The Inevitable Crash

Well, here we go again.  I was feeling so good.  I was living my life, and things were going pretty darn well.  I got to take a weekend trip far away and had an absolute blast.  I was really living high.  I felt so good it made me nervous.  And this is why. Because invariably, once I'm up, I must come down.  The better I feel, the harder I crash.  So based on how content-even happy-I was up to this point, this has the potential to be a real low.  I can look at the situation from outside myself and see that it's silly.  But I suppose it is akin to that feeling you get the day after Christmas when you're a kid. One day you're on top of the world, the next day it's all over and you just can't imagine waiting a whole year to feel that happy again.  That's where I'm at now.  It's the day after Christmas and all the good stuff has already happened.  There's nothing left to look forward to.  I can't see any reason to be cheerful.  I know it's terribly selfish of me to want it to be Christmas everyday, and indeed I don't really want that, as a special occasion would not be special if it occurred too frequently.  I simply want to be...optimistic.  Hopeful.  For what, I don't know. I just know that I need something to dream about, something to wish for, something to wait for.  During these downhill slides, I lose sight of everything good in my life. It's as though I'm wearing blinders and can't see what's right in front of me. The depression creeps in and wraps its icy arms around me. At least one part of me disagrees with what I'm telling you right now.  One of the K's sees the bright side of things and can always find something positive, no matter how crappy the situation.  But that's not me.  No, I'm the realist. Note that I did NOT say pessimist.  REALIST.  I believe that life is rough and slaps you around and most people are only looking out for themselves.  I believe these things because these are the things I've learned in my lifetime.  Maybe I'm just cynical, but I know that I've learned a few things in my time on this earth, and what I've learned is not necessarily of a positive nature. No, the world is harsh and cold and tough and there's always something standing in the way of your happiness. It's how you handle all of these problems that makes the difference in your life.  Take my current situation. I've been so happy for so many days in a row now that I'm crashing hard and fast back down to earth. I can either continue to free-fall and land in a jumbled, broken mess or I can try to fly, as silly as that sounds.

Skip ahead 2 days: I did not fly.  I crashed and burned. Yeah, I really fell hard this time, and lost my shit pretty hardcore. I've been hiding in my bedroom for the past two days and I just can't bring myself to come out. I have an adjoining bathroom, and I have a stash of Diet Coke and a box of Cheez-its.  I was separated from my pills, but my husband was thoughtful enough to bring them to me, and so now there is no reason for me to leave this room. Truth be told, I'm scared to leave this room.  I have been sitting on the bed for an indeterminate amount of time, watching the sky outside my window grow darker and darker, the clouds reaching out like fingers trying to grab me. Now it's pitch black and I can't see a thing. Normally I'd be far too paranoid to have the blinds open, but since I have no lights on anywhere, I know that no one can see me. I hide in the shadows. I am like a statue, I haven't moved in what must be hours...nothing except the hands on my keyboard that is. Twitter is my connection to the outside world.  It is the only way I will communicate-I'm not answering my phone or the door. The support I receive from people on Twitter helps us hold on, it really does. Sometimes a tweet makes all the difference in the world to us by letting me know there's someone out there somewhere, and I am not alone. I'm not sure which K is tweeting during this meltdown; probably a few. We are all over the map, personality wise. I am coming in and out of consciousness... I can't keep up with how often I'm switching or who's out when. I keep eating Xanax and Risperdal and Seroquel. Just feels like my mind is in overdrive and the pressure is almost unbearable. If I didn't know better, I'd think my head was going to burst wide open like a water balloon. There's a lot of arguing in my head. All the voices are yelling at me and each other and there's an ungodly amount of noise inside my mind. That's the reason I'm in seclusion. I can't tolerate any more stimulation of any kind-audible or visual. I MUST sit alone in the dark, in the silence.  This is my only respite.

In A Nutshell (Pun Intended)

 If you're a new reader, and would like to "skip to the good stuff"....this page contains links to the blog posts  explaining K's story, and a couple written by different K's.

The Lost Blog Post  (history of our mental health as told by a different K)

Major Breakthrough or Break From Reality? (K has an important realization)

The Discovered Diaries (clues to our past and present)

The Mystery Blog Post  (written by a different K)

Help From Afar (an email from the ex-boyfriend to my husband, regarding my switching)

Peeling Off An Old Label (life-changing news about our diagnosis)

How I Became A Walking Drugstore (a breakdown of our past diagnoses)

How To Be Our Friend   (tips on how to get to know us)

What's Wrong With Us?  (we talk about Dissociative Identity Disorder)

Another Day, Another K (switching)

My Own Reality Show (what it's like inside our head)

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.

 

What's Up, Doc? (False Truths Pt.2)

Two weeks ago, I went to therapy and said some things that I later regretted.  I told my psychiatrist that not everyone believes my mental illness is real; some people think I'm faking it.  So ever since I left her office, I've been paranoid as we could be. I got the thought in my head that I'd planted an idea in her mind and that she no longer believed the things I was telling her.  I decided that she thought I was a liar and a fraud.  I was unsure whether or not I'd be able to talk to her anymore.  I even considered changing doctors.  I wrote a blog post about my paranoia on this subject Here.  I literally have obsessed about this morning and night ever since that therapy session.  So I had my first session with her since the incident...I was incredibly nervous before I went in.  Making me even more nervous and paranoid was the fact that they called me 3 times to reschedule the appointment; I got it in my head that they didn't like me and didn't want to see me.  Then, once at the office, the waiting room was so crowded I had to be placed in an adjoining room, all alone.  All alone is just fine with me-it's far less stressful than being around people. So anyway, I wait and wait and wait.  Over an hour and a half passes and still I'm waiting.  I was just getting more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by.  Finally, my name was called.  I held my head down low as I walked slowly into the doctor's office.  I sat across from her but could not look at her. At first I couldn't speak...then I got out my notebook, in which I'd written down topics to discuss, questions to ask, and journal entries to read to her.  When I finally opened my mouth, the words gushed out all over each other.  I let everything out-my paranoia about our relationship, my fear that she thinks I'm lying, my obsessing about our last therapy session, my worries of being doubted.  I poured out my feelings on all of these matters, and she listened patiently and then smiled broadly.  She told me that she didn't think I was capable of concocting some elaborate scheme to make people think I'm mentally ill.  She said that in our last session, when I confessed to her about the doubters and disbelievers, she thought that took courage on my part to bring those things up.  She doesn't think I'm a liar.  She doesn't think I'm faking my symptoms. Oh thank the heavens! Relief washed over me and my mind was cleansed of negativity and I felt like a new person.  The rest of the session was spent discussing this weekend's big event: my nephew's wedding.  I have to drive over 6 hours to get there. I have to meet the family of the bride. I have to attend fancy teas and dinners and cocktail parties and on Saturday, a black-tie wedding.  A very-crowded, formal affair is not my idea of a fun weekend.  Just sounds stressful and terrifying and panic-inducing.  In fact, my psychiatrist told me that because of the stress and anxiety caused by the wedding, I'd more than likely dissociate.  That does NOT help me feel better.  I asked her if it would be OK for me to have some champagne at the wedding; she said I could drink IF I did NOT take my Xanax that day.  Well, hell, I can't even leave my room without taking a Xanax, so I guess that means I won't be drinking.  The last thing I want to do is tempt fate by not being sedated in a crowded public environment.

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.

My Own Reality Show

It's hard work being more than one "entity" and sharing a brain.  I'm mentally & physically & emotionally exhausted.  I'd like nothing more than to open up my skull, remove my brain, and stick it on a shelf  for the night.  Just let me be empty. No feelings. No thoughts. Nothingness. That sounds glorious.  I'm so very tired of thinking. So many thoughts, coming at me from all sides, some being shouted at me by different voices in my head, some whispered into my ear. Mental noise. So much mental noise!  Sometimes I fear I'm going to freak completely out, just going to snap from all the voices trying to talk over one another, each one vying to be heard. Some of the voices are male, some are children, many of  them are females of different ages both young and old.  Then there are the other, outsider voices which are (almost) always present in my mind.  These are the voices of the news broadcasters, the sports announcers, the disc jockeys,  the talk show hosts, and the paparazzi-all of whom exist in my head-and who bombard me with information, questions, and laughter. I also hear applause, cheering, and, more often, booing and heckling;  sometimes I'm even threatened with violence.  They are telling the story of my life as though it is unfolding live on TV and the world is watching.  My every action is commented on, "liked" or "disliked", critiqued, analyzed and gossiped about.  I am currently the star of a reality TV show and I'm never sure if the "special guests" are going to talk me up or make fun of me. And it's all live, in real time.

 
It is notable that I often "rewind" parts of the show and watch them over and over again.  Sometimes I pause a scene, to look more closely at the physical details.  I can't erase anything I see or hear.  That's very important.  I can't erase what I hear. I may very well forget, but my subconscious never does. And while I can still recall listening to the sports announcers discuss my every move as I played tennis (actually just bouncing a ball off a brick wall) at about the age of 8-for example, one of the men would exclaim "Wow! What a great shot!"-the people who narrate my life now are not nearly as nice, as complimentary, as appreciated as the ones of my childhood.  When I was 10, the news broadcasters praised my people skills, my high I.Q., my talents for art and short-stories... I was a celebrity in "Kellie World" and I was popular. By the time I was 13, though, all of this had changed. People (in my head) started making fun of me, criticizing me, and insulting me. There was -and is- often laughter in my head, laughter directed at me, and not in a good way. I must take the time now to note that not all of the K's are very nice to us/me, and in my day-to-day life other K's talk down to me, make fun of me, point and laugh, and worst of all, one of them slaps me in the face or even punches me.  I'm my own worst enemy.  Wow. I've never admitted that before, not even to a therapist.  I guess that's pretty important:  the fact that I hit myself in the face.  Hmm.  Perhaps I should tell my psychiatrist about it... I wonder what she would say?  Maybe I should write a short synopsis of my TV show and take that to her.  Is it strange that I've never told her about all of this?  You must remember that I've only just begun to trust my doctor, it took me 2 years to get comfortable with her, and so I started talking to her openly and honestly about 3 months ago.  So there's a TON of stuff that I haven't told her yet.  I go in to see her every week, and my mind just goes blank.  I can never remember what I want to talk about or tell her.  Actually, after the session is over, I usually can't remember what happened anyway.  She tells me that this is because I sometimes come to therapy in a switched state or I'll switch while I'm in her office.  I don't know what to make of this.  All I know is, my TV show is for mature audiences only due to bad language, drug use, sex, mature subject matter, and, I realize now, violence as well.  I never thought about the violence until today.  At least, not about any violence that K causes.  She's often been the victim of violence, but I'm surprised to learn that she can also be the perpetrator. Hmm. Oh well-I guess it makes for better television.

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.

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!

Therapy Trainwreck

We have been having a very difficult time lately but can't concentrate long enough to blog about it, which is the homework assignment given to us by our psychiatrist on Friday.  She asked me at our last session to start keeping a diary and bring it in to our sessions; instead, I brought an old diary from 2004, which was written in various states of consciousness,  often while we were dissociating. There was so much I wanted to tell her, to read to her from the diary, to explain to her-but I just couldn't stop crying long enough to get the words out, and I didn't have the energy to talk to her anyway.

It was all I could do just to get to the appointment.  On the way there, in the car, I pounded on the steering wheel and screamed and yelled curse words, tears streaming down my cheeks.  I was shaking and hyperventilating and my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.  I took 1 mg Xanax- thankfully there was part of a bottle of water still in the cup holder from a couple of days earlier.  It was difficult to see through my tears as I drove to my doctor's office. Not only that, but once I got close-within a few blocks-I got confused and forgot which way to go and I took a wrong turn...sigh...I got lost on the way to a psychiatrist's office which I've been visiting regularly for 2 years.  I figured this would make us late but as it turned out there was another patient ahead of us.

Whew~what a relief to get to her office safely, to park the car, to look around frantically and find no other people in the parking lot. I cursed out loud to no one. I took another drink of water and looked at myself in the visor mirror.  I was a wreck, an absolute mess.  My hair was all wind-blown and I had sweat pouring down my face, mixing with the tears pouring from my eyes...I was wearing black sunglasses but you could still see the tears running down my cheeks.  My bangs were sweaty and stuck to our forehead.  I had on no makeup, not even lipstick, and the sunlight accentuated each blemish, scar, and bump on our face.  My cheeks were flushed red from crying and I was huffing and puffing and I looked like I might explode or something.  I searched the car desperately for a napkin or tissue, to wipe my forehead and face, but I found nothing, so I pulled my shirt up and used it to dry my eyes and cheeks and forehead.  I didn't have a brush with me, so I finger-styled my hair and longed for a hat.  Thought about taking another Xanax, but can't remember now if I did or not.  I was quite unsteady on my feet as I got out of the car and walked to the door.

 Inside, I found a couple sitting in my usual spot (the corner) so I was upset about that on top of already having to hold my breath to keep from crying.  I watched my hands trembling as I tried to sign my name but for a minute I was unable to remember how to write it.  I had to think really hard, and even then it seemed foreign to me as I wrote out my first and last names; I don't think I used my typical handwriting-it looked unfamiliar to me.  I sat down and took out my phone to Tweet.  (I Tweet when I'm nervous or upset.)  Pretty much immediately I started having a serious freakout, but luckily at that moment the doctor called for the couple in the corner, and realizing I had some precious time to spare, I somehow found a voice with which to squeak out to the receptionist, "Do I have time to go smoke a cigarette?"  That's funny because I quit smoking 2 years ago, although we have been known to cheat now and then.  At that time, Friday morning, I would've given just about anything to smoke a cigarette, but we had none. She told us the doctor would be a few minutes, so I practically sprinted out of the office.

I got into my car and locked the doors, looking around me, all paranoid.  I suppose I could've turned on some music but at the time it was so loud in my head that I couldn't stand any more noise around me.  The noise on the inside was louder than the noise on the outside, and it was nearly unbearable.  I did the only thing I knew to do to quiet the voices, the yelling, my screams--I dug around in the car until I found a small stash, and I smoked a couple of hits of marijuana.  Sometimes it really is the only thing that will help calm me down.  So I took a couple of tokes-not enough to get me stoned, just enough to take the edge off- and tried to talk myself down from this state of panic and sense of being overwhelmed.  I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it through a therapy session, and I pondered driving away, but part of us knew that we desperately needed to see the psychiatrist and so we stayed.  Didn't get out of our car until we saw the couple from before come out of the office.

The doctor was waiting for me inside, and as soon as she told me to sit down, I collapsed into a chair and started sobbing.  There was just too much to tell her, too many thoughts, too many feelings, I had too many questions for her and didn't even know where to start.  I was having trouble getting words out at all, so she paged the receptionist and asked her to bring me a glass of water.  With it in my hand, I took another 1.5 mg Xanax.  Tried to take slow, deep breaths and finally, after what seemed a really long time, I was able to speak.  I couldn't sort my thoughts and found it quite difficult to express myself with words.  Pictures would have been better--I'll have to remember to take a sketchbook and pencil next week.  Every time it seemed I was going to get my point across, I'd forget what I was talking about and start stammering, searching for the end of a sentence which no longer made sense to me.  God it was frustrating!  And the tears kept interfering, and the gasping for breath...

It's a terribly inconvenient time for me to be this depressed.  Mom doesn't know; well, she knows we're blue and not eating and wearing my pj's a lot.  But she has no idea that I've given up on my personal care altogether.  I'm not eating or drinking anything but caffeine and alcohol.  I'm self-harming.  Two weeks ago I was binging and purging, now I'm just purging.  I don't have enough energy to shower or get dressed.  I haven't washed my hair in over a week, probably longer. I don't know, and frankly, I don't care right now.  It's hard to care about shit like flossing your teeth when you're searching for a reason to exist, just one more day. I told her I'd been sleeping for about 15 hours a day, sometimes more.

I can NOT do this right now--my mother needs me.  She's very sick-she has shingles-and is physically suffering a great deal; she cries out in pain often, and it tears at my heart.  I can do nothing to help her, and the doctor tells us she could be sick with these shingles for 3 weeks.  Sigh.  I just don't have time to be depressed right now!  There's so much work to be done at home and in therapy.

I told my psych, Dr. H, that I absolutely had to see her more than every other week.  I tried to explain to her that I was too sick to be left alone for 2 weeks at a time.  I tried to tell her that there were different people all living in my head, and that some of them were very ill and needed intense psychiatric care.  I tried to briefly explain about the K's, and how I desperately needed the "strong one" to come out and take control of my life.  I can't understand why she hasn't come to my rescue this time, like she has before.  Usually when things get really bad, when there is just more stress than I can handle, then she comes out and takes over my life and sees to it that everything gets done, everything gets taken care of.  She's the Smart One.  She's quite productive and can multitask and is very capable of handling stressful situations.  She needs to be here taking care of Mom, and taking care of K.  She'd fix things.  I just don't know how to force her out; I haven't learned how to control things like that yet.  I don't have any control over who comes out of my mind when, but usually, say in a social situation, the right K will automatically appear and handle things until she's no longer needed.  And no one ever notices that there are different K's because generally, no one sees different K's, just the one that they know.  Each friend knows their own version of K.

But I've gotten way off topic.  I was talking about my therapy session.  I can't remember everything that we talked about, I mainly just remember getting very upset and worrying that she was going to put us in a hospital.  I tried to tell her that in the 2 years we'd been seeing her, we'd not had the courage to be honest with her about what was in our head.  I'm always afraid that if they find out how sick K really is, they'll lock her away.  That, and the fact that I just do NOT trust people, makes it difficult to open up and be honest in therapy.  I fear my thoughts and feelings.  If they scare me, I figure they'll scare the doctor too.  And I don't want another label, I want an accurate diagnosis.  But she told me at one point during the session that it would take more than a couple of sessions to make a clear diagnosis; since I've only just now started to talk to her, really, we had a way to go to get to proper diagnosis and treatment.

One more thing I just remembered....  she asked me if I remembered any abuse from my childhood.  I told her I couldn't remember the actual abuse (I've blocked those memories) but I had little clips of memories of things which seem suspicious or not normal.  So I told her about the 3 or 4 things that I recall from childhood that I find to be inappropriate memories for a little kid  She asked me again to write in my diary and bring it with me next week. Incidentally, I guess I got my point across about needing to see her more frequently--I saw her Friday morning and she wants to see me again Monday afternoon.  That's as quickly as is possible.  (She also gave me a prescription for yet another medication.  Abilify.)  Or maybe I just scared her and she's keeping a close eye on me lest I become suicidal.  So far, that's not been a problem.  Self-harm is not at all the same as suicidal actions.  I can't kill myself right now-not only is it bad karma, but my mother needs me to take care of her.  I have too much to do to die right now.

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.

Finding Funding

We've never-and I do mean NEVER- been good with money.  Over the years this has been a constant  source of a great deal of stress, shame, and a lot of problems, both financially as well as legally, for K and her family.  Since the only jobs K was capable of handling (after dropping out of college due to a breakdown) were entry-level positions, they offered little pay and no benefits.  I was almost always just scraping by each month, and I inevitably ended up the same way: in the red.  The damage to my credit rating and bank account compounded each day/month/year until there was simply no way to get myself out of trouble.  I was too proud to ask for help-I waited until it was offered-and usually I'd find myself in a black pit of debt which I can't even venture a guess as to how many times Daddy and/or Mom had to bail us out of.  They helped K with her credit card troubles, paid her bills, and saved the day...for years.   K is very ashamed of and embarrassed by this; she wants to take care of herself and be independent; she hates her unemployed status.   Twice I've considered filing for bankruptcy but I'm proud to say I did NOT take that route.

Growing up with parents who were raised during the Great Depression means you are hard-wired from the get-go to be frugal, or at least that's the way it was in K's house.  Her father's most-used expression was "Money doesn't grow on trees",  and he knew better than anyone the value of a dollar, as he began working at the age of 9 (he picked up golf balls at a golf course).  He taught K from the time she first began walking to watch the ground for lost change (the man could spot a dime from across a mall parking lot!) and stick her finger inside coin slots on vending machines to see if someone had forgotten a quarter. (To this very day, I'm compelled to do this)  I don't want to infer that he was cheap; rather, he was thrifty. He wanted very much for K to be financially stable and to have enough money to be comfortable and never have to struggle the way he and his family had during the Depression of the 1930's, or even the way he'd struggled when he and my mother first got married.  He, like many from his generation, wanted his daughter to grow up and marry someone "from a good background" who would work hard and take care of her; instead she got married at 19 to a con artist who stole thousands from me and my family. But that's a whole other story.

K absolutely, positively can NOT handle money, not by herself.  It gets spent or it gets lost.   (I have a theory that I actually misplace just as much money as I "foolishly" spend.) We tend to be quite frugal, but at least 2 of us are the type to enjoy shopping, and we overspend when manic. During her brief teenage marriage, (it lasted less than a year)  K attempted to balance a checkbook and pay bills and such and it was a colossal failure.  (It didn't help matters that her husband was stealing checks from her and forging her signature)  On one hand, K is exceedingly frugal, to the point of being obsessive about it; she'll drive out of her way simply to save a few cents on gas or to buy something on sale.  On the other hand, we have no way to gauge how much is too much (we tend to overdo it) and we're generous to people and always try to help them out and many people (mostly boyfriends) over the years have taken advantage of that.

Most of us are non-materialistic.  (I'm being told, no-urged to say that.) There are periods of time scattered throughout the years in which K was responsible for herself, times when she had run away from her problems (financial and otherwise)  and started a new life elsewhere and had a job and even went to school several times over the years. At one time, she even owned a house of her own; she had to sell it when she suddenly decided to move to the other side of the country.  She'd up and disappear to a different state sometimes, the first time at about age 17.  In instances like that, her parents would use money as a lure to try and get K to come back home; but K was always a free spirit and wanted to be on her own and would often refuse to cash the checks her parents would send her.  She would rather ask passers-by for quarters all day long, (but  K was never a panhandler)  or sell her blood at the plasma center, if she wasn't making enough money at whatever job she happened to be holding at that time, rather than accept help.

K was very good at getting a job.  A job application was just paperwork after all, which we're good at, and the proper person almost always showed up for the interviews.  K would get a job and keep it for as long as she was able to maintain the facade of being "a regular person"; if someone suspected anything, or if her paranoia told us they did, then we'd just go home and never go back to that job. K did NOT ever tell anyone at her job(s) about her mental health problems; she was too ashamed and embarrassed and didn't want her co-workers to treat her differently.  What kinds of jobs did we have?  Well, K got her first job at a fast-food joint when she was 16 and after that she worked various jobs in retail (three times selling shoes, at one time she was actually the assistant manager at a funky little clothing store in the mall) or customer service, or in an office doing paperwork. I'm really good with paperwork, as long as I'm taking my medication properly and am not having a "schizo" day (which can happen at any time).  Stress is K's biggest trigger and eventually any and every job, no matter how trivial or mundane or even enjoyable, would become too stressful for her and she'd have a meltdown and usually quit her job without warning, or a lot of times she got fired for calling in sick too many times. (When our mental health was too fragile to deal with Real Life, or when the voices were so loud she couldn't hear herself think much less answer a phone, K called in sick.)

The older she got, the worse her mental illness got, and with age came new symptoms.  K had stopped taking her medication after she got married, because she'd lost her father's health insurance, and simply couldn't afford to pay for it on her own. (Psychiatric medications are very expensive) So she was off her meds for several years and during that time period, she had a number of "episodes".  I'm not sure how many, that was lifetimes ago and I don't even remember who that was.  Sometimes, though, I'd somehow end up at a clinic or doctor's office, and somebody would be kind enough to help me or advise me, and on many occasions I would see a doctor who would give me medication(s).  They'd usually make some sort of arrangements with me to come back, see a therapist or psychiatrist, and get medication refills.  A lot of these clinics had a sliding-scale fee, and I only had to pay what I could afford. I honestly don't know what would have become of me were it not for these clinics.

I bounced around from city to city, year after year,  but I tried very hard to maintain at least some type of medication schedule and therapy sessions.  There were years in which I lost my doctor for some reason (once I threatened to punch my shrink in the face and he threatened to call the police, so he was no longer my doctor after that) and thus had to go without medication for stretches of time every few years.  During these times, I'd hold it together for as long as possible, and then I'd crack.  First a tiny crack, then the whole fucking thing crumbles and emotions and thoughts and words come gushing out and I am just trying to stay afloat in a sea of crazy.  Sometimes when this happened, K could easily be influenced by the "wrong crowd" to do something bad, to shoplift or do something illegal, even though K is a good person and such behavior isn't like her...But I fear I've gotten way off the subject, which was supposed to be money.

I don't know if it needs to be said or if it's implied by my crazy ramblings, but in case you're wondering, no, K does not work anymore.  I'm embarrassed and ashamed to say that she last held down an actual job in approximately 1998.  After the year 2000, K applied for Disability-at the urging of her then-doctor (he told K that she had a "brain disease" and that she had no business trying to handle the stress of a job, which would only make her symptoms worse); up to that point, K didn't even realize that there was such a system in place to help people  like her.  The process was long and tedious and complicated and the only reason K was able to get through all the paperwork and interviews was the fact that she had a very dear friend, who happened to be disabled herself, (only her disability was physical rather than mental), and this friend walked K through the process.  She helped her fill out forms and applications-which seemed to be never-ending.  She accompanied K to interviews with mental health professionals and doctors and Social Security people.  Thinking about it now, and realizing how much she went through to get to the other side, I'm really surprised that K was able to successfully complete the application process and get her Disability payments-it literally took years to get all that stuff sorted out.  But she finally did, and she is now on Social Security Disability and has Medicare to help with her doctor's bills and prescriptions.  Otherwise, I'm not sure what might've happened to us.  Disability has saved K's life, literally.  She wouldn't have been able to continue with her existence were it not for the medical insurance she is now eligible for.  Thank the gods for Medicare and Medicaid!


Let me sum up.  Money is the root of all that is evil (K really feels this way), it changes people, it makes them greedy and selfish.  K has seen this phenomenon in Real Life, as in when one of her friends was in a bad car accident and received a hefty settlement; K finally cut him out of her life because he'd become so obsessed with the money, the possessions, the THINGS, that he was no longer the friend K knew and loved.  This has happened more than once and each time these things happen, it just proves to K that she is right about money being a bad thing.  Money is the devil.  We hate it.  We'd much rather live in a world where bartering was the norm.  K would love to trade paintings or handmade jewelry or some sort of art for food and clothes, etc. but unfortunately, that's just not the way it works in the Real World.  Too bad for K.

These days, K is married to a loving, generous man who takes care of her and the bills.  Sometimes K is able to write checks and see that the bills get paid on time, sometimes she can't even handle something as simple as that, and she must depend upon Husband to manage her money, or lack thereof.  It's difficult to stay on top of your finances when you have blackouts and can't remember writing checks or using a debit or credit card.  She definitely still struggles with money; they are on a tight budget to say the least, but things are much better and much less stressful now, and therefore K can relax, just a little bit, and not worry so much about being homeless. (Yes, this is one of her actual fears.)

Help From Afar or She's Done This Before

When this current "episode" began,  (based upon my journal and this blog, I'm able to determine that this happened around the first of the year)  I tried desperately to think of some way to help my husband better understand what was happening, so that he wouldn't be so worried about me and whether I was having a "breakdown".  I could only think of one person on the planet who might be able to help in this situation, and that person happened to be my ex-boyfriend, who had once lived with me for a year, and who was studying psychology at that time and was good at recognizing symptoms.  I'm still very good friends with him,  and I respect him tremendously, but I was scared to death to talk to him about these matters because he and I had not discussed my mental health in years, except for the occasional joke about me being "crazy".

(I have to have a sense of humor about my mental health, or else I'd go nuts...or something like that)  After we broke up (8 years ago),  we never talked about the "weird things K does" again.  I can't remember whether I acted in this manner when I was with him, and I can't even say with certainty that "this" has ever happened to me at all.  (STOP IT! That's called DENIAL!)  I'm not sure how I mustered up the courage to do it, but after a tremendous amount of contemplation, I sent him a text and asked him if he could contact my husband regarding my "switching".  [Psychiatrists refer to the phase of transition between alters as the "switch" ]  It seemed to take forever for him to respond, and at first he wasn't sure what was happening; he soon figured it out when I started referring to myself in third person.  He realized he was talking to (an alter)  and I breathed a sigh of relief that he knew what was happening.  He took some time to compose an email which he then sent to my husband.  I thought perhaps this email can help me remember these events, as well as give some insight into what happens when someone switches.  It is dated January 9, 2012.  Here are the highlights of the email:






Ahh. I heard you're going through your first "switch" with K_____. Grats! Your marriage is now more of a Menage' a Trois! But I've been there and lived to tell the tale. Here's what I think from my experiences.

It's not as bad as it seems, but emotionally and mentally trying, and a bit confusing. Hers is one related to a Dissociative Disorder...    Her "switching" into a depersonalized K____ is like a computer being run in safe mode: you can't really fuck up a computer in safe mode as easily as you can in regular mode.  It's a protective thing that she does to insulate herself from trauma by distancing herself from "K_____" and seeing herself in the 3rd Person.

Think of it this way: It's like watching a movie of your life and saying "Man, I'd hate to be that guy" when, in fact, you are that guy. It removes you from the immediate path of harms way with things like arguments, panic attacks and anxiety, uncomfortable social situations, and facts of life that she would rather postpone dealing with until her brain doesn't feel so threatened.
 
...Switched K_____ is more distant than normal K_____. Her manic episodes before a depressive spell were pretty easy to see, because she would have more outward gestures like laughter, talking and telling jokes, moving around a lot (like almost dance-like movements), and overacted hand gestures clued me in a lot. This is not like mania, but she can depersonalize herself while having a manic episode, which is confusing as hell to say the least. She'll feel like she's dreaming or "not quite here."

There are many kinds of disorders- long story short, they exist to buffer the person that has them from the direct repercussions of high stress. 

He then inserted some links to the Mayo Clinic. How cool is that?  He not only recalled his own experiences with us, but he also gave additional info to my husband. In the end my husband got some relief, some peace of mind, when he read the email, and I was reassured that I do, indeed, have friends who care about me.  

Running on Empty

It feels as though I have to write, I have to clear my head, I have to put these thoughts down on paper (here, only in a manner of speaking, although some of us are actually, literally writing some things down on paper).  Yesterday was the mental and emotional equivalent of giving birth.  I am utterly drained and just don't know if there's anything left inside me with which to compose a blog post...but I'm going to try, just for a few minutes, while I sip my hot tea (with a tad of honey) and wait for the medication I took to kick in and (hopefully) put me to sleep for the whole night.  I can't remember what it feels like to sleep through an entire night.  I can barely remember what it's like to sleep at night, period.  K is so very tired, her body is worn out and her health is beginning to suffer.  It's my job to take care of her, to see that she remembers to eat and sleep and shower and things of that nature, things which a "normal" person just instinctively knows to do, without being prompted or told to do those things.  When most people get hungry, they eat. When they get tired, they sleep.  It seems simple enough, and in the Real World people are automatically tuned in to their bodies and what they need and these needs are met, often without even a conscious thought.  In my mind, in us, inside Kellie World, food and sleep are optional and usually misused.  We either deprive ourselves the luxuries of eating and/or sleeping, or else we overindulge and end up feeling worthless. Lately, or before I got here, the sad and lazy K was doing nothing much outside of sleeping on the couch all day long.  Sure, she'd wake up to take more pills, and occasionally eat a small meal (mainly just to stop her mother from scolding her for not eating) and every once in a while she'd have enough energy, motivation, and/or desire to leave the house, usually only with Husband, on some occasions all alone but in those situations we have to heavily sedate her to take her out in public.  But sometimes, just sometimes, it feels really good to get out and be social and interact with others, my friends in particular- K doesn't feel comfortable around strangers-and so K looks forward to those good days, those days wherein she could appear "normal" to the outside world.

Taking Us To The Doctor

We (that is, K and her husband) FINALLY got to go today and talk with the psychiatrist.  It seems as though we, the K's, have been waiting for this day to come for approximately a year now.  Technically, I know that must be an exaggeration-it's not unusual for K to exaggerate, (not because she's a liar but because she really doesn't remember the "truth" most of the time) but you must make a note that she, K, does not lie (if there is any way possible to tell the truth without hurting someone, sometimes even when it does hurt; K always describes herself as "brutally honest") but that is literally how it feels to us, like we've been waiting for at least a year. I honestly don't remember getting ready to go see the doctor, but looking down at K now, I see that she's clean and dressed and appears "normal", so I, the smart one, must've seen to it that she got herself showered and ready to go.  Thank goodness.  I guess I should take the time to explain all the things, the little things, the things which happen upon a visit to a psychiatrist's office during a "serious mental illness" type of moment, during a crisis, as it were, for those people reading this who may not have ever had the experience of going to see a shrink.  Of course, there's no shame in going to see a doctor-many "regular" people go to see psychiatrists or psychologists or at least counselors, usually when something "bad" happens, for example, when they lose a spouse, or get fired from a job, or when they begin to hear the radio singing their name over and over again.  If you've ever had the experience of sitting down with a trained professional of some type, and of telling that person how you're feeling, how you're feeling on the inside, inside your mind, then you might have some idea of how difficult this process can be. If you've not experienced this first-hand, then I shall try to describe it for you.  You must answer questions and talk about your thoughts.  It is all at once hard, and embarrassing, and scary, and overwhelming, and stressful, and it makes you feel self-conscious and somewhat silly, or perhaps angry or frustrated or depressed or even ALL these things, and much more.  It's all subjective you see, you can feel so many different things, and you can feel these things all at once, and for a "regular" person, who's able to simply process these thoughts and emotions and ideas and who knows instinctively what to say and how to react to the doctor's words or actions, this might not seem to be such a big deal.  But for someone like K, someone who actually suffers from a chronic mental illness, this can be a HUGE deal, tremendous even, enough to cause her great distress and which very often induces a panic attack, but which she tries to prevent and/or hide by popping "one more" Xanax. (Xanax=Alprazolam, a drug

used to treat anxiety)  Now the amount of anxiety she feels upon a visit to the doctor depends upon her mood as well as who she's feeling, or in other words, "which K she gets to act like at that particular time".  At the moment, I, who have been named Switch Kellie by our husband, am in control of which K we get to be, or who gets to talk, or which one of the K's gets to come out and play, so to speak.  I don't know if this is an absolute power held only by Me, or if this ability shifts between us, us being the K's, but I'm fairly certain that this changes, like the tides.

Now before I get any further into our story, I must stop and describe for you the almost unbearable torture that is sitting in a waiting room.  K HATES waiting rooms, not in small part because time seems to drag on for such an unbelievably long period in a waiting room.  Think about this: if you lack the ability to tell the difference between ten minutes and an hour, would that affect your everyday life? I'm here to tell you that it would, and it does, it affects us each and every day of our physical life, always has and always, always will.  But it's impossible to explain this to anyone who doesn't know what it means to lose time, to black out, to dissociate.  I'm not really sure that the time issue which plagues K has everything to do with her dissociation, or whether it's because of some other mental illness; it's hard to say since she suffers from so many symptoms, from so many different disorders.  I believe I've used this word before: "comorbidity", which is the existence of more than one disease or disorder in the same person.  This little fact makes diagnosing K a hell of a hard magic trick to pull, even for a professional magician, so for the average guy who can merely guess which card you drew, this is damn near impossible.  Now I'm not saying any of this in a derogatory manner directed toward our psychiatrist.  In fact, K really seems to like her, this (somewhat-) new psychiatrist, and is actually beginning to trust her (a little?) and open up to her and be honest with her about the K's.  At least, that's where we are at this point in time.  We saw the doctor this morning, and while she had told us beforehand that our appointment would only be for 15 minutes, and that was really just so she could write out prescription refills, in the end she seemed concerned about K's mental health and therefore was generous enough to grant K a longer appointment.  I don't know how long we were actually in her office (of course) but it seemed like a good long while, but still not nearly long enough, for there was just so much to tell her!

Now I have to try and remember what exactly I did tell her.  I wonder if I'll be able to recall this information or if I should just go ahead and ask K's husband to review the facts with us, to remind us of what we did this morning. I'm not kidding when I say that the information is no longer with us.  I can remember, vaguely, going to the doctor's office in the car; of course Husband drove us, and when we turned onto the street, K got very nervous for she saw that there were many cars (a hundred?) parked out in front of the doctor's office.  That made us nervous because that meant that there were people in the waiting room.  K is secretly afraid of people, at least some of the K's, but not me, I'm the one who sat in the room and waited, it was me!  K had to take deep breaths to get out of the car; I forced her to walk to the door and go inside first, before our husband. (I can't believe I was able to walk into the room ahead of him, I'm so proud! This does NOT happen very often) Then, I'm inside and I'm watching my hand sign my name on the log-in sheet, and then I go and sit in the corner (our favorite place to sit) beside K's husband.  Then the ungodly waiting began, but it was much easier than usual today, for today we were not alone, but had Husband, and K held his hand and squeezed it for some comfort.  A couple of times, people (damn them!) in the waiting room made comments toward us, for whatever reason...(they were into a TV program and apparently needed someone to agree with them about said program) I will be brutally honest here.  I did NOT want to speak to these, or any other, people.  In fact, I don't even know how I was able to pull it off, but somehow I opened my mouth and words came out, the proper words, the right words, and I successfully made small talk with 2 different people, but it was very nearly all I could do to keep from snapping at them to leave me alone, to just let me BE. And wouldn't you know it--Murphy's Law they call it--it turned out that K was the very last person the doctor intended to see today and so we had to wait until every single person in that room had gone in for a session and come back out again. It took a lifetime. 

Now we are in the doctor's office, sitting in a chair beside K's husband, and we are trying desperately to remember what it was that we wanted so badly to tell the doctor.  (I was so scared to tell her what was going on that I very nearly became a mute right there inside her little room.)  I took a deep breath, and began to speak.  The doctor began to scribble notes on K's chart, and that really makes us paranoid, but I pressed on.  I, the smart one, took over for K, and I knew enough to take out our notebook, which we had diligently prepared with notes and questions which we intended to ask the doctor; all of this I'd planned out in an effort to make this as efficient an operation as possible.  I was trying to squeeze in an hour-long therapy session into 15 minutes, which seemed like a difficult task.  So I got out my notes and nervously read the questions and tried very hard to just keep talking, just keep being honest, don't stop now, you're doing so well!  And the hardest part out of all of this is the wait, the insufferable wait between the time K used the term "dissociation" and the time the doctor gave us her opinion on the matter. Just so you know, I was really quite concerned that the psychiatrist wouldn't believe me when I told her my symptoms.  I mean, they sound NUTS.  The good news is this: She believed me, she believed US, and not only that but she agreed with my theory about K's dissociating to avoid some real or imagined threat to her, either emotionally or physically.  PLUS-thank the gods! She did NOT want to put us in the hospital, she didn't think that it was necessary at this time,  and when she "gets" what we're saying, the relief washed over us like an ocean and the waves nearly knocked us down and I felt like I could faint.  K is terrified of hospitals, and of being locked up in a hospital for being insane; for this reason she never trusts psychiatrists or any sort of doctor really, as she's forever paranoid that they are plotting against her, hoping to commit her, and so K has gone to see doctor after doctor all these years, and when the doctor gets too close to the truth, K freaks out because she's so deathly afraid of the real diagnosis, she just doesn't want to face it, she can't admit the truth (even though she doesn't lie) because she's so horrifically afraid of what people will think.  The stigma of mental illness is still very much a problem in this world, and for that reason, a lot of us (the K's) hide from the outside, and keep everything hidden within our mind and within our heart, so that the "normal" people won't laugh at us, or poke and prod us, or take advantage of us, or-worst of all-think that we're really and truly "crazy".

In the end, we somehow made it through the session, and the doctor was really nice and even understanding, (or as much as a person can be, I suppose)  and she gave K's husband a card with her phone number on it and told him to please not wait so long to call next time or something along those lines...  We ( K-the doctor specifically asked that K come next week- and Husband) have another appointment next week.  Oh yes, and our medication has been changed.  She wants us to double our intake of Risperidone (an atypical antipsychotic) and think about decreasing our Seroquel (a drug used to treat K's schizophrenia), but mainly because I told her that it makes K sleep for nearly 20 hours whenever she takes it.  I don't think I remembered to tell her that we haven't been taking it because we're afraid of it and also, we haven't slept in about 3 days now.  I wonder if I should have mentioned that?