Should I Come Out?

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

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

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

stig·ma [stig-muh]

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

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

 

 

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

 

Twitter is More Real Than My Life

Only four people in Real Life know about my DID: my husband and my psychiatrist of course, and also, from another city, my last psychologist, and my ex-boyfriend (who lived with me for a year).  It was he who wrote a letter to my husband explaining how I switch. (You can read the letter here)  I'm only honest about my switching into other K's here, in this blog.  To a lesser extent, I talk about my various mental health issues on Twitter, such as  the voices, the paranoia, and my panic attacks; I don't go into much detail about my alters when I'm tweeting. Also, we K's tend to blog more than tweet (that is, the ones who communicate; some of the K's don't do either).

Mostly I just vent on Twitter.  I follow and am followed by around 150 people, so Twitter remains an intimate experience for me.  I don't think I could follow a ton of people-it'd be overwhelming for us K's. I have a hard enough time just trying to remember a handful of names, I could never communicate with a large group of Tweeps. To be honest, I have to take notes about different people I chat with on Twitter or else I'd never remember anyone.  We like to get to know a handful of people rather than just follow hundreds of strangers.  This is why I don't participate in the whole "Follow Friday" thing, where people on Twitter suggest other Tweeps follow certain accounts.  I don't want to single out any Tweep as being better than any other Tweep, and more importantly, we don't want to encroach upon anyone's privacy. Also, I'd rather not be singled out myself, because the idea of a lot of people following us makes me uncomfortable.

I'm such a paranoid person to begin with, and if I stop to think about the fact that over a hundred people are currently reading my personal thoughts....well, quite frankly it freaks us the fuck out.  I will admit that it'd be nice to get more readers for this blog, although I'm surprised at myself for thinking that.  After all, I began writing the blog for me, for the K's, to use as a record of my symptoms and moodswings and switching.  It seems odd that I'd be looking for exposure...but I would love to help someone out there who might be struggling with some of the same mental issues as we, the K's are.

Mainly, we use Twitter as a support system.  If I'm having an anxiety attack, I can send a tweet out into the universe and maybe, just maybe, someone will answer me and either chat with me until my panic has subsided or at least give us some words of encouragement.  My Tweeps have gotten me through the nightmare that is sitting in a waiting room on many occasions.  In addition to the support, I am also entertained; many of the people I follow are quite funny.  I mostly follow other people with mental health issues, because I can better relate to them than to regular, non-mental people.  In real life, I don't have any friends with whom I can discuss my eating disorder or Social Anxiety Disorder, but on Twitter there's always someone out there who understands and can empathize.

I avoided Twitter for so long....I used to make fun of my husband for using it.  Now, just 3 months after I first began following people, I am hooked.  A few of the K's tweet often, and many mornings when I go back and read the tweets from the past 24 hours, I am surprised at what they've (we've) said.  I'm also frequently embarrassed.  But that goes along with the nature of a dissociative disorder-you never know when you're going to dissociate and perhaps do or say something inappropriate, something that draws unwanted attention to us. I don't remember these things, or else I just get flashes or bits of them; usually I find out because someone will tell me or say something about how funny I was the other night, or make a comment about seeing me totally wasted (often what people think when I'm somewhere else in my mind).  I don't really mind people thinking I'm drunk or stoned; it's less embarrassing to me than the truth, when the truth is that I was someone else, or "out to lunch" in my head.

But on Twitter, and in this blog, I can be truthful about what's going on.  I can exclaim that I'm losing my mind or seeing bugs everywhere or whatever-and no one will think much of it.  In real life, I'd be stared at, laughed at, made to feel self-conscious and foolish.  So in many ways, Twitter and this blog are more representative of my real life than even my Real Life, where I have to hide my true self.  How ironic. Twitter, where people can lie and be whomever or whatever they want...and I happen to be more open and honest there than even in Real Life.

Shut Up Already!

K has a big fucking mouth and she just will not shut up. God! She embarrasses us to death! She must drive everyone crazy with her ramblings. On and on. She never stops. I'm not sure which K was in charge yesterday, but I'm ashamed of her. She completely crossed the line and talked to too many people, gave out too much personal information, and even shared some of our secrets.  We, the K's, are very angry with her for this lapse in judgement.  I'm not sure who she was, but she's a talker.

Man, she would not be silenced, and she spoke quickly (according to Husband) and loudly (according to our mother) and I'm totally humiliated today.  We had a couple of friends over last night, and I'm afraid that K got on their nerves.  Now, they gave no indication that this had happened last night, I'm just assuming that if this K got on our nerves, then she got on everyone else's as well.  I'm terrified of going back through my Tweets; God only knows what all was said and to whom.  It's a sad fact that even though I seem to recall a number of different conversations, I'm not certain today who those conversations were with.  This is quite common with us, in fact it's pretty much a daily occurrence in our life.  So every morning, whomever is out and about is supposed to go back through our Tweets and text messages and emails and Facebook posts, and try and piece together what happened the day before.  This doesn't always take place--a lot of times we forget to do this.  It depends on which K is in charge. Some of us are very self-conscious and worry incessantly about what was said and done the previous day and will not relax until we've read all those pieces of information which are available to us via computer or phone or handwritten journal entries.  Some days we find that K didn't talk to anyone at all, or she just barely interacted with others, choosing to show herself only to those certain few with whom she feels comfortable and who she likes and trusts (to some degree, not completely of course).  Just today our husband told us that there are days in which we talk a great deal (like yesterday) and days in which we stay quiet and hardly talk at all.  He knows now that these are different K's, and he's come to accept that.  He even admitted to me this morning that he very much likes the one he calls Switch Kellie, the one who first showed herself to him for a week back in January.  It seems to me that Dr. H, our psychiatrist, got to meet her too.  I really can't remember.  I suppose I should take the time everyday to re-read all the blog posts and journal entries so that I know exactly where we stand, mentally speaking, and so that we have knowledge of our prior behavior and activities.  But I've come to realize within the past 24 hours that I have a good many blog entries at this point, or at least more than I have time to read over again everyday.  Time is short, especially when you are someone who tends to lose time on a regular basis, and so we can't afford to spend too much of it refreshing our memory of the past several months.  We just have to check our day-to-day activities and interactions, and hope for the best, i.e. hope that we don't say something inappropriate or ask a stupid question (again) or in any way give away the secret that we actually don't remember much of anything that happened to us the day or night before.  Hell, we can't even remember what happened to us a few hours ago, much less days or months ago.  So everyday is like a crap shoot for us...We have to decide which blog posts to read, how many texts and Tweets to go back through, and how far back in our journal to explore, and all of these decisions will, in the end, affect our ability to carry on conversations with Tweeps or friends which make sense and follow the proper timeline. Since K has no concept of time, she usually can't recall when something happened to her, even if it happened that very morning or sometimes even in the past half hour.  I can't stress enough how frustrating this is, not just to K, but to all those parties involved.  K always ends up looking foolish, but she tries to play it off by just pretending that she'd been drunk or drugged at the time.  That's her fall-back excuse: that she was too impaired to remember things properly.  And the thing is, most of the time it works.  Most people really do believe that her forgetfulness is caused by pot-smoking or alcohol or all those pills K has to ingest every day.  We worry that our friends will figure out our secret at some point, hell I guess some of them have already figured it out by this time... I guess our memory loss is severe enough to be quite noticeable to everyone who's around us frequently.  I wonder what they think about that. I wonder if they think K is an idiot.  Or just a stupid pothead. 

Here's a good example of how easily we forget things: I am unable to remember what this blog post is about. I can't recall what I've just typed, and can't remember unless I scroll back up to the beginning and read it all over again.  I hesitate to do that, as it not only makes the perfectionist within us go crazy and try to correct each and every little mistake and we could end up spending hours rewriting this whole blog entry, but it also breaks the stream of consciousness which I like to just let go of and see where it leads us.  So I'm stuck now, stuck here in this situation in which I can't remember what I was talking about, but I don't really have time to find out, and so I'll just flounder and  flail about and try to compose some sort of blog post which has an understandable point and which all ties in together somehow.  I know, in my heart, that this is not going to happen.  I know that I will repeat myself, not just today and tonight but probably in this post alone, and that I do so all the time.  All the time.  Sigh. So much wasted time. So many lost memories.  Some of which we're glad to be rid of, others which could really help us in our recovery process if only we'd remember them.  It could be that every time K goes to therapy, she starts all over again, from the beginning, with her therapist. 

 I'm having a memory clip play in my mind right now, and it's showing me my doctor, and she's explaining to us that we've discussed these things before, whatever these things may be. I can see her looking at us, with this look in her eye, that says "I've told you this a hundred times".  I wonder if she and I are making any progress at all in K's treatment.  I wonder if she'll decide I'm too difficult to treat and just give up on me ever getting better, and dump us as a patient.  Our last therapist dumped us for forgetting too many appointments.  What if this doctor does the same thing? What if we get dropped again, and any progress which has been made is lost, and we must once again go to a new doctor, and spend the approximate 2 years it always takes for them to get an idea of what's really wrong with us? This would be a tragedy.  I don't know what makes me think this, but I have an idea that we, the K's, have gone further in our therapy with this current psychiatrist than we've ever come with any one prior to her.  We are learning, we are taking steps toward healing. We've made some progress.  I know this because I read some of our journal and some of our blog and I found that we're starting to remember things from our childhood.  Now K is absolutely terrified at the thought of having total recall of her childhood trauma(s).  She's not sure that she wants to remember, but some people (we can't remember who now) have told us that we can't truly heal unless we face our fears head-on.  So in order to get better, we have to see what all the fuss is about-we have to relive the horror that must've taken place at about age 4 (we've gleaned this information from the memories we've recovered and from old diary entries).

Shit.  I just paused to take a drink of water and I've once again lost my place and have no idea what I was talking about.  I don't want to read this post again. Maybe I should just shut the hell up.  Maybe I've said a whole lot of nothing.  I wouldn't be surprised at that. Not at all.  If only our brain would stay on track for more than just minutes at a time!  If only we could focus long and hard enough to finish a blog post!  Have any of our previous blog posts made sense or had a message?  Has this entire blog been a huge waste of my time, and yours, the reader's?  I shall stop now, for the shame and embarrassment is overtaking me at this point.  I'll just go take a pill and try and forget my humiliation.  It just popped into my mind that I could have blog posts which look and sound pretty much exactly like this one... now wouldn't that be funny and sad at the same time?  All I can really remember right now is that yesterday there was a K here who had a big mouth and wouldn't stop talking and spilled the beans to just about anyone and everyone and now, today, right now, the K that's doing the typing of this post is completely humiliated and feels as though everyone out there in the cyber world is laughing at us.  Are you laughing at us?  Do all of you make fun of us all the time?  Am I the laughing stock of Twitter?  Or is this just K's paranoia taking control of our mind and twisting things around so that K looks like a failure at everything she's attempted to do with this blog?  What was this blog post about again? Oh yes. One more thing, before I forget (HAHA!), I'd like to apologize to all those Tweeps with whom I had interactions yesterday and last night and even early this morning. I'm very sorry that I talked your ears off.  I'm sorry that I was a nuisance.  I'm sorry if I bothered you, or if I've been bothering you for quite some time now.  I really can't remember what's been happening since...well, I don't know.  I just can't remember.

Not Too Early To Tweet

It's 7:04 A.M. and I'm up with no one to talk to or nothing to do and I can't make any noise or else we'll wake somebody up so I can't vacuum or anything like that and I can't leave the house so taking a walk is out of the question and I just don't know what to do with myself.  So many voices in my head, all talking at once, each one trying to be heard over the others. I'm being told to eat, to go back to bed, to blog, to make a list of today's errands, to wash our hair, to give ourselves a pedicure, to draw pictures in our sketch diary, and someone wants a cigarette. Several of us want to write, just in different places-one wants to write in our journal, one wants to sketch in our diary, and a couple want to blog.  I guess blogging wins, as it has the most votes.  Our psychiatrist is going to be disappointed in us (she wants handwritten journal entries). Oh well.  We don't care right now. Another K can handle that task. The Good Daughter will be here once Mom wakes up, and she's trying to spend less time on the computer and pay more attention to her family, so I guess I better blog in a hurry.

It's been a strange couple of days (or has it been weeks? We're just not sure) and I find that we are missing Twitter.  We think it's time to go back to Tweeting, which is our outlet, where we share honest thoughts and actions and where we are free to be whomever we happen to be.  Some of us have friends on Twitter, and we miss talking to them.  I wonder how everyone is doing.  I think maybe I'll have a cup of coffee and either blog or Tweet....stay tuned...

We just haven't been ourself (LOL!) lately.  That means we haven't felt like K, whatever that means.  Wait-I seem to remember K being out yesterday for a few hours.  I didn't have therapy last week, which bums us out, but the lady never called to tell me when to come in.  I suppose I should've called them, but that's really hard for us, calling people I mean.  I guess one of us will have to call them tomorrow.  The Good Daughter I assume. She's here most of the time lately, co-conscious with other K's. Co-consciousness means that you are more aware of what others in your system are doing; you know what they're feeling and thinking.  Like right now. The Good Daughter just spoke to Mom. I heard her. I guess that means our time is up...

Charging my phone now.  Prepare for Tweeting today- Yay! We've missed Twitter, and it's been difficult to keep our thoughts in our head and share them only with our psychiatrist, because we're still afraid to be totally open and honest with her.

Disconnected

We've been struggling.  We feel terribly guilty, but we can't remember what it is we did wrong.  I can't figure out who I'm supposed to be today.  The Good Daughter is taking care of Mom but it's not real.  I'm not in control of that "me", she just comes out and takes charge of things around the house.  I'm glad she's able to do those things, such as give our mother her medications and put ice packs on her back and bring her food and water.  Mom is very sick right now and is in a lot of pain.  She needs us.

Husband needed K this morning, but she just couldn't pull it together. Tried to fake it for his sake. We're all over the place, feel disconnected from everything. We went into some kind of trance state, or maybe we were just dissociating, but Husband says I was staring into space and unresponsive for a few minutes.  We were at a shopping mall, and then Husband left us alone for just a few minutes, and I had a freakout.  There was just too much for me to deal with-too many people, too many voices, too many colors-I was overstimulated. Just too much noise. Too much movement. Everything was just too much. Had to get out of there.

Took an Alprazalam and tried to drive home, but it was hard. Couldn't concentrate. Can't focus. Had to keep repeating out loud to myself where it was that I was going, or else I'd have forgotten. So we're driving down the road saying, "We're going home. We're going home. Just go home." but man it was hard today.  Sometimes we can't drive.  Too much to look at.  Distractions everywhere. And I forget what I'm doing, I forget that I'm driving.  It's amazing I've not wrecked and died.

We haven't Tweeted in what seems like a long time, but I don't really know how long it's been-could be days, could be months.  For some reason I'm afraid to get on Twitter now.  We miss several of the Tweeps but feel too ashamed to come out of hiding.  I guess that's what we're doing now, hiding.  Not unusual for the K's.  But I miss Twitter. It was an outlet for my madness. Why did I stop? Why can't I go back?  I just can't remember. I can't remember how to get back to being "here". We are lost. Lost inside our head apparently. Who the hell am I now? Need to take meds and just go to bed.  Maybe when we wake up, we'll be someone everybody likes.  I hope so.  It's so important that people like us. Don't know why, it just is.

I caught myself smoking a cigarette this morning. I don't smoke anymore.  Thought that was odd. Blog post from last night (? I think) is embarrassing and I'm ashamed of us.  I'd delete it but this blog is my record of my illness and symptoms and I guess it's important to keep it since it was written by that angry K.  I hate when she comes out.  She draws negative attention to us. And she hurts people. I seem to recall that she screamed at Husband sometime....not sure when, but I remember the look in his eyes and it was very sad. We feel terrible about that. He doesn't understand our sudden outbursts of anger. I think he's worried about us...

Damn.  I want to blog but can't concentrate. Can't figure out what to write about. Need to empty my head, which is overflowing with information and thoughts of all kinds, but can't seem to do that today.  Hmm.  Pills I took are kicking in and I'm getting sleepy.  Yay;! Naptime at last!  Hope this works, and brings "me" back.

I'm so very sorry if I've said or done something bad or hurtful or inconsiderate. I don't want to be like that. But I realize that some of the K's are less congenial.  Shit.  We're just going to go to bed for a while..,

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.

Another Day, Another Dilemma

Lost.  A whole day and night, for the most part, just gone.  I feel like I've been manic and have just crashed.  I also feel like I've been doing a hell of a lot of talking and socializing but I can't remember with whom.  Pretty sure we made some new online friends....now if only we could remember their names.  That's so annoying-to know that I made conversation with someone and we got along well but then after it's over I can't remember who they were or what we talked about.  Makes friendships difficult online.  In real life, I can at least recognize a person's face (well, sometimes) but even then I still have trouble remembering conversations, or even names. I've been trying so hard to develop a support system for us on Twitter, and I think we've done a pretty good job, only when I really need to talk to someone about something important, I can't remember just who it is that I'm close to. *sigh*  Truthfully speaking, I don't know if I'm actually close to anyone, either online or in real life.  And it's far too embarrassing to tweet everybody, asking if we're friends or not.  Plus, the paranoia is stifling me.  I'm paranoid I might've been the mean K at some point, and perhaps said something horrible to another Tweep and maybe I've angered someone or worse, hurt someone's feelings.  I worry so much about what other people think about us; that's the number one reason we keep our illness a secret from the outside world.  My closest friends don't know about my mental illness.  A lot of people know I take anti-depressants and so they assume I'm just chronically depressed or maybe bipolar or something they're familiar with.  I would never dare tell anyone about my dissociative disorder.  That's just TOO weird.  People can't wrap their brains around it. I don't want people to look at me differently, or treat me differently, or talk about me behind my back.  So I hide my symptoms.  From everyone.  Most of the people I hang out with in real life have been with different K's at different times but never even knew.  Because I keep quiet.  I'm shy, and I"m scared of revealing my terrible secret.  This disorder I have is the stuff of Hollywood movies, the type of mental illness that's always portrayed in a negative light, as though we are dangerous or deceptive. I don't think I'm either of those things, although I am aware that one of the K's has tendencies to do things which we find questionable or even wrong.  But that's not all of me.

 I have different me's, different parts of me which have different functions and different personalities and I can't always be sure that everyone is doing what they're supposed to be doing.  After all, I don't have access to my entire mind, just to parts of it now and then.  I know about several of the K's, but I don't know how many of us there are, nor do I know which ones come out most frequently or which ones have the most friends or anything like that.  I wonder if we'd have any friends at all if we were to expose ourselves and admit to everyone we have an illness.  I don't think they'd be able to handle it.  I think everything would change and I'd never be looked at the same way again.  So I've turned my search for friends online, where people can't stare at me or pass judgements based upon how I look or dress or behave in public.  Online, I am honest about who and what I am.  Everyone I've met on Twitter knows I'm mental, and they accept it.  Most everyone I talk to on Twitter is mental as well, and that's the way I prefer it.  I can't relate to "normal" people, because I'm not normal.  I would much rather converse with someone who understands what it's like to be afraid of people or to hear voices in their head.  I need empathy, and that's something that my real life, "sane" friends simply cannot give me.  They will never understand.  No one can, unless they've experienced it themselves.  I had a counselor once who'd attempted suicide at one point in her life.  I trusted her because she'd been where I was.  She "got it".  That's what I need.  People who get it.  And I seem to be finding these people-everyday I get up and find evidence of my having chatted or DM'd or emailed or texted people and it seems to me that we've had a conversation or an exchange of some kind that has had a positive impact on my state of mind.  I know I'm finding support, I have physical evidence in the form of notes or a journal or texts on my phone.  So I'm accomplishing my mission, which has been, since I joined Twitter in December, to find others like me.  I just have to sortof start all over every morning, figuring out who I talked with and what we talked about.  This is impossible of course.  So if you are reading this and you are one of the several people with whom I've conversed recently, then by all means say hello!  Please don't take it personally that I can't remember our conversation or personal info about you. Hell, I'm doing good if I can recognize a person's name as that of someone I know.  A lot of times I'll see people in my timeline who I just know I've talked with before, but I'm too afraid to interact with them because it's just too embarrassing to admit that I have forgotten everything I knew about them.  Now, after a certain period of time, these things get better.  If I talk to you everyday, of course I'm going to remember you better than if I only talk to you once a week.  Now I must tell you, some of the K's are very social and love to talk, but others are quite shy and try to avoid contact with others.

 There's no way of knowing which K is tweeting at any particular time (except the mean one is easily recognizable, and probably the little girl too, though she's never used Twitter before as far as I know) so if you send me a Tweet and don't hear back from me, I'm sorry.  It usually means I just can't remember how I know you.  Some of you I've grown quite fond of, but I have trouble separating in my mind the ones I know well and the ones I don't know very well.  I see the names in the timeline everyday, so they are familiar to me and this confuses me further.  I guess what I'm trying to say is, I feel like I've had a very productive week, in that I made new friends and had really nice conversations and made connections with people, I'm just having trouble now remembering who those people were.  If we have interacted before, then by all means you should feel confident in speaking to me.  If I don't remember you at all, I'll be honest and tell you, but please don't take this to mean that I don't like you or that our conversation wasn't meaningful to me.  I just have a shit memory, and with the lost time and blackouts, it's a miracle somedays that I can remember my own name.  To sum up, thank you to everyone who has made an effort to be my friend.  We really do appreciate it.  It means a lot to us.  But if you want to talk to me, it might not be a bad idea to say something like "Hi, we spoke Thursday about the new Tim Burton movie" or just give me some kind of clue as to your identity.  If I interact with you more frequently, I'll learn your name and personal info quicker.  I just need that chance.  If I've introduced myself to someone and then never spoke to you again, it's because I've no memory of us meeting.  I always have to be reminded of everything. And I do mean everything.  To prove my point-it's 6:00 p.m. now and I find that I've forgotten to get dressed today.  I'm still in my pajamas and I don't think I remembered to eat today either.  This is my normal.  It's a guessing game really.  Just be patient with me-I'm a really good friend to have, if you can just stick around long enough to get to that point. I'm not going to lie, it's hard to be my friend. Not just because of the memory loss, but because I'm moody and just plain weird.  Most importantly, perhaps, is the fact that I don't trust people. Not ever. This makes it very difficult to get close to me.  But I long to be close to people, or at least just a couple of people, just so I don't feel so alone in this journey of life. I need friends. Everyone does.  It's usually pretty easy for me to make friends, but hard for me to keep them, because I literally forget them when they're not around.  I guess all of this sounds ridiculous, and I suppose it is, but this is my reality.  I have to be reminded who my friends are.  I don't know what I'd do without Husband with me, telling me who people are when we are out in public. He reminds me of how I know them, when we've hung out, what we've done together.  If I didn't have his support and assistance, I'd never be able to go out. (which I don't do all that often anyway)  To put it simply, please be patient with me and try to understand that I can like you and be your friend, even if I don't always remember you or our previous conversation.  I know it's frustrating, but believe me it's a lot worse for me than for you.  I may ask you the same questions over and over again, but that doesn't mean I'm not listening.  I just have a hard time retaining information.  Stick around and I'll eventually get to know you.  It just takes me a long time.  You know what? I've totally forgotten what this blog post is about.  I have no idea what I've been talking about, or whether this post even has a point.  So now I must read it over again, probably for the twentieth time... God I'm exhausted.  I wonder if I remembered to sleep last night?  To all those Tweeps out there who spoke to me in the past 2 days or 2 months, thank you. Thank you for talking to me, thank you for noticing me, thank you for giving me a chance.  Now let's do it again.

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.

A Good Day?! How'd That Happen?

I'm still having a hard time believing it, but it seems that I had a good day. I need to write down everything that happened so that I can read this in the future on a bad day and be able to remember this good day, since they are so few and far between. (the idea was a Twitter pal's) DISCLAIMER: This post is boring.  There's no violence, no self-injury, no drug use, no sex. It's a totally Disney blog post. But I'm writing this for ME, and I need to hear all these little details. 

First of all, I got up without the aid of an alarm clock, and was able to get into the kitchen and brew a pot of coffee before our mother ever got out of bed.  I lurked on Twitter for a little while, never actually making my presence known, while waiting for Mom.  After she was up, I helped her take her medications, then I went back to my room and sipped my coffee leisurely as I thumbed through my closet.  In no time at all, I'd picked out an outfit to wear to the psychiatrist's office.  It surprised me just how easy this task was for me; picking something to wear is an ordeal which often takes hours (sometimes from trying on so many different outfits, sometimes from indecisiveness).  Today, I didn't even think twice before grabbing a new pair of jeans.  I even went so far as to pick out a top in a color other than black, which practically never happens.  I still refuse to believe it, but I've had more than one therapist tell me I'd be less depressed if I quit wearing black all the time. Whatever.  Black is K's favorite color (well, most of us) and we wear it at some point every day.

After finishing my coffee, I took a long steamy shower using a luxuriously scented body wash and even went so far as to shave, which I've not done in a long while since I've been so depressed.  I dried off with my over-sized, super fluffy towel and then put on our favorite black velvety robe with the leopard trim.  I then took the time to apply perfumed body lotion all over, and I really enjoyed the scent-it made me happy.  After that I got myself a refill of coffee-I even had my favorite flavored creamer-and I paused to scan the headlines on Google news on my laptop.  Checked my email and was thrilled to find an unexpected message from a dear friend.  (I hope I remember to write her back!)  So back to the bedroom and time to get dressed.  My jeans seemed to button a little easier than normal-could we have lost a pound or two?  That was the first truly awesome moment of the day, the thought that I'd perhaps lost a little weight.  I fixed my hair, and considered putting on makeup (I really wanted to wear some) but I thought about how I often cry at some point in therapy and decided no makeup was better than smeared makeup.  Of course I donned my black sunglasses-to hide my face-and I kissed my Husband goodbye.  He was supposed to go to therapy with us, but he worked the night before until after 2:00 A.M. and I hated to wake him so early. So I went alone.

The drive was easy and I wasn't even nervous, which is VERY rare.  I think I might even have sung along to some music on the way there.  Next memory I have is sitting in my psychiatrist's office, wondering if I could even think of anything to talk about.  I don't remember much about our last session, (that was a different K) and I seemed to be having a good day so I didn't know of any immediate problems which needed addressing.  I sat down, and I think I might even have smiled a little bit, and luckily Dr. H began asking me questions.  That's so much easier for me to deal with, with her choosing the topic. It's hard when she just asks "How are you?"

She asked me if I'd done my homework assignment, and I was proud to tell her I'd accomplished 2 of the 3 things she'd wanted me to do.  I was even able to briefly make eye contact with her today, but I don't think she knew it because I kept on my magic you-can't-see-me-when-I-wear-them sunglasses.  Even though I was having a good day, it still wasn't enough to give me the courage to take them off.  They are part of my disguise.  Hiding, always, always hiding...

She asked me if I had any sort of rituals.  I was quiet for a bit, then admitted that yes, I do have rituals, but I didn't think she'd like them if I told her what they were.  Those are my own personal rituals, which I share with no one.  Suffice it to say they are controversial and self-destructive.  She told me she wanted me to come up with some new ritual, something that I can do at the same time every morning or at bedtime or whenever I choose.  She wants me to come up with something healthy, relaxing, and healing.  I'll be thinking about that for several days I'm sure.  Hopefully, I can come up with something and begin practicing it right away.  I need something to clear my head and unburden my heart.  Maybe a bedtime bubble bath? A pedicure? Drawing in my sketch diary?

I'm not sure my psych realized it, but the person sitting in front of her on this day was NOT the same person who'd been in her office just 3 days earlier.  She was the sad, weak, pathetic K who can't control her emotions or actions.  I'm a much better person, more in control of myself, and I'd even go so far as to say that I'm happy, not all the time, but way more than the others.  I'm the K who many of my friends know. Smiling, witty, fun to be around, capable of handling herself in a crisis.  Too bad I'm not always around; I can't remember being around for a good long while now.  Anyway, back to the story of my very rare good day.  I got through therapy and never shed a tear; after all, I am not the depressed K.  Seems like I told my doc I'd try and take better care of K, but it's all fuzzy now and I can't really remember.

Once I got home, I took my meds and went outside on the back porch and sat in the swing for awhile.  It was a beautiful day-sunny and warm-and I took advantage of that fact.  I also figured it'd be good for us to get some sun.  K doesn't like to get out in the sun as she has very pale skin and the two don't mix well. Plus, she's obsessed with staying young and the sun ages you; she always wears sunscreen even if she doesn't go outside.  But back to our story.  We stayed outside for a little while, listening to the birds singing, feeling the warm Spring-like breeze, noticing that some of the flowers in the yard have started to bloom.  It was good for my soul, just relaxing outside like that, and I don't do things like that very often.  I don't like to waste time, since I lose so much of it already.

When it was time for lunch, not only did I eat a delicious AND sensible meal, but I did not throw up afterwards.  I actually kept my food down.  So that's an accomplishment.  I cleaned up the lunch dishes and by this time it was 3:00 in the afternoon and my husband had some errands to do.  So I asked if I could come along and he said sure and so we rode in the car with Husband, listening to music and chatting pleasantly.  No drama. Nothing serious came up.  We just talked, about silly stuff, nothing really.  It was awesome!  I was so proud of myself for keeping things light.  But then again, I AM casual and light-hearted, whenever I'm around. So we drove downtown and went here and there and I was smiling and friendly the whole time.  After he finished all his work, sometime around 5ish, he asked me if I'd like to go to happy hour somewhere.  I told him that sounded great, and I meant it.  I was excited to go out to a bar and have a drink or two.  I mean, I was in a fantastic mood.  So he chose one of his favorite bars, it's dark and smoky and filled with regulars, many of whom know my husband.  So there were some conversations here and there, and we sat at the bar and had drinks and just chilled out for a while.  I actually had a good time, and that's not usually the case in a crowded public place.

We headed home about 6:00 and I thought to stop and get Mom a salad to have for dinner; she was really happy about that.  She ate her salad and Husband went back to his study to do some work and so I had free time.  I got on the laptop and I still can't believe it, but not only did I make my presence known on Twitter, but I actually interacted with 5 different people!  That's a record for me-I usually talk to no one.  K is quite shy and usually just Tweets to no one or reads other people's Tweets; she doesn't have the courage to talk to anyone.  So it was quite a big deal to me.  I felt very satisfied at the end of the day.  And I have to say that conversing with someone on Twitter is far more therapeutic than just lurking.  I must remember that!

We watched a little TV that night, and of course took a ton of medications, but for a change I didn't take a nap at all. (Usually K has to take a nap or two because the meds make her so sleepy)  A friend of Husband's came over later in the evening and we all drank some beers and goofed off.  I felt very social and made jokes and was quite charming, if I do say so.  At the end of the day, I put on my freshly-washed soft pajamas and took a cup of tea to my bedside, where I sat up reading for a good while. We've been reading books on dissociative disorders, and this particular book was written by a man who has DID/MPD.  K is learning as much as possible about dissociative disorders and derealization and depersonalization.  So we read for awhile, then Husband came to bed and we turned off the lights and cuddled.  I fell asleep in his arms, feeling warm and safe and loved.

My good day was Monday.  I probably should've written this post that night, while all the memories and feelings were still fresh.  But K procrastinates and/or forgets things...so this post wasn't written until Wednesday.  Hopefully I didn't forget anything important about my good day.  Oh yes, and incidentally, Monday was the only good day; everything was back to "normal" the next morning, unfortunately. At least the rarity of good days makes me appreciate them more.

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...

What the Hell Am I Doing Here?!?

I've never done this before. I don't even know if I'll be able to do it or not.  But I'm going to give it a shot.  I've recently joined the Twitter craze, or at least I've only recently followed and been followed by people. Before that I was just too paranoid to expose myself to anyone.  (I'm actually afraid someone who knows me in real life will be able to find my Twitter page and discover my dirty secrets, even though I've not used my name or location.)  I guess I've been Tweeting to "me" for awhile now.  That doesn't make any sense, but neither do I most of the time.  I have to vent in some way, and if I can't talk to my psychiatrist then I tend to look for other outlets, not all of them positive.  Translation:  There's so much going on inside my head that it has to come out of me or I will explode-or implode!-and if a therapy session is not available then I will turn to other means of self-expression, and some of these are damaging. I self-harm, I self-medicate, I engage in risky behavior.  I'm searching for a healthy alternative.  Tweets are great for venting, but I often have more to say than a mere 140 characters will allow.  Hence, this blog.


 The first thing you need to understand is that I am so OCD that it literally takes me hours to write a single paragraph.  I edit, rewrite, redo things over and over again, in an attempt to get it PERFECT, which of course is not possible.  This means that I'm setting myself up for failure before I've even started.  The rational part of my brain realizes this, but it's usually overruled by the rest of me.  No matter how hard I try, I can never get it right.  I can never be satisfied with anything I do, because it's never good enough.  I've had this problem my whole life.  I was a straight-A student in school, because I had to be the best, and once in 5th grade a teacher was going to give me an 89-which is a B-and I was so distraught I became suicidal and ended up going to the principal about it and getting that grade changed to a 90, an A.  So this is not a new thing for me-I am a perfectionist through and through.  It sucks.  Nothing is ever the way I want it.

Next, you need to understand that I am many people, many personalities, many "ME's".  I was once diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder, but that's incorrect, as most of my personalities are fully aware of the others.  I have been in situations in which people I didn't recognize knew me by a different name and knew personal details about me, so I can see where that diagnosis came from.  But the next doctor got to know me better, and my diagnosis changed to Dissociative Identity Disorder. This is believed to stem from my being molested as a small girl.  If things are stressful, if things get to be too much for me, I will dissociate....I will leave my mind behind me and go someplace else and/or become someone else. This is hard to explain to people who've never experienced it.  Basically, it just means I'm not there anymore.  I may be sitting beside you, but my mind is off on its own and I'm oblivious to my surroundings. This can go on for minutes or even days.  I lose time.  What this means is, sometimes I will "wake up", become aware, and realize that I have no memory of what I've been doing up to that point.  I may not know where I am or how I got there.  In extreme cases, I may not even know who I am. Times like that scare the shit out of me.  My point is, I don't know exactly who will be writing this blog.  The me I am today may not be the me I am tomorrow.  So my writing style changes.  Also, I often speak in third person, talking about myself as though I'm a separate individual and calling myself by name, and I unconsciously switch from "I" to "we" during conversation. Please excuse the improper grammar. (It drives me crazy too)


I'm not sure how much I'm supposed to write now...but my mind is getting tired.  I have more to say than I could ever possibly type, and I suppose all the crap in my head will make its way to this blog eventually.  Or not.  I probably won't even remember this tomorrow.  That's the third thing you need to know.  Because of my mental illness, and because of the large quantities of medications which I take, I have serious memory problems.  I practically have NO short-term memory.  I will walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, and by that time I'll forget why I was going there.  It's also quite embarrassing for me; I will introduce myself to the same people repeatedly, having no memory of having met them before.  It makes me look really stupid,  and that is something I am not.  Yes, I am bonkers, but I am not an idiot! LOL  I don't know if anyone out there will find anything entertaining in this blog, hell I don't know if anyone but me will ever read it...but I was thinking that perhaps I might help someone who's mentally ill by letting them know that they are not alone.