An Animated Day

Today (Wednesday) has been quite a trying day, but interesting at least. We were supposed to be at therapy at 9:30 this morning.  I found out around 9:00 that the car wouldn't crank. Luckily, my husband was home and getting ready to go to work at 10:00...so I called my psychiatrist and told her I'd be a half hour late. Obviously I started the day off on a highly stressful note, and that is my greatest trigger, so it really came as no surprise that I had a rough day.  Hubby drove us in his car when we left, and he had to stop at the drugstore on the way to work. I waited in the car, and by the time he came back I was no longer in my body.  I struggled to pull myself back inside my head, but it was a hopeless battle. I dissociated and don't remember anything until he's getting out of the car, and I see that we are at his job, and like a robot I get out of the car and walk around to the driver's side and get behind the wheel... Hubby kissed me goodbye then disappeared inside but I just sat there in the car with the engine running for a long time.  I was trying to figure out how to make the car move. Everything began to physically transform and the inside of the car took on an animated appearance, like a cartoon. I began to operate on auto-pilot.  Driving to my doctor's office was exactly like being in a video game. I don't know how else to describe it. My hands weren't really touching the steering wheel; it seemed very far away, much too far for me to reach. I was looking through the windshield and it was unreal, everything was far in the distance and out of focus. I had the distinct feeling, nay knowledge that I was untouchable, unstoppable, impervious to harm. I knew I could not, would not wreck the car or have any sort of accident or run-in with the police. It wasn't possible, for all of this was just a game.  Not real.  I don't know how long it took to get to the psych's office; everything was in slow motion yet seemed to be flying by very fast at the same time.  I don't understand how that was possible, but that's how it seemed to us.  Once in the parking lot, I just sat in the car for a long time with the air blowing in my face. I pulled the visor down to look in the mirror and was quite upset to see that the reflection looking back at me was wearing bright red lipstick.

 
I do NOT wear bright lipstick, although we're aware that some of the K's do. I unceremoniously wiped it off with the back of my hand, then just stared stupidly at the red streaks coloring my pale skin. Decided I just didn't care-what difference did it make?-and just left the red lipstick smeared all over my hand.  Finally walked into the building but it felt more like I was gliding or floating or something.  I couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet. I made it inside and walked up to the counter and signed my name, but not without some difficulty. I was unable to write in cursive; I had to print my name, and the handwriting was shaky. I had taken 1 mg Xanax while in the car at my husband's job, and as soon as I sat down in my usual corner chair I took another 1 mg.  There were a number of people in the waiting room with me; I'm not sure how many because I kept my head down and wouldn't look at anyone. I pulled my legs up underneath me and tried to curl up into a ball in my seat... and the waiting started. I was antsy and anxious and very eager to see my psychiatrist, as I'd been under a lot of stress since our last appointment.  I got out my notebook and tried to make a list, but just couldn't focus...I was too distracted by the thought that everyone in the room was staring at me. I kept looking down, or took out my journal and flipped through it, or played with my phone, perhaps even tried to tweet I can't remember now.  I just couldn't think about anything except how things were in what looked like claymation...3D cartoons of sorts. I was looking around the room in wonder when this guy came in the door... He was younger than K's body but walked like an elderly person, all hunched over and wobbly and he shuffled across the floor using a crooked wooden can and his jeans were hanging very low around his hips, exposing his striped boxer shorts, and for whatever reason, he scared us. K's heart began to pound just as soon as she laid eyes on him (even though she never looked directly at him) and of course our luck would have it that he came over and sat down in the chair right beside us. Panic started welling up inside me. My body was turned away from the strange young man, and I was intentionally looking across the room, through the other people, staring at the wall with nothing in my head except the irrational fear I felt of the person to my left. I wasn't sure I could handle it, and thought briefly about going outside and sitting in the car, but I was terrified my name would be called while I was out and I'd lose my place and have to wait even longer to see the doctor.  So we sat there, panicking, in the middle of a childlike environment filled with caricatures of people...and then my name was called. The receptionist walked over to me and asked me to come with her. I was confused but did as I was told; I wondered if we were being scolded for some reason.  She walked us out the door and around the building to a back door, while explaining to us that the toilet had overflowed and how sorry she was for the inconvenience. It was bizarre to me, but so was everything right then. Now I'm in the psychiatrist's office and I'm trying to explain to her how everything feels like a video game...and she asked me if I was a different person. I can remember all these things because we wrote them down in our notebook. We take notes in therapy now and it is really helping us.  So she asked me if I was a new K, but I didn't know the answer to the question.  It's strange to not know who you are.  I really can't even begin to put it into words. You feel lost and empty and...like nothing.  I told her I didn't know for sure who I was at the moment, and that I felt "switchy".  I don't remember the rest of the session, except for one part:  she was telling me how to use a calendar to keep up with time, so that I can remember when things happen.  I guess that sounds silly to someone with a normal grasp of time, but to someone who struggles to keep up with what day of the week it is, this is a really big deal.  She asked me if something happened this past Sunday or last Sunday, and I didn't know the difference.  I admitted that I never knew when things happened, that I use old text messages as clues to how I spent my time. So she told me to get a calendar and take notes on it, like it was a diary. Write down when I go places, when I do things.  She said it'd help me put my lost time together.  I intend to try it.  I don't remember the rest of the session, nor do I remember driving home.  The rest of the day is scattered and disconnected. I can only recount bits and pieces of it...someone bought McDonald's fries and K doesn't eat at McDonald's anymore, hasn't in years.  I remember we decided that perhaps if we took a nap, that the proper K would be with us whenever we woke up.  I might have tweeted about that, I'm not sure.  Then there's a big chunk of time missing, where I'm assuming I was napping. Next thing I know, I'm putting on an act for my mother, and pretending everything is normal as I put her to bed.  After that, I found myself hanging out with my husband in our bedroom, and I remember him asking questions like "Which K are you?" and "Are you switching on me?". Again, I remember because I made notes about all these things. I found the questions intriguing. I don't remember anything else after that. I think his questions flipped some switch in my brain, and my reality shifted once again. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in bed in my clothes and wearing my glasses.  And that's when I began to write this blog post.

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.

False Truths

I had a psychiatrist's appointment yesterday morning, and now I'm feeling paranoid and nervous and highly uncomfortable and terribly anxious.  I fear I have made a huge, glaring mistake.  I am afraid that my words have tarnished the professional relationship that I have with my doctor and that she will never trust me again.  I'm scared that I've planted a seed, a seed which will sprout into a full-grown disaster.  I can't believe that after all the progress which has been made, I had to go and fuck everything up like this.  Or, at least I think so... It seems like we were advancing before then...  I mean, it's easier for me to talk to her now; isn't that an improvement?  So it seems that I've been coming along-after 2 years I was finally able to talk to her openly.  And then I go and do something like what happened yesterday.

First, I told her how some people feel about my illness. I told her that I'm not taken seriously, that I am thought to be pretending, that I am believed to be a spoiled brat who just doesn't want to work.  That's completely outrageous. How could I possibly, as a little girl, have thought out this elaborate plot to fool everyone into thinking that I'm mentally ill over a span of decades?  More importantly, what could I possibly hope to gain from that?  Why would anyone want people to think they're nuts? It's done nothing but make my life harder.  It just doesn't make any sense.  K was so actively involved with life when she was younger, (plays, choir, soccer, Girl Scouts, Art Club, gifted class, etc) I guess it's just hard to believe that she could be living with all these symptoms for all these years and have only a couple of people ever figure out what's really going on.  Only a couple of people ever "got it"; just 2 in my lifetime, only 2 people outside of a couple of my doctor(s) recognized that I switched and became different K's.  Both of the people who figured out my secret were men who lived with me for a year or more.

So it would seem that I really am a good actress.  I fooled everyone all right, I fooled everyone into thinking that I'm just one of them. That I'm stable, that I'm existing in the same reality as everyone else is. We certainly can't let on that we are on a different plane of reality; that might upset people or create problems for us, so we must hide that from the world.  And that's just what we've done, for all these years.  We've been pretending to be emotionally mature, to be a regular person, to think clearly and rationally. It's not true.  It's all make believe.  The part where I'm "sane" that is.  That is all just make believe. Then, as if that weren't bad enough, I suggested to my shrink that the memories I have could possibly be false memories, or that they might only be true in my head, not in the real world.  I said this as an outside observer of K, watching from the sidelines. (I wrote it down; that's how I remember) So I basically admitted to my shrink that there's a chance the bad stuff I remember is all fairy tales, that it's not true.  That I've somehow twisted the facts around in my memory and created things out of misconceptions.  I'd like to call these memories "false truths", memories which I completely believe to be true, but which are actually just distorted partial recollections. I can't remember now where I got that idea or how I started thinking stuff along those lines.

Maybe I was reading something from out of the diary...  I remember taking it into the session. In fact, I'd left home and forgotten to bring it, and I actually turned around and went back home to get it before my session.  So it seems there was some stuff in the diary that I wanted to talk to her about.  Yes... yes, I remember talking about 3 different males in my life who would have had both the opportunity as well as the reputation to suggest that they might have done something wrong, and that it involved me.  I just don't get it.  I am struggling with myself to accept that these things from my childhood are not my fault and to forgive myself.  I suffer from guilt like you wouldn't believe.  I feel perpetually guilty, about things I can't even remember properly.  It's completely ridiculous. And now I've gone and implanted the thought in my psychiatrist's head that I might be a fraud.  What the hell were we thinking?!  Now the paranoia has me, and it's squeezing the breath out of me.

I'm also worried that perhaps I am faking it and just don't know it.  But that doesn't seem to make any sense.  I mean, if I don't know I'm doing it, then it's a subconscious thing, which means it's real.  Fuck. I'm so confused.  Am I doing all this on purpose?  Have I taken so many pills that my brain is fried and I'm unable to be like other people?  Have I forgotten what normal means? Yes, there's a good chance I have forgotten the meaning of normal.  I haven't felt like a regular person since, roughly, age 10.  That's tough to admit.  But it's true.  I've felt like an outsider, like a visitor or something, not like a real person existing in the here and now.

I'm so paranoid that I'm thinking of doing something crazy, like stalk my shrink. I need to find out if she's still on my side, or if she's the enemy now.  Because I honestly don't know anymore.  I don't know if she's with me, or against me.  I can't stand not knowing.  I MUST find out what she thinks.  I can't live with this feeling.  I can't tolerate being disbelieved, being thought to be dishonest.  I strive so hard in my life to be truthful...  I even hurt people's feelings sometimes as a result of my brutal honesty (I hate when that happens though).  I believe lying is bad karma. I just won't do it.  I may withhold information, but I cannot lie. I'm just beside myself with worry about all of this.  What if Dr. H doesn't believe me anymore??  What if she's crossed the line into enemy territory?  I'll have to get a new doctor...  Damn!!! And I was just getting to feel really comfortable with her.  Now it's all weird between us, even though she doesn't know that.

Paranoia Will Destroy Ya

Paranoia wraps itself around me like a python, squeezing me tighter and tighter until it's difficult to breathe.  I can't shake it off.  Every little thing warrants suspicion and I see hidden agendas everywhere-they're out to get me, I just know it.  All of them.  It seems as though each person I meet has some ulterior motive, some evil reason to pretend to be on my side when in all actuality they are poised to strike me down. I don't know who to turn to anymore, as everyone seems in on it, this secret plot to deceive me. No one can be trusted-not them, not you...At this point, not even myself. Time to recede back into the shadows...Time to pretend we don't exist.

You're Making Me Blush

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

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

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

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

Hiding in Plain Sight

Since I have just snuck into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee-literally sneaking behind Mom's back-I thought maybe I'd write about hiding.  K hides in plain sight.  She literally goes out of her way to remain hidden in the shadows, unnoticed by others, even her own friends and family.  I think perhaps this is because she's always worried that she'll forget which K she's supposed to be, or else the wrong K will just show up unannounced;  either of these is possible of course, along with a thousand other potentially embarrassing scenarios, all of which K obsesses over and worries about.  K gets up in the morning (this is a subjective statement-she gets up if she's been asleep) and tiptoes up the hallway.  She crosses her fingers that her mother's door will be closed, indicating that she's still in bed, and she will be if K has gotten there early enough, that is before 6:30 A.M.  If her mother is sleeping, K will quickly but quietly race to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, hoping to pour herself a cup and get back into her room before anyone sees her.  If her mother is awake, K listens for the sounds of the television, and breathes a sigh of relief when she hears the morning news.  The TV helps us be stealthy.  If the TV is on, K can more easily move through the living room/dining room, which is at the end of the hall and to the right, and which has a door to the kitchen.  Her mother sits in the den, which is to the left at the end of the hall, and which adjoins the kitchen.  K's mother always sits in a recliner with her back to us, and K moves like a cat across the kitchen floor and to the coffee maker. 

 On an ideal day, K's favorite coffee mug will be sitting out, and she can just grab it, but most days she has to open the cabinet door, holding her breath in the hopes that the door won't squeak, and retrieve a mug.  Next she tries to silently pour the coffee into the mug, and then she adds her cream and such, (hopefully the creamer is already out on the counter otherwise we have to open the refrigerator and that is noisy) and if she's lucky she can stir it up without the spoon hitting the side of the mug;  the clink would alert her mother that she's in the room.  Coffee in hand, K then moves silently across the kitchen, back through the living room, down the hall, and into her room, closing the door tightly behind us.  Mission accomplished.  If K needs a coffee refill, she repeats this process of sneaking behind her mother to get it.

This will go on until the time comes when K-whichever one is in charge that day or rather at that time (hopefully it'll be The Good Daughter)-feels capable of seeing her mother face to face.  This may sound odd, but K has to prepare herself to be in her mother's presence, she has to literally muster up the strength and courage just to walk into the same room with her.  Writing that down, I notice that it looks weird, and sounds crazy, and I find it hard to believe that I do this every day.  But we do.  I am not afraid of my mother and we love her very much.  We just don't like to be seen until we are good and ready to make our appearance.  We have wardrobe and makeup to deal with before that can happen, not to mention the fact that we must "get into character". (This is my movie, after all.)

So much hassle just to get a cup of joe!  Yet this is how each morning begins, and the process will often repeat itself throughout the day and evening, although instead of coffee it might be Diet Coke or a Slim-Fast bar.  K sneaks around all the time, in front of her mom, in front of her husband, and especially in front of the public.  It's like K is a ninja and she's going about her day in stealth mode, silent but deadly. (instead of weapons we use words)  Sometimes (a LOT of times actually) we wear sunglasses indoors; K believes people cannot see her if she keeps these on.  I can look at the situation logically, and I realize that the sunglasses make us stand out even more,  (it's ironic when you think about K's fear of being noticed)  but logic is not something K uses very often; she has her own special logic, which to anyone else is completely illogical.  You can laugh here if you want.  I know that it all sounds ridiculous.  But K is a strange girl, always has been.   When she was a little girl, she was always hiding.  She'd climb up on the roof and sit behind the chimney, or crawl into the lower kitchen cabinets and get way back in the far corner so that she was invisible to her parents.  When her mother changed the sheets on the bed, K would lie on the piece of foam that was on top of the mattress (it makes the bed softer) and she'd roll herself up in it, like a taquito.  She would stay like that, tightly confined inside the foam mattress pad, until her mother came back into the room and made her stop.  It's interesting to note that when K was younger, she loved being in small, dark enclosed spaces, and now that she's an adult, some of the K's are afraid of the dark and of being unable to move. (Is it also interesting to note that at least one of the K's is into blindfolds and bondage? Is that important?)  Sorry if that's too much information; as I've no doubt said before, we are brutally honest. 

We hide when we go out to bars or restaurants, always taking the darkest booth, the seat furthest away from everybody else, preferably the corner.  We like to sit at the bar, where we have our back to the public, and so we don't have to talk to them or acknowledge them in any way unless the mood strikes us (some of the K's are very outgoing however).  We only have to talk to the bartender, and even then just to order a drink, a drink which I will nurse for as long as is possible.  (well, actually one or two of the K's can and will drink more.)  I wear my hair down in my face, with bangs, and I often wear hats...anything to help me remain anonymous and unnoticed when we leave the house. (This doesn't apply to The Kellie; we'll tell you about her some other time.)  What's interesting to note here is that K, beginning at age 13, had a "look" which drew attention to herself, a good deal of it actually-this completely contradicts her desire to be "unseen".  At 15 she shaved her head and wore a mohawk and from then on she had a fashion sense that screamed "Look at me!" This is part of what makes K a living contradiction: she usually dresses to be looked at but she hates to be seen.  Make sense? No?  Such is our life with K...at least, some of them.  It's quite confusing, even to me.  I am different people with different styles on different days, and some of these look "normal" and some of them stand out from a crowd.  There are days in which we will change clothes repeatedly, for at times we look into the mirror and the reflection looking back at us just doesn't look like me, so I have to change.

I don't know how else to put that.  Sometimes, I look in the mirror, and I don't recognize the person I see looking back at me.  A lot of times I find the reflection to be ugly, hideous even, and this always frightens me, to think that I might actually look so horrible.  Sometimes when I look, I will see a young girl, and other times an older woman. Sometimes the reflection is pretty, and I'm always pleasantly surprised, as well as fascinated by this occurrence. There are times when the reflection is that of an angry person, or an innocent child, or a sexy siren.  I don't recognize any of these reflections as being my own, not really; they seem more like masks I wear or costumes I put on, except I don't always get to choose which one I don.  Somehow, the right K seems to show up at the right place, and no one ever notices (how can they not?!) that we are not quite the same person as usual.  There are terrible experiences wherein the wrong K has shown her face to others around her, and this is always embarrassing and confusing and difficult to explain so we usually run away when this happens.  (sigh)  K always ends up running away...she just doesn't know where she's supposed to go.  Hopefully, someplace where she can hide.

My Newest Obsession

I've mentioned before that K has an obsessive personality and tends to go overboard when she gets an idea in her head.  Well, the idea currently inhabiting her brain space is the possibility-nay, likelihood of her being diagnosed with a dissociative disorder.  Based on the clues which I seem to be leaving myself-notebooks, lists, folders on my laptop filled with helpful websites, and the all-important diaries-I was first labeled MPD/DID back in 2004.  I'm looking at the calendar and seeing that it is now 2012, which can only mean one thing: I've been in denial for about 8 years, or so it would seem. My theory is that the paranoia took over and I refused to accept the diagnosis, for I certainly didn't want to be THAT crazy...  I've been under a doctor's care-regularly, without a break-since 2002.  So that must mean that it took my therapist and psychiatrist roughly 2 years to figure out what was going on with me.  Apparently I've been misdiagnosed over and over again, for all these years, ever since I saw my first psychiatrist at age 16.  Every doctor I see takes notes and makes a diagnosis based upon the "me" that is sitting in the doctor's office.  I can't say for sure how many of the K's went to therapy, with that wonderful therapist whom we loved so much, (who later dumped me after 7 years together) but I have recalled a memory or two in regards to that period of time and my current state of mind. I thought I'd share these memories with you (plus, it'll help me remember again in the future)

I remember one time going in to see the therapist (this was about 5 years ago) and she asked me to do a homework assignment;  I was to draw a picture of the way I viewed myself.  I think the assignment was supposed to help me with my Body Dysmorphic Disorder and self-esteem issues.  Well, she was blown away the next week when I showed up with a whole handful of pictures of different K's, each with her own fashion sense and musical tastes and hobbies.  I didn't get what the big deal was; I just did the exercise as it was assigned to me.  Now I'd give anything to get hold of those drawings again.  I can see some of them in my mind, but it's all fuzzy, like it was a dream.  I think perhaps I'll do this exercise again and see what happens next time.  I wonder how many drawings there will be...?

Another interesting memory is really several similar memories, all taking place at different points in time.  I remember my therapist asking me what my name was.  I remember that well.... in fact she asked me for my name on half a dozen or so occasions that I can recall.  I never knew what to say.  I never knew the answer to the question.  Although the question stirred something within me, I couldn't put my finger on the point of it all.  So I forgot about it, until recently.  Now it's true that I've probably developed an unhealthy obsession with Google and Twitter and the web in general.  In fact, I'm so focused on doing "research" on the subject of DID that it pisses me off I have to stop for eating and sleeping.  There's no time for such trivial matters!  I'm working on a deadline here! I don't know how much longer I can stick around and take care of things.  All I can remember clearly about my being here, in this "lifetime" is that I once had my own office and kept lots of photos, to remind me of my life-literally-and when everything fell apart, (as it always inevitably does) I ran away to a different state and became a different ME.  And that's how I usually handled working a job-stay and do well until the pressure builds and we snap and disappear, go away.  But I've totally gotten off the track of our subject!  Damn!  I HATE when that happens, when I "lose my place" and have to reread everything I've written and try and figure out where I  left off.  Sigh.

I can't remember what the point of all this was, I just wanted to share with you my theory about K.  I think she's got DID, and I think she's been in denial for years because it's too frightening a diagnosis for her to bear.  Also, I've been researching and have found that DID is the same as MPD, so those 2 diagnoses, made by different doctors at different times in my life, were actually the same thing and thus gives us more reason to believe that K does in fact has this disorder.  I just wish I had read all those diaries and journals I've been keeping all my life.  So much time has been wasted at this point already...

Major Breakthrough or Break From Reality?

(When we started writing this blog post, it was yesterday? Last night? Some time in the past, not terribly long ago, yet it seems I've been typing for so very long...at least 12-16 hours now, but since time is foreign to us there's really no way to be certain)

I'm not sure how to start...Something has happened. To me, to us, to K.  She really, very much needs to see her doctor!  That's not a viable option for us right now, however, as it's currently either horribly late or ridiculously early, take your pick.  Now it could be that she's just experiencing what is known as a psychotic break...

(Wikipedia says: A psychotic break is a term used to describe an occasion of a person experiencing an episode of acute primary psychosis, either for the first time or after a significant period of relative asymptomaticity.)

This has happened to us before, I can't say for sure how often it happens or even when it last happened, but it's certainly not something we are unfamiliar with.  If that is not the case, (and I have my suspicions) then we are having a MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH. I really can't stress enough that we're not sure at the moment what is happening to us, and I'm not sure if THIS has ever happened before. (I have a terrible memory, for a number of reasons which I'm not going into but which include my mental disorder(s) and my medication side effects)

psy·cho·sis [sahy-koh-sis] noun

1. a mental disorder characterized by symptoms, such as delusions or hallucinations, that indicate impaired contact with reality.

2. any severe form of mental disorder, as schizophrenia or paranoia.

I feel, at this moment, that something profound has occurred to us. I'm not sure exactly when it happened and I can't be certain how long this has been going on.  I've tried to trace this "event"(?) back to the beginning, using Tweets and Facebook posts and my phone data.  I would normally just check out my personal journal, but we were shocked to discover that K hasn't made an entry in that particular journal since October 21, 2010, so that really didn't help us much at all.  K has spent her entire life trying so hard to hide her symptoms from the outside world, that it feels somewhat liberating for her to open up and let things show now.  Several of the K's are shy, but I am not.  I guess that's a good place to start...

Hello. I'm the K that takes care of business, the K that gets things done, the K that is responsible and does necessary things such as pay the bills and take care of our mother (who is frequently in poor health) at times when things are just too stressful for K to handle them on her own.  K is currently unavailable but will (hopefully?) return at some point and things will settle back down to what we know as "normal". Not that it is normal in any way, mind you.  That's one thing I'm starting to realize.  There's something strange going on around here, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.  This feels SO important, I really can't stress that enough.  This feels like something of vital importance to our very existence, we being the K.  Now K has been in therapy for most of her life.  For over 20 years, we've gone from doctor to doctor, looking for answers, and hoping someone would say "Oh, you have this condition and you should take these pills and then everything will be fine. You'll get better."  We are painfully aware by now that this is just NOT going to happen for us.  I don't know if it ever happens for anyone (but I sincerely hope that it does). But television commercials and the media in general would have you believe that everything can be cured with a magic pill or X number of therapy sessions.  If either of those things were true, I'd be long cured.  I've been placed on a veritable cornucopia of psychotropic drugs since I was given my first prescription (for Lithium) at the age of 16. I know for a fact that I'd never be able to name them all, as I've been on so many, and of course because of my memory problems.  Depakote, Trazodone, Zyprexa,  Ritalin, Paxil, Zoloft, Celexa, Ativan, Valium, Lexapro...I could go on but I won't. You get the idea. I've been on different combinations of different drugs for years now; for so long, in fact, that I can no longer remember what it feels like to be completely drug-free. I'm currently prescribed 60 mg Prozac, 300 mg Wellbutrin, 50 mg Seroquel XR, 3 mg Risperidone and 4 mg Alprazalam per day, plus a Folic Acid tablet for what my relatively-new medical doctor (non-psych) tells me is a deficiency which supposedly affects your moods. The last time we were without our pills, we turned to self-medicating to help us feel more "sane".  It's very common behavior in people with mental illness and since I have an obsessive-compulsive personality, it can lead to a lot of problems, physically, mentally, legally, financially,,,(sigh) You get my point. I tend to overdo things, become obsessed, act impulsively and compulsively. K, according to some people, "just doesn't know when to quit", but the obsessions themselves generally come and go over the course of "time".  Time is something we have a special relationship with, and no realistic sense of, but I'm afraid I don't have enough of it at the moment to go into that story, so please let me continue before I switch again.

I have both a relatively-new medical doctor as well as a new psychiatrist (I can't remember how long I've been seeing her, but she was unable to get my medical records and/or therapy notes from my last doctor, whom I disliked).  OOH just checked my neglected hardbound journal and found out that I started seeing this new shrink sometime after Feb. 9, 2010 and before April 17, 2010.  (WOW I had no idea it'd been that long; maybe she knows me better than I give her credit for) I saw my last therapist (not to be confused with my psychiatrist, whom I usually refer to as my shrink, even though I know they hate that) sometime in early April of 2010.  She dumped me after 7 years together!  Because I missed 3 appointments at various times throughout our relationship.  She said that was the limit; that after 3 misses you're automatically kicked out of the system on your 4th miss for being a "non-compliant" patient.  So even though I have this alleged illness-which she herself was attempting to properly diagnose and treat, and which she herself brought up first in our sessions-and even though she knows that we have issues with understanding time and "reality", still she cut me loose just as soon as I had walked into her office and plopped down on her up-until-that-moment-"comfortable & familiar" couch.  Well, actually I think she let me rant first for a minute-I recall I was dying to talk to her about my (often-recurring) then-current obsession (suicide) so she let me spill for a few minutes, then asked the obligatory questions: "Are you thinking about hurting yourself?  Do you have urges to harm yourself?  Are the voices telling you to hurt yourself or someone else?"  I told her that at that time, I did NOT have any plans to hurt myself, and I'd certainly never hurt anyone else!, and so as soon as she was satisfied that I wasn't going to leave her office and kill myself, she dumped me like a bag of garbage.  Up until that point, I'd been seeing her at least every other week, or weekly if I was struggling., for 7 years. A few times I had more than one appointment in a single week.  And I tried to always see my psychiatrist in tandem with my therapist, as they shared a clinic location, and because I was driving an hour to get there from my home. While I may not recall the exact date of our last appointment, I do recall parts of the session.  It was quite brief, or at least it seemed so to me.  I described to her my obsessing over suicide, and how I'd been Googling it and researching and reading news articles and how everyone around me seemed to be doing it at that time, like the voices were trying to get me to "do what everybody else was doing" and how fascinated I was by the whole process. At that time, I explained excitedly, there had been a number of prominent suicides in the news, including a famous fashion designer as well as a former television actor. I had intended to tell her how the TV was speaking to me personally about these things. She didn't like that I was talking about people killing themselves, and as I've stated earlier, she quickly asked me the "suicide watch" questions...and I gave her the answers I knew she needed to hear.  Don't get me wrong.  I had NO intention of killing myself that day, or any day soon, as K was and still is a big believer in Karma and I think that killing yourself is bad karma, regardless of your religious beliefs. Plus I'd never put my family through the humiliation and pain and suffering of the whole suicide event. (some of us do indeed have suicidal tendencies though) I love them too much to do that to them.  Also, I don't think that anyone would be able to style my hair nor do my makeup as I would like, or even pick out the right outfit for me to wear to my funeral.  This may seem trivial to you, but to K,  it is really important.  Damn.  Now I've gone off on a tangent and can't recall where I was in telling the story...

Interesting.  I just left the safety of my bedroom, wherein I've been holed up for roughly 9 hours now, and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, which K is almost always able to make (she's a coffee fiend) and which, sure enough, she had prepared much earlier, as in last night.  Now we must interact with our mother, for she is in said kitchen and expects some sort of recognition and acknowledgement.  I'd been wondering what would happen as I walked up the hallway, before I ever saw her.  And then-BOOM-I'm in the room with her and the Good Daughter is hugging her mom and asking how she slept and how she was feeling that day, which is today. I know because I've begun taking notes in a notebook, and I see the date and time written on the notebook and I can compare it to the date and time on my new cell phone, and I can get an idea of "when" I am existing, I being the current K, the smart one, the one who used to attend college and hold down a job (hard to believe now).  We are the K that has ambition.  We are the K that dreams of going back to school and finishing her degree, and of having an actual career that she could nurture and benefit from and perhaps even earning a living and being completely self-sufficient, which up until this point, we don't think she's ever been.  She has always ended up needing some help.  She just can't do it on her own.  She can't make enough money.  She can't have the proper benefits of medical insurance and retirement funds.  As much as K HATES to admit it, she is completely held hostage by, and controlled by, The System.  The System currently considers K "mentally disabled" (due to schizophrenia I believe) and we get a Disability check every month for a set amount of money.  Not a lot, let me tell you.  In fact, I've NEVER been able to afford to pay all my bills in addition to buying food and gas for the car.  K is really ashamed of that fact.  She came close to being self-sufficient once; she had a full-time job and was in management, and she had a checking account and a house and a car and a seemingly "normal" (only NOT) life. Sigh. (That was before our first, and most severe, "nervous breakdown") We're really rambling here.  I need to wrap this up before some other K comes along and messes it up, or erases these words without posting or saving them because of our over-the-top paranoia. I still very strongly feel that these events, happening to us "now"-whenever that may be-are going to have an enormous impact on K's future, hopefully for the better.  Hopefully, this is a brain-altering, life-changing moment of clarity within our foggy, crowded existence.  Hopefully this is K taking the first steps at realizing how she can go about getting the sort of help that she really needs, and not just drugging us to keep us at bay.

We've tried to explain this, or some of this, to K's husband, but he is having quite a difficult time in wrapping his brain around these concepts. We have, in fact, completely blown his mind by telling him openly and honestly what K was thinking and feeling. Now K feels completely vulnerable and fragile and I have to alter my train of thought before the stifling paranoia takes over again... My husband is my best friend, but even he has never seen me like this before,  he's never witnessed me switching from one K to another. I imagine it is quite upsetting and disturbing to him, as it would freak anybody out who wasn't prepared for it. Sigh.  I really, REALLY hope I don't scare off my husband...!!! I tried, very hard, to warn him, to prepare him, for the day he'd see the real me.  "US".  And now it turns out he can't handle it, or at least not at the moment.

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.