Emergency Therapy

I had to go see my psychiatrist for an emergency appointment the other day. This was the first time I'd ever tried to see her without a scheduled appointment; I wasn't sure she'd see me at all.  At first it seemed like she wouldn't see me, as two hours passed after I made my shaky, tear-filled phonecall to her office and still no one had called me back as they'd promised.  I was completely honest about my reasons for needing to see her so urgently. I told the receptionist that one of my friends had died and that I was having a complete and utter meltdown.  Her tone of voice never changed-it was professional-when she explained that Dr. H was with a patient and she'd have to talk to her and get back to me as soon as was possible.  I hung up the phone wondering if I'd wasted my time. What made it even harder to deal with was the fact that I'd sat patiently by the phone all morning, waiting for the time to come whereupon their office would open so I could call.  And then they tell me someone will get back to me. And then I sit, and I wait for the call. All the while, I'm going more and more out of my mind.  I was really not doing well at all that day, in fact I'd been doing poorly for a thousand days by that point in time.

We're not entirely certain when the event happened, but my psychiatrist and I have used my journal, this blog, and my Tweets and text messages to get an idea of a timeline. My doctor believes that my friend Bill died sometime around June 4.  The blog entry made on June 5 was written in a dissociated state; my doctor believes he died sometime between the evening of June 4 and the morning of June 5, as that's when I seemed to completely lose my mind. I don't remember these things. I don't remember when Bill died. I don't remember freaking out, but there's evidence right here in this blog.  I don't know how much time passed between my freakout and my emergency psych appointment...I just know that someone pushed me to make the call to my doctor, and eventually I did.  I thought I could handle Bill's death, I really thought I was OK. But I was very far from OK. The first thing I had to deal with was the terrible, overbearing guilt I felt. I felt guilty because I'd been meaning to email Bill, and catch up with him, see how he was doing.  I kept putting it off. I'd emailed him a few months earlier, and found out he had been sick, but I had no idea just how bad it was. And so I procrastinated.  And now it is too late. I will never be able to email Bill again.  That's hard to believe, hard to accept. I've known him since I was 17 years old and first moved to the city to go to college. He lived downstairs in my apartment building and we became friends. We even dated briefly, but it was his best friend who became my long-term boyfriend. Which means I was around Bill all the time. I was good friends with his girlfriend, and the four of us went out all the time, and took trips to Florida or to New Orleans together.  I had a lot of wild and crazy times with Bill. He was quite a character. A punk rocker with a mohawk and a motorcycle jacket. He loved tattoos, hot rods, and whiskey.  He looked all rough and tough but he had a sensitive side which he worked hard to keep hidden. The only reason I even know about it is because as I said earlier, we dated briefly. It didn't last long, and it ended with me shoving him naked out of my apartment and throwing his clothes out the door after him.  That makes me laugh even as the tears well up in my eyes thinking about it. Oh, Bill. I can't believe you're dead.  Making this all the more difficult is the fact that there will be no funeral, as per Bill's wishes.  He wasn't a religious guy and I'm not surprised he requested cremation with no service. But that puts me in a position in which I'm unable to say goodbye in any formal way.  There won't be a grave I can visit. I can't place flowers at the site of an accident. Nothing. He's just...gone.

When I finally got the call from my shrink's office, they told me to come right then at that very moment. So I ran out the door as is, hair unkempt, no makeup, tear-streaked face. I don't remember driving there but I do remember that once I got to the office, the receptionist was very kind and asked me if I'd like to sit in a private room (there were several people in the waiting room).  And so it happened that I was able to sit secluded and cry without embarrassment until my doctor was able to squeeze me in and talk to me. I don't remember everything about the session itself. I told her I was missing a lot of time and we did some investigation work using my journals and cell phone. She had told me at the last session to get a calendar and begin writing everything down, so that I might be able to keep track of my days and nights without losing so much time. So I'd been doing that, I'd been writing things down...and then there was a gap. Just suddenly, all the information cuts off. I have no idea where I was or what I was doing during that chunk of time, and we've come to gather that it's about 15 hours.  She told me that she believes I was in a dissociated state this entire time. I'm missing 15 hours. You have no idea how disconcerting that is unless you've experienced it.  It's like a drunken blackout, only there is no alcohol involved and you're not hungover afterwards. Also, you don't pass out. I was conscious during those 15 hours, and I have a feeling I never left my house. But anything else? It's just a blank.  My psychiatrist and I determined that we could never truly know what happened during that time period, and so far no one has come forward with any sort of damning evidence against me for some horrible stunt I pulled while I was blacked out, so I'm going to assume that I didn't get into any trouble.  If I had to take a stab at a guess, I'd say I was crying. Possibly curled up in a fetal position on the bed.

 “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”   ~Kahlil Gibran

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.

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.

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.

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)

• 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?

School Daze

I've been asked how it is that I was able to get through high school/college and maintain a 4.0 GPA as long as I did with a memory as spotty as mine as well as the dissociative episodes I've had since childhood.  It was not easy, that's what I'm supposed to say.  But, well, actually, it was at first... I believe I've already blogged about how I was such a perfectionist and so I had to be a straight-A student.  I had to win all the awards, get my picture in the paper, have a closet full of trophies and plaques. Everything I did had to be PERFECT.  Well, believe it or not,  from 1st through 12th grade, my memory was extraordinary-photographic even. (But it was only when pertaining to books and school work; I've never remembered  much about my earlier years or ballet classes or soccer practice, etc)  I never studied for a test, I simply read the material in the morning, before that class, and I was able to recall all the information later when taking the test.  I think I became Smart K on the way to school and she stayed in control of my body and mind for the school day.  I'm not kidding.  Some part of me was always whispering answers in my ear and plus I could remember things in a way that suggests a camera taking a snapshot. 

 I could literally see the pages of my textbook in my mind and read what was written on them.  It was simultaneously bizarre and cool. Sometimes, it even seemed I knew the answers before the questions were asked, as though I were psychic or something; I always explained this as my spirit leaving my body and peeking at the answers, then willing me the knowledge. Weird, yes, but I know now that I was dissociating at those moments. But I took advantage of this special ability,  up until the day came when I simply could no longer do it.  Perhaps due to my taking psych meds ages 16-19, I'm not sure. I lost my photographic memory shortly after I'd transferred from business school back to art school.  I don't remember when or how or even why it happened.  (You can't blame it on smoking pot-I never tried that until my mid-20's) I just remember being unable to recall phone numbers and apartment numbers, little things at first, hardly noticeable. Then my grades began to slip-I remember my first "imperfect" grade; I physically wanted to die. I was studying like a maniac, at all hours of the day and night. At some point in time, my memory began to seriously slip, and it rapidly got worse, until I had/have the memory of a senile old lady. As my memory worsened, my dissociation seemed to increase in severity and duration. But remember- at that time, not only was I living "all natural" (meaning without psych meds) but I didn't realize that anything was really wrong with me when it came to these "out of body experiences".  Yes, I'd been to see countless therapists and doctors and taken all sorts of medications for different mental illnesses, so I knew something was wrong, but I had no idea that my losing time and memories and talking to the voices in my head was abnormal.  I just thought I was different.  People always talk about that "little voice inside your head". I thought I was special and had more than one. 

Go back to my first year of college, when the pressure was first building....I had always been a good student and now suddenly I was having to work hard to maintain my grade point average.  I couldn't concentrate anymore, I was unable to focus my attention on my studies.  I became so stressed out that I overdosed on sleeping pills and my friend had to take me to the hospital to get my stomach pumped.  I don't remember that; I think it happened to "someone else" and I just heard about it from my friends.  Another time, that same year (Freshman year) I overdosed on No-Doze.  I told myself I had to stay awake to study, so I swallowed the whole box.  At the ER, the doctor told me I had enough caffeine in me to kill an elephant; I told him he just didn't understand-I had a very important philosophy paper to write.  I never realized until then that you could OD and/or die on caffeine.  After that I was careful about what kinds and how many pills we kept in the house. It was pretty obvious that someone inside me was a threat to my own self.

As my memory continued to slip away, so did my social life.  I was no longer eager to attend all the parties and social functions that we once had enjoyed so much (Note only some of the K's are very sociable).  Memory problems lead to embarrassment (like when you forget your teacher's name in class) and humiliation (like when a guy asked for my phone number and I couldn't remember it).  Classes got harder and harder as the years passed.  I went from being on the President's Honors List and taking extra-load classes in order to graduate early, to dropping courses and taking only a few art classes which I could barely concentrate on.  I was getting further and further behind in my school work.  I was an artist but found it harder and harder to pick up my paintbrush.  Somewhere during this time period, about age 23, I went back on psych meds, and that did wonders for my mood but squelched my creativity.  I could no longer think.  After 6 years, I had changed my major 4 times, switched schools 3 times, and finally just had to give up and drop out. (I was also having some health problems) It was supposed to be a temporary break-a vacation of sorts, to help me get my life back together and relax for awhile and become more stable.  But months turned into years and instead of going back to school, I went back to the psych hospital.  Sigh. 

So much potential, wasted.  I don't think I'll ever get over the guilt I feel for not finishing school.  My parents were so proud of me at one point-I was the first in the immediate family to go to college.  Then I became a subject "we just don't talk about".  My sister, who is 20 years my senior, was never told of my mental illness back then, and so she hated me for squandering my education and opportunities.  She thought I was a selfish, lazy bitch who just wanted to have fun and not take life seriously.  How ironic it is that now, I take life TOO seriously.  Oh yes, and my sister knows now about my mental illness, but she doesn't understand at all.  At least she doesn't hate me anymore, but it'd be nice to be able to talk to her about my problems.  Oh well, I guess that's what my psychiatrist is for.  And who knows?  Maybe one day I WILL go back to school.  I'll have to win the lottery first, since from what I understand, my being deemed mentally disabled means I'm unable to attend school without losing my benefits i.e. my health insurance. So until the day comes when I can afford insurance (or can move to some country with free healthcare) I'll have to remain a college drop-out.  I should've had a master's degree by now.  Damn.  Still, I can dream...Stranger things have happened to me/us!

What Were We Talking About?

I want to tell you a story.  I really do.  However, there's a problem.  My indecisiveness is overbearing-I can't choose the story.  Not only are there more choices running around in my head than I could ever chase down and dissect, but I just can't seem to focus long enough to finish an entire tale anyway.  My concentration is non-existent right now.  In fact, I can forget what I'm saying in the middle of a sentence.  I can't keep track...my mind is jumping around this way and that way.  I'm plagued by memory issues, as you know, and this indecision is made worse by this fact (by the time the waiter has told me the specials, I've forgotten them and thus can't decide). This is something that I have to deal with on more days than not.  It's unbelievably frustrating to forget the subject of a conversation shortly after the talking begins, but that is my reality for much of my waking life.  How do I handle these instances?  Well, first and foremost,  we always make it a point to say something about how bad my memory is, so that it doesn't come as much of a shock to the people I'm talking to. (and if I happen to be in a situation where drugs and/or alcohol are in use, then that is a convenient excuse which I often give)  Anyone who knows me well can tell you how they've had to repeat things to me,  until they are fed up with me asking.  It's true, I ask the same questions over and over again, but I truly cannot remember asking before then, much less remember the answers to these questions.  That's just more than I can manage.  Most anything is difficult to remember.  ANYTHING.  Add to that our lack of concentration, and you'll find that I'm pretty much screwed.

I have to write things down, literally, or I will forget them. Everything.  Even simple everyday tasks that must be done by every person on the planet-things like eating and sleeping-are difficult for me to remember.  I will very often forget to eat, and when I lived alone I would sometimes go a few days without food; I'd eat once the emptiness in my stomach turned to actual pain.  Feeling empty is something I'm used to-I have an eating disorder and rarely eat so it's not uncommon for me to be hungry.  But the pain, well the pain will make me eat.  Same goes for sleep.  I can forget to sleep, and I'll just continue about my business until I get so exhausted that I'll just pass out for hours on end.  I don't know why I can't get myself on some sort of schedule, which would indicate when it's time for me to eat and sleep.  I guess the reason this won't work is because I have no sense of time.  I can't tell when it's morning or evening.  It all feels the same to me, I often don't know if it's A.M. or P.M. without looking out the window.

Damn.  I just read what I've written and it seems I've veered off course.  The subject was supposed to be  lack of concentration.  Hmm.  I guess getting off topic actually helps illustrate my point though...  I can't focus long enough to finish my train of thought.  I have to rewrite sentences, even whole paragraphs, because I am all over the place with my thoughts.  I just cannot concentrate.  I can't do it.  I try and try....but it's just not happening.  This is infuriating at times, and it certainly affects my quality of life.  I love to read, and to escape into a book...but with my lack of concentration, I'm unable to read much anymore and that makes me very sad.  I still try to read of course, as I'm hungry for knowledge as well as escapism, but it's exhausting; I have to reread every page several times just to absorb the information.  Often, I get stuck on one sentence, and I'll read it dozens of times, but can't make any sense of it.  I simply can't focus. I can't think clearly.  It's impossible.  Now this does not apply to all of the K's.  The smartest ones can read quite well and do so with a voracious appetite.  But today, at this moment, I am here, and I simply cannot concentrate for any period of time.

I don't even know if this rambling mess constitutes a blog post.  I can't tell if this is cohesive in any way.  I can't tell if I've actually said anything.  I really don't know.  I just know that I have this urge to write, this compelling energy burning inside me which is trying to move my fingers around on the keyboard, but I don't know what to type.  I'm dying to write, to empty my overflowing head, to get these thoughts out of my mind!  Damn.  This memory loss fucking blows.  I can't remember what I wanted to talk about.  Shit!  Did I already talk about it?  (sigh) I really need a personal assistant...

Memories Lost and Found

Memory is a funny thing...I think.  That's my attempt at humor. I have to make fun of myself or I'd have no relief at all from the teasing and taunting and laughter that comes at me from all sides much of my waking life. But I'm already going off on a tangent-we can't have that! Let's try again.  I can't explain this very clearly, I can only tell the story as it exists in my current state of consciousness.  I remember on a different plane of "reality", which an alternate K presides over, and which sometimes drops us bits of information or pictures in our mind of things from K's past (and sometimes her future!).  Sometimes this works out well, the right version of K will remember what she needs to know, but more often than not, K is unable to retrieve the information and she feels foolish and frustrated and angry with herself. 

It's so embarrassing to not be able to remember someone's name, someone whom you've known for years.  How do you play that down, or get out of that situation gracefully? You really can't.  Blame it on getting older or being intoxicated, anything to keep the truth hidden from the Outside World.  It's reasons like these which cause us to want to stay home.  At least, some of us do, the current K included.  I'm not sure where I've been, but I've been reading the blog and a book I found at the library, and I've determined that K has been having a dissociative episode, and has switched several times over the course of 2 weeks or so.  I'm here now, to try and make sense of all these notes and writings and websites.  This is going to take some work, and some time.  But-in the end, I'm hoping to help K get better, to live a somewhat stable life, to be HAPPY. (K doesn't really know what that means, she only pretends to know)  I've touched on happiness since we got married, actually since we began dating our husband, which was about 4 years ago.  My happiness swelled to such an extent I thought my heart was literally going to burst out of my chest on our honeymoon, and has been present more days than not ever since.  Yes, we still have days in which we're depressed, or want to hurt ourselves, but a lot of days we wake up and look over at our husband and emotions pool inside of us and I can often feel tears run down my cheeks and I know those are tears of joy.  K had such a hard time for so many years of her life, it's just awesome that she's finally found a piece of happiness, a life with purpose, a future worth living to see.

I wonder if K will live to see her future... I don't mean to sound so doom and gloomy but I mean, her health is not so great considering how young she is.  She already has to wear oxygen at night when she sleeps (that's something that came about only recently but is because of the ARDS incident (The story of my ARDS ordeal).  She has COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) as a result of the ARDS too.  Needless to say, by the time she got out of the hospital, she was a non-smoker.  (It's interesting to note that some of the K's DO smoke)  She recently had exploratory surgery to find the cause of some severe pain she'd been having in her right side for several months.  The surgeon found something called adhesions (the abnormal union of adjacent tissues) growing on her colon and he had to scrape this tissue off her organs.  She was really sore after that, and ran out of pain pills too quickly,  but the doctor refused to refill them.  It's often hard to get some medications, such as pain relievers and sleeping pills, when you have a history of mental illness.  My theory is that the doctors are afraid you'll intentionally take an overdose of the pills.  Or perhaps they believe that people will take advantage of our impaired judgement and we will sell them or give them away.  Now I will confess that on certain nights, rarely, my mother will be so nervous and anxious that she cannot sleep, and on those nights I will give her a quarter of one of my Xanax pills to calm her down and help her relax.  Is that really so wrong?  Mom's always worried she's going to become an addict, which I think is hilarious-she's 82 for Christ's sake!  So what if she DOES get hooked?  What difference would that make now?


Damn! I've gone and forgotten what it was that I wanted to write about tonight.  I HATE when that happens, and unfortunately, it happens a lot.  It's embarrassing and drives me crazy, pun intended.  K used to always have a pad of paper and a pen with her , as well as a sketch book, a pencil, and a fine-point black Sharpie marker.  We got out of that habit at some point when other, less active K's came to visit our mind.and K became lethargic and less inclined to do anything (anything at all by the end of that time period)  I guess after we dropped out of college our mind and memories started to get fuzzy from neglect.  I, and the other smart K's (I don't know how many there are, I'm still figuring all this out), will try and focus our energy on remembering what to blog about.  OH YES, and we've begun to carry a pad of paper and a pen in our pocket at all times now.  I think that's as good a place to start as any. If you want to remember, write it down. If I find some notes or remember something on the subject later, I"ll be sure and post those thoughts  here.

The Mystery Blog Post, or I Didn't Write This!

NOTE: THIS POST WAS WRITTEN DURING ONE OF MY "BLACKOUTS".  I HAVE NO MEMORY WRITING THIS, NOR DO I KNOW "WHO" WROTE IT.  I'M NOT GOING TO DELETE IT (in spite of the fact that it contains grammatical errors, which drive me insane!) BECAUSE I FEEL IT COULD BE AN IMPORTANT CLUE.  This blog is being written by me, or whomever, apparently it's not always ME doing the writing, (but I have no memory of the others right now) and it is FOR K and no one else and therefore I don't need to be embarrassed and feel self-conscious.  After all, I'm not really promoting this blog, not really, or just barely-I've tweeted the link after writing a post which I'd like feedback on- (but I'm learning that people generally don't leave comments, there is no feedback, so that little experiment is out the window) so it shouldn't matter whether or not the post makes any sense.  But that's not right, that bothers me, it's NOT PERFECT! I absolutely loathe the look and feel of the following post, I just have to say that up front.  It, this mystery blog post, was titled "My First Lock-Up", but naturally I had to change that before posting this second version of today's writing, as it never actually talks about my being locked up.
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This story is very important to the development of our lead character, i.e. ME.  Now we surely don't have the intense NEED to shower today (as in, no one had BO so bad that it became it's own entity), but since we were extra careful about now letting people see us on a "good day" (whatever that means), I timidly raised my hand--crazy talk right here--I spoke up and told a joke and made everyone laugh and I guess it amused me, but only in that ending, and after I spent all that time looking perfect,  did I see that I'd "Help make someone smile today" and it annoyed me!  I am fighting the urge to go back and delete certain posts.  This is harder than I'd thought it would be.  I had seemed to just want to be on Twitter, and so I made conscious efforts to avoid being on the phone with him for too long, lest he get suspicious.  It upset Husband today that A) I'm still awake, and STILL " I am going to get this house organized, every last drop of it, until the day comes when he come back to check on me and I will be dead, he's too loud and boisterous.  What is all of this called?  I can't remember at the time... BUT--something interesting, perhaps too mundane to mention....But hey, I mind works like crazy!  LOL  pun intended
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That's the end of the post.  It doesn't make any sense to me, (and I'm sure it makes even LESS sense to you)  nor is it familiar to me in any way.  I DO NOT remember writing that.  This is what I call a "blackout", I know it's not the technical term but because we've not done enough studying on this subject, this new theory we have developed about our diagnosis, to give it a proper name, it shall just remain in MY words.  (We must wait until the psychiatrist officially labels us)  Feel free to take your own guesses; they'd be as good as mine, for I am lost here.  This is all new to me.  And I can't even BEGIN to tell you how disconcerting all of this is.

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.

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.

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.