOT smoking pot, but of course she loosened up, so to speak, in college, and began experimenting with drugs and then the obsessive-compulsive nature of Kellie took over and it went downhill from there. As the problem with drugs grew larger, her memory recall grew smaller. Certainly, if she had known for sure that her memory would be so adversely affected, she would never have allowed herself to smoke so much of it, and in the end become the thing that I, the smart one, feared so much back in those days, and that is a pothead. Kellie used to laugh at them when she'd see them on TV or whatever; she's always been fascinated by and drawn to the hippie culture, for as long as she has been physically alive. I say that with no disrespect directed towards hippies whatsoever, I must make that perfectly clear. Kellie loves 1960's and 1970's culture, and I suppose it's interesting to note that many of the Kellie's have a particular decade which they are most drawn to and influenced by, and what we are experiencing right now people, right at this very moment, is I believe something important, something of a clue, so to speak-could that fact, the fact that different Kellie's have their favorite decades...maybe this is a clue as to their ages? Hmm. I suppose, if I pause to think about it, each Kellie has her own favorite everything, from music to clothing to books-I could go on but surely you see the point. Each Kellie has her own distinct sense of being, her own style, her own sense of "self". I don't personally know all of the Kellie's, and I don't know whether any of us have ever met or who knows whom....well, I take that back, I DO know some of the Kellie's, or at least I'm aware of their existence. There is the Good Daughter, who takes care of Mom and sees that she gets what she needs and feels loved and needed. Kellie is NOT the Good Daughter, and I don't believe that Mom knows Kellie, but it's likely that she's met her considering she's "known" Kellie for so many years. This is really and truly exhausting, I have to interject that. It's currently 5:42 A.M. on Sunday, January 8, 2012. We, or I, I being the Smart Kellie, the one who gets things done, the one who takes care of things, I have been having a fascinating conversation with Kellie's husband. He's really above and beyond anything that Kellie ever could have hoped for or expected to find in her life. The Kellie had lots of lovers and was very popular, and she had a number of marriage proposals at different points in time throughout her life, but The Kellie is most definitely NOT the marrying kind. I'm not sure whether I should take this opportunity to talk about The Kellie or whether I should just continue on with my work, with my research, with my "mission". That's how I described it to K's husband, that I'm on a mission, that I'm here to take over the reins for awhile and see that things get done and business is taken care of. I am in current need of supplies, namely notebooks and pens, with which we can take notes and keep track of our research, which is currently, and I believe correctly directed at Dissociative Identity Disorder. I think this is what Kellie has, but I can't say for certain as I am not a licensed medical doctor and haven't studied psychology and psychiatry in the classic senses of the words i.e. I never went to school to be a shrink. However, I DID take some psychology courses while I was in college, and I've always been intrigued by and fascinated with the subject, and have always enjoyed reading about the subject, perhaps because we are so ill. Kellie has always believed that if she learns enough about her illness, she might be able to get well, and for her sake, and I guess for the sake of all of us, us being the Kellie's, I hope that is true. I, myself, that being the Smart Kellie, or as our husband called us earlier, Switch Kellie. That's a label which he says I gave myself, but which I have only a vague memory of, and it's more like he gave me the name and I remember hearing it than it is like me giving myself the name.
I have no idea whether we've stated this fact before, and since Kellie's memory is so horrendous it's really impossible for me to say without re-reading it, but I am quite concerned with Kellie being taken seriously, and Kellie being embarrassed. Now, mind you, I'm not the one who gets embarrassed easily, that is very Kellie, but NOT The Kellie of course. I, being the Smart Kellie, am worried that I, we, Kellie won't be taken seriously. I have very strong fears regarding these matters, and it would seem to stem from the fact that as a child I was often accused of lying and I was NOT lying and it was so incredibly frustrating for us, and still is apparently. Now we must stop for a moment here and clarify the facts as I know them, and the facts are these: My sister's husband does NOT believe we're ill. He thinks that Kellie has been making it up her whole life just to get attention and get out of her responsibilities. I guess he feels that way because he's never seen any indication that we were ill. I've certainly never spoken to him about these matters, but once a long time ago, Kellie did something wrong, I can't remember now what it was, but it was bad and Mom and Dad called my sister and things were said and tears were shed, and in the end my brother-in-law wrote an email to my father, telling him that Kellie was a fake and a liar. He pointed out that if she were truly so ill, that she'd have no way of going out into the world and buying pot and rolling a joint and getting high and whatnot. So he seems to think that Kellie is just a junkie or something. (That's ridiculous, although The Kellie certainly is an addict; I'll tell you about her later) There's so much to be said and so little time in which to say it! I don't know how to make that any clearer. I, being in my current state of awareness, have a job to do, a mission to accomplish, a goal to reach, and that goal is Kellie's recovery. We want nothing more than for Kellie to be well. (Although Kellie herself doesn't really want to be classified as "normal", for she feels that to be normal is boring)
While we were talking to Kellie's husband earlier (he's asleep now, as it's currently 6:17 A.M.), it occurred to us that it were as though we, he and I, were meeting for the first time or like we had just begun dating and were still getting to know each other. I rather enjoyed that aspect of the evening, I have to admit that. I found him to be intellectually stimulating as well as creative and interesting and unique in a way that Kellie really relates to and is genuinely attracted to. He is something special and I think that Kellie truly could not have a more suitable life partner. He's a writer, and therefore Kellie appreciates his artistic and sensitive nature, and loves him for his creativity and talent. He's a very good writer actually; dark but good. But I digress. I was telling you about our conversation... this seemed to last a very long time, or as long as say, an LSD trip lasts, which I guess is subjective as well as literal. It was so much fun talking to him, and getting to know him and hearing him tell us about what he likes and what he collects and what his interests are. I was trying to tell him things about myself as well, things like the fact that I do NOT smoke cigarettes, although Kellie did for years before finally quitting in May 2010 (because of the ARDS incident) although we must admit that she's been cheating lately due to stress factors, and the fact which The Kellie chain-smokes. I intended to tell him how I drink hot tea rather than coffee, although I very much like coffee; Kellie LOVES coffee and is an absolute caffeine fiend. Since I kept coming out with information which seemed important, I remarked that perhaps Kellie's husband should start keeping notes, which is ironic because of my whole obsessive need to make lists and such things; you'd think that I would want to take the notes myself, and let me assure you, I am, but it is just that there is more to be studied here than Kellie could actually remember or I could write down. So at some point, Kellie's husband brought out his cell phone, and it has a recording device built into it, and so he placed it in front of us and turned it on and told us to speak. At first I was too self-conscious to talk, too embarrassed as it were. But after a while, I don't know how long of course, I forgot about the recording and began to just relax and be myself (LOL) and talk to him without thinking of the device. It seemed as though I were really making strides towards progress, or at least as much progress as can be made without the help of a trained psychiatrist or psychologist. I can't say how long we recorded our conversation, and I have no idea what we talked about-I can't remember now-but I can recall the specific moment we stopped recording, for Kellie's husband laid down on the bed and I approached him and told the cell phone in my hand that he was going to sleep and that I guess it was time to stop talking to him and let him rest or something. And so we were able to get back to our project, which is currently this. What is this? Oh yes, the blog. I believe that the creation of the blog was in fact a trigger, that something inside Kellie switched on whenever she created the blog, and that I came out to take over and tell the story because I'm better with words than she is. We both seem to enjoy words though, to a magnified amount, and much of Kellie's art contains words embedded within the pictures. I recently looked at photographs of some artwork that Kellie had done, and I was immediately struck by the fact that she has completely different styles at different points in time; this seemed important to the story of Kellie and therefore I'm writing it down.
OK, now we really must get back to our research, there's so much work to be done, so many hours of reading which needs catching up on and notes which need to be made. Also, Kellie's husband told her things that we need to remember, things like the fact that I, whom he is now calling Switch Kellie, but whom I have been referring to as Smart Kellie, told him that I appear whenever things get very bad. He said that I said that Kellie was stressed out and that this was the reason for my arrival. I have tried repeatedly to recall when I was last present in this existence, this lifetime, this "reality" but I cannot remember. I have a journal which was last used in October of 2010, so it would seem that I've not been here for at least that long, as I like very much to write and am always trying to write things, lists, prose, lines of poetry, things of that nature. It was me who wanted the new journal for Christmas that first year we were married, and it's that very journal to which I am referring now. I've begun to use that journal again, in case I need to tell you. It's being used as a tool, as a guide, as a point of reference I guess one could say. Kellie can use the journal to find out what's been happening. Now granted, this particular journal is not nearly as interesting as the purple velvet one, the one we found the other night or day or whenever that was, the journal in which we first (I think) mention Dissociative Identity Disorder as our diagnosis. That journal was written beginning in January of 2004. I don't know when we quit writing in it; from what I can remember, it became too much for us to handle, I or we or any of the Kellie's. The stress of watching her father die was just more than she could bear, and in the end Kellie went to a very dark place and we didn't write there, or at least I've not found any writings from that time period. I do know about paintings from back then, but we no longer have those.
I've just opened the window blinds and I see that it is raining. We love the rain, Kellie simply adores the rain and always has. Which I guess might explain one of the reasons Kellie was so happy when she lived in Seattle, Washington, since it rains there for the majority of the year. Funny we should remember that time period as being so happy, yet in the end, Kellie was in a very dark place and could've easily died. But that's another story for another day-I don't want to be a buzzkill. I've got so much to tell you, so much to share with you! I cannot stress enough how important it seems to me to write all of this stuff down, to put it in writing so that we have some sort of proof, some sort of evidence that we existed. Kellie has a fear of being forgotten, of not being remembered, which is hilarious when you look at it in the sense that I'm looking at it now, and that is, that Kellie is afraid of going unnoticed, while at the same time we are so incredibly self-conscious that we cannot stand for people to look at us. Interesting, wouldn't you agree? I've made several interesting discoveries in this, this most recent episode, as the husband called it. Like an episode of a television show. Kellie is the star of the show, and there are different co-stars and various extras, along with wardrobe and costuming and sets and even a soundtrack. I've always compared it to a movie; Kellie is living a movie that others can see but no one can recognize that it's not real, that it's only a movie. One time, a long time ago, Kellie had an "episode", and during that episode she became so frightened that she called her best girlfriend to come over and stay with her, for she was afraid to be alone. I can't imagine how hard that phone call must've been, for that friend had never seen us "switch" before and she didn't know us. I wonder who made it, the phone call. I wonder which one of us knew to do that? Perhaps it was me, as I'm the responsible one, the one who takes care of Kellie. I don't know if there are others who are responsible or mature or whatever. I have no way of remembering that, except for my precious notes, which I've unfortunately not been keeping for the past 2 years so I'm lost in all of this, I have nothing to help me with recall.
A gradual build-up of symptoms of schizophrenia may or may not lead to an acute or crisis episode called a schizoid break - a short and intense period that involves delusions, hallucinations, distorted thinking, and an altered sense of self.
Is this what keeps happening to us? Is this what those periods of clarity are? Those moments in which I seem to "wake up" and become aware of my existence?s Or is it in fact the absence of those moments wherein lies the schizoid break? Damn. I really can't tell you how much we'd like to talk to our psychiatrist. I really should have called her whenever this all started. Husband told us before he went to sleep that I've been here for 4 days now. He said he's tired, that he needs a break. I get that. I understand that I'm a lot to take, Kellie in general is a lot to take, for anyone but especially for those who have close relationships with her. She's very melodramatic. What else can I tell you about her? I'm not sure. I'll have to think for awhile, and see if I can remember anything about her, or us, or any of the Kellie's. This is all so strange. I don't know how to describe it, I really don't and even if I did it still wouldn't come close to what actually living it is like. So the world will never know, but I am trying, in my own way, to tell the tale, to share the story, to help people understand what it's like to live with this particular mental illness, which technically I still have no proper name for.
This is the part where I tell you that I do NOT have a current diagnosis handy. Which each new doctor has come a new diagnosis, at least that's what's been happening for most of her physical being. Kellie has worn so many different labels throughout the course of her life that it's difficult to say exactly what is wrong with her at this point. She seems to exhibit symptoms from a multitude of disorders, which I've learned is called comorbidity. Commorbidities are diseases or conditions that coexist with a primary disease but they also stand on their own as specific diseases. Kellie is definitely OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder, an anxiety disorder in which people have unwanted and repeated thoughts, feelings, ideas, sensations (obsessions), or behaviors that make them feel driven to do something (compulsions). Kellie has a multitude of obsessions which seem to change over time; perhaps they change with my "self", with each entity having obsessions and compulsions all her own. Often the person carries out the behaviors to get rid of the obsessive thoughts, but this only provides temporary relief. Not performing the obsessive rituals can cause great anxiety-if I don't do whatever it is I'm compelled to do, then I get antsy, nervous, on edge. It is completely impossible to think of anything else outside of that one thought, that one idea, whatever it may be. Sometimes this can be a good thing, like when I, Switch Kellie, am focused on the task in front of me, which currently happens to be the all-important project of researching Kellie's mental illness and taking notes about it, which we intend to show and discuss with our doctor when we go and see her on Wednesday, January 11. Another example of a good obsession would be Kellie's aversion to dirt, which causes her to clean, but that's not really Kellie, that's one of her alters, for Kellie has never been one to clean her room. That's most certainly a different Kellie, the one who cleans and who has a phobia about dirt and who gets freaked out if she focuses on something and finds it to be dusty or dirty. She is literally afraid of dirt, afraid it will hurt her in some way, contaminate her, ruin her forever. I'd rather like it if she came around more often, for we could really use the help with housekeeping.
I've never thought about it before. That's a funny phrase to me. "I've never thought about it before." As if I would be able to remember it if I had! And each of us has her own memories, some shared of course, but many unique to only that persona, or "alter" I guess I'm supposed to say, based on the research I've been doing. I can't say for certain how long I've been researching this subject matter, but it feels like a very long time indeed, perhaps weeks. I'm cross-referencing my information, using multiple search engines and websites and a myriad of windows to try and organize all this data. I MUST get organized if I ever intend to get better. I MUST. Kellie loves to organize things because of her OCD, but she has a hard time keeping things organized because of her other selves, several of whom are sloppy unfortunately. These messy Kellie's have in the past caused great shame and embarrassment for us by revealing to the outside world that we are not perfect. If someone comes to visit, and the house is messy, then they will see that I am not doing a good job, and that I, Kellie, am disappointing them, which we absolutely cannot stand to do or perceive to do to any extent. Kellie does NOT want to disappoint anyone, and she has a hard time saying "no" and in that she can't always be ME or any of the other higher-functioning Kellie's and therefore she's bound to drop the ball at some point and lose control and not be able to satisfy someone's need. And Kellie will feel just terrible about that. She really and truly wants to make everyone happy, she really does, but no matter how hard she tries, it is never good enough. Never.
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