What's Wrong With Us?

I've been avoiding writing this blog post because to be honest, I'm still somewhat hesitant to accept the fact that I have this. I was first diagnosed with DID back in 2004, but I've been hiding it ever since (from everyone, including my family and my doctors) and I thought I had it under control. I was in denial all these years, and some of the K's are still in denial at this very moment.

Dissociative Identity Disorder is a psychiatric diagnosis whose essential feature is the presence of two or more distinct identities or personality states that recurrently take control of a person's behavior. It is also known as Multiple Personality Disorder. Memory loss which goes far beyond normal forgetfulness accompanies this condition when an alternate part of the personality becomes dominant.  At least two distinct personalities must be present in order to receive this diagnosis.

              Symptoms of DID:  (I have 14 of the following 20 symptoms)

• Current memory loss of everyday events
• Depersonalization
• Depression
• Derealization
• Disruption of identity characterized by two or more distinct personality states
• Distortion or loss of subjective time
• Flashbacks of abuse/trauma
• Frequent panic/anxiety attacks
• Identity confusion
• Mood swings
• Multiple mannerisms, attitudes and beliefs
• Paranoia
• Pseudoseizures or other conversion symptoms
• Psychotic-like symptoms such as hearing voices
• Self-alteration (feeling as if one's body belongs to someone else)
• Somatic symptoms that vary across identities
• Sudden anger without a justified cause
• Spontaneous trance states
• Suicidal and para-suicidal behaviors (such as self-injury)
• Unexplainable phobias

 Individuals diagnosed with DID frequently report severe physical and sexual abuse as a child.  The psyche splits into separate identities so as to distance the abused person from the trauma which is happening.  Many people, myself included, block those traumatic memories in their mind because they are unable to process and accept what has happened to them. DID is a coping mechanism.

 Co-morbid mental illnesses are the rule rather than the exception in all dissociative disorder cases, with 82% of DID patients being diagnosed with at least one other psychiatric diagnosis in their lifetime. DID co-morbidities include anxiety disorders such as posttraumatic stress disorder (up to 80%), social phobia, panic disorder  and obsessive-compulsive disorder.  Other common co-morbid conditions include mood disorders such as major depressive disorder. Also common are substance-related disorders, eating disorders such as bulimia nervosa, and somatoform disorders. In addition, a majority of those diagnosed with DID meet the criteria for borderline personality disorder. Studies have shown that DID patients are diagnosed with five to 7.3 co-morbid disorders on average - much higher than other mental illnesses.

I have a number of co-morbid disorders, but at this point I'm uncertain just how many.  This is probably the reason I've had so many different psychiatric diagnoses over the years, and also the reason it took so long for a doctor to conclude I have DID.  While I was first labeled with a dissociative disorder more than a decade ago, I have received very little treatment for it.  This is because the first doctor to diagnose me had barely scratched the surface of our therapy when I suddenly had to move to another city.  My next doctor, whom I currently see, has diagnosed me as definitely having a dissociative disorder, but we are just now starting to explore my condition. This is because I hid it from her for two years, and she had no idea about my symptoms until I came to therapy one day in a switched state.  A very different K had therapy that day.  Dr. H was very understanding, which is a blessing, for many doctors believe that DID is just a myth.

OK, so now you know about my disorder, probably about as much as I know. No, I cannot remember my childhood abuse specifically, but I do have certain memories which seem to support the existence of trauma.  Namely, I have childhood memories which are completely inappropriate for children to have. That's all I'm going to say about that subject.

Now, I would like to someday introduce you to the K's.  However, the truth of the matter is this: I don't know them all. I have a number of "alters" which I can recognize, but I have no idea how many of us there are. I'm still learning about this condition and I know very little at this point.  I know that my "switching" can happen at any time but seems to coincide with stress.  I know that I very often leave my body, and sometimes watch as another "me" interacts with the world; it's very strange to hear a voice coming out of your mouth when you are not talking. I also have a persistent feeling that I am not really living my life, but rather that I'm watching a movie of this life, with me being the lead character.

All of this is difficult to explain.  I have trouble talking to my psychiatrist about my thoughts and feelings.  I feel strange. Disconnected from the world. I've always, my whole life, felt different from everyone around me.  I've been hearing voices and hallucinating since I was 4, but I didn't realize that this was abnormal-I thought everyone experienced these things.  By my teens, I'd realized that the hallucinations were not supposed to happen, so therefore I kept them a secret.  I told no one.  When I was first sent to a psychiatrist at the age of 16, I was careful not to tell her very much about the real me, for fear she'd have me locked up in an insane asylum.  This fear has followed me to this very day.  In fact, just last week while I was in therapy,  I was crying but unable to tell my doctor what was wrong for fear she'd have me hospitalized.  For this reason, I believe my DID therapy is going to be a long and difficult process.  Thank God I have a doctor who does indeed believe in such a disorder.  Now we just have to figure out who K really is, and what happened to her to cause this splitting of her mind.  I think that scares me most of all.  I'm not sure I want to remember my childhood trauma(s).  Supposedly you can't heal unless you come to terms with the cause of your pain.  I'm just afraid that once I remember the cause, it'll just create MORE pain.  I already have problems with feeling guilty; I don't need to be made to feel even more guilty, in addition to feeling dirty and ashamed. Plus, what if I find out my abuser was someone I was close to, and it destroys my relationship with that person?  What if I'd rather not know who hurt me?  What if I can't handle the truth?

Twitter to the Rescue

[I still have the second half of my two-part blog post called "The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation" ready to go. It really should probably be posted here, now, but I still don't have the courage to publish it. I'm just too ashamed, too embarrassed, too humiliated to let people read about the secrets contained in that post. I might just sit on it forever.] So instead... I've been racking my brain trying to think then of what subject would best follow two posts (really just 1 1/2) about self-harm.  I've decided that I don't know, and I'm just going to empty my head and see what this post ends up being about.  My mind is working at a furious pace right now; I can't even put into words how fast the thoughts are coming at me and the voices are all excited and talking at once and I'm overwhelmed when I pause to listen to the inner workings of my brain, to all the conversations. This is exhausting, all this thinking. I never went to bed last night because of it, because of all the noise in my head, all the ideas bouncing around in my skull.  I believe it started yesterday afternoon but it could have been the day before.  I just can't remember.  All I can say for sure is that I've been reading, researching, studying, Googling, Wikipedia'ing obsessively about dissociative disorders, especially Dissociative Identity Disorder.  I've also tried to develop some friendships online, and more importantly, I've been seeking out others who suffer from dissociative disorders such as I do. Keep in mind that my Social Anxiety Disorder makes it unbelievably difficult for me to reach out to people, to talk to people, and especially to initiate communication with strangers. So I must pat myself on the back for making the effort. (only one person I tried to talk to was rude to me)  It seems to be paying off in ways I hadn't even imagined. Not only have I met a few people online with whom I enjoy chatting and who I'm hoping to one day call my friends, but I'm beginning to develop a bit of a support system, which I desperately need.  I've never had a support system before.  I've hidden my mental illness from everyone, my whole life, so I don't have any real-life friends I can talk to about it, I've never confided in a boyfriend, hell my own sister didn't even know I was ill until just a few years ago.  My father never understood how I could have everything a person needs and still be depressed.  Now, it's just my mother, and she's too old and set in her ways to be open-minded enough to even talk to about all of this.  So I hide my symptoms from her.  I avoid her when I'm having an especially hard time. Sometimes I just have to disappear.  Wow, I guess that sentence takes on a whole new meaning when it's used in reference to someone who may be suffering from DID.

You must remember that this is all new territory for us-I'm still in a state of shock about my psychiatrist telling me the other day that my Schizophrenia diagnosis was incorrect.  I wore that label for more than a decade, and I suffered discrimination and ridicule and self-hatred because of it.  It's been a heavy diagnosis to bear, and I am beyond thrilled to find out that it is wrong. I am NOT Schizophrenic!  So then, what am I?  Well, my shrink tells me that I am definitely suffering from a dissociative disorder, she just doesn't have enough information yet to properly name it. I found my diary from 2004 wherein my doctor first attached the possibility of DID to my chart, and I've been reading about all the "episodes" I'd forgotten. My psychiatrist wants to use that diary in our sessions. It seems I've been in denial for the past 8 years.  I've been doing some reading on the different types of dissociative disorders, and more importantly, I actually found a few people on Twitter who suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorder or who have problems with dissociation.  These ladies have been wonderful and have helped me tremendously in a very short period of time. I learn a great deal from reading their blogs.  I had some basic questions which they were happy to answer for me.  One of them put me in touch with another one who directed me to a Yahoo group specifically for people suffering from this type of disorder.  As I said earlier, my doctor hasn't officially diagnosed me as having DID, but from what I've read, from what I've been told by people who have it, and based upon my symptoms, I'd say DID is a good fit. In fact, I've never found a disorder which seemed to describe me as well as DID does. So, for the moment, I'm going to study all I can about Dissociative Identity Disorder. If it turns out I have something else, well then we'll just study that instead when the time comes.  But I really and truly feel that I'm closer than I've ever been to being properly diagnosed and treated for my mental illness(es).

I've been going from doctor to doctor since 1986, and each one gave me a new diagnosis and a different explanation for my thoughts and behaviors. And then there are the medications-Oh the thousands of pills I must've consumed at this point.  Anti-depressants, tranquilizers, SSRI's, anti-psychotics, sedatives, hypnotics, sleeping pills, uppers, downers.  So many pills.  I wonder sometimes-a lot of the time actually-what I'd be like if I didn't take the medication.  Now to be realistic, I am far too ill to go "all natural" and give up all medications.  I have gone down that road many times, thinking each time that I could do it, I could handle it, I could live without chemical assistance.  Each time, I failed miserably, and always ended up feeling much, much worse than I'd ever felt even before I began taking the pills. The truth is, I have something wrong with my brain.  It does not work as it's supposed to.  I am destined to take some sort of medication for the rest of my life.  But what kind? Which pills?  My sister believes I'm overly-medicated and wishes I'd take only the bare minimum.  Just what I need to function day-to-day.  But how do we figure out which pills those are? I currently take seven prescriptions, a dozen pills a day.  Surely some of those are unnecessary, wouldn't you think?  I mean, if I'm not really Schizophrenic, it seems we should be able to drop some of the pills I'm taking everyday.  But instead of cutting down on our meds, at my last therapy session my shrink actually added a prescription to my regimen. Maybe she's just trying to pull me out of this pit of despair I've been living in since October.  I don't talk much about my depression, because it really is one of the lesser of the mental evils for me at this point in time.  I've been depressed my whole life.  I'm used to it.  I know how to do it.  I'm good at it.  But I must admit, my traditional holiday blues this year have lingered, as they're usually over by mid-February. So yes, I guess I AM more depressed than usual, and struggling to maintain my sanity.  I find it extremely hard to get out of bed, to shower, to get dressed.  Mostly I sit around in my pajama's, reading and talking to myself and wallowing in our misery.  My energy level is at zero.  If my body worked out as hard as my brain does, I'd be built like a supermodel. (except much shorter)  All this excessive thinking, this obsessing, has me physically exhausted.  Yet sleep doesn't come easily, especially when it's supposed to. No, whenever I lie down to catch up on my rest, that's when my brain seems to be at its most active.  Maybe someone inside me is doing this on purpose to get my attention.  We don't know what to think anymore. I'm a hundred emotions all at once-I'm excited, I'm scared, I'm sad, I'm worried, I'm eager, I'm anxious... I just want to get to the meat of the matter.  I want to know what is wrong with me and I want to know how to get better.  If that means pills, OK.  If it means weekly therapy sessions, OK. I am willing to do whatever it takes to get to a point in my life where something makes some sort of sense, because nothing ever has before.

Looking For Part II of the Self-Mutilation Post?

This post is supposed to be the second part of our last blog post, The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation-Part I.  In fact, I have already written and edited Part II.  I just can't bring myself to publish it.  I'm too ashamed and embarrassed for anyone to find out the secrets contained within that post.  I mean, I've written about some stuff since I began this blog in late December that made K feel really self-conscious, like posts about my dissociation or my hallucinations or our eating disorder.  The latest post, about self-harm, was hard to write, because thinking about cutting naturally made us want to cut.  I didn't get too graphic to prevent triggering-both others' and my own. I've had a number of people read "Evolution of Self-Mutilation",  but so far no one has left a comment or sent me a message so I have no clue what people are thinking or feeling after they've read it.  What if I offended someone?  My cutting is not so severe as some people's, I mean I've never almost bled to death or been hospitalized for a wound.  Does that mean my self-harm is less real, or less emotionally charged?  It certainly seems real enough to me, and I have decades' worth of scars as evidence.  So it seems I'm coming to accept my compulsion to injure myself, and perhaps now that I've talked about it, I'll feel less humiliated about it.  So.  Now the big questions is, what about Part II of the blog post?  Why can't we publish it?  What am I so deathly afraid of?  Well, for one thing, the second part of the SH post is much different from the first part.  Part II contains secrets I've kept since childhood, secrets I've told no one, ever, not family or friends or even a psychiatrist.  I've seen so many psych docs, yet I never said a word about this particular issue, which I've dealt with on a daily basis for what feels like an eternity.  I felt, and feel, so much shame that it's just impossible to imagine admitting the activity out loud, even to strangers whose faces I cannot see.  So I don't know whether I'll be able to publish "The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation-Part II".  It could take some time to work up my courage.  It might require encouragement from other people, or at least from other K's.  It might get posted tomorrow, or maybe never.  It was the hardest thing I've ever written, so I will definitely not delete it...I just don't know what to do with it. I was thinking that by writing all of those terrible things down, it would ease the humiliation. Instead, it brings me nothing but shame, anxiety, and self-loathing.  I disgust myself.

The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation, Part I

I don't know what the trigger was, or what initially drew me to it. All I can remember is that sometime around the age of 13, I began cutting.  It was my secret.  I wasn't doing it because I was suicidal-I didn't want to die (well, sometimes I did, but that's a whole different story)-I just wanted to feel the pain and see the blood. Cutting is totally different than suicidal actions.  I certainly wasn't doing it for attention, as I've actually heard some therapists say about the practice of self-injury. (OOH that makes us mad!) I didn't want attention, I wanted everyone to just leave me the hell alone. I was careful to cut in places that other people wouldn't be able to see, like my thighs and my upper arms.  Sometimes I used a knife, sometimes a razor blade, sometimes scissors, once or twice even a piece of broken glass.  It didn't matter to me.  What mattered was the physical act of hurting myself, of disfiguring myself, of punishing myself.  I had different reasons for the cutting at different times, but the compulsion was always the same: to draw blood.  Cutting was a release of all the pent-up anger and anxiety that I was suffering through not only as a hormone-driven teenager, but also as an unmedicated psych patient who was majorly depressed as well as manic and at times even psychotic. I was a wreck. I took everything out on my body. I chewed my fingernails down to bloody stubs when I was in school and couldn't hurt myself as I'd have liked. I stole a scalpel from the Biology lab and it became a favorite cutting utensil. By the time I was 15 I was carving words into my forearms.  I was terribly depressed as a teenager and the cutting was a way to relieve some of the agony of living.  The pain on the inside was so great, that the only way I could handle it was by experiencing pain on the outside.  So I cut, my arms and my thighs, inside my arms and calves.  Perfect rows of cuts, spaced evenly, all the same length. I'm even OCD when I'm in self-injure mode. The cuts had to be PERFECT, and I'd spend exorbitant amounts of time making each cut perfectly align with the ones beside it.  Sometimes, I'd use a needle or nail scissors and draw swirly patterns on my arms and I loved watching as the blood ran down my arms, mixing with each other, the patterns and blood resembling roses on my arm.  I felt better about the pain in my head and heart when I could feel the pain on my body.

 And speaking of that, I should explain that better.  When I'm doing any type of self-harming behavior, I get so caught up in what I'm doing that I am in a whole other world.  I guess what I'm talking about is dissociation, but I'm not sure it happens every time.  Sometimes, I can't feel the pain as I'm not in my body. Sometimes I'm a K who either is strong enough to endure the pain, or else I actually get psyched about it and enjoy it. (One or two of the K's is into BDSM). And of course, many times I don't remember the self-injury at all, I just find the bloody mess left behind. That, and the scars.

  So many scars.  I lie about how they came to be on my skin.  I have told the same story for many years, about how I was in a terrible car accident (true) and how all those little scars on my arms came from a broken windshield and pieces of metal showering down on me. (Truth? Some of them are cigarette burns, others are from needles/sharp objects)  Or I'll explain the round scars by saying that I had horrible acne in my teens.  Or I will just act like my skin has always been that way, and that those aren't scars, they're birthmarks.  Or something like that.  (sigh)  So many lies. At least I'm very pale-skinned, so the scars show less than they would on someone with darker skin.  After so many years though, it became impossible to come up with a sufficient lie and so we just started wearing long-sleeves at all times. And long pants or dresses.  We avoided the beach or pools-no way in hell could I bare that much skin-and I'm sad to say that I missed out on a lot of good times throughout my life because of my embarrassment and shame due to the results of cutting.  At other times we'd let all our wounds heal, and it was during those times, in our early 20's, when our skin was pale and smooth, that we did artists' modeling.  Since K is an artist and was an art major, she had lots of friends who approached her to model for photography class or sculpture.  For several years K modeled for art classes.  Now during this period in my life, I gave up the self-injury altogether. Naturally I couldn't cut while I was posing, sometimes nude, for artists, so I began getting pierced. For those of you reading this who cut, please do not be offended by my likening body piercing with cutting; I understand there's a huge difference, I'm just saying that for me the two interchanged nicely.  I found body piercing to be a natural replacement for cutting.  I mean, I still got to experience the pain, which I longed for and even needed, plus I was tearing into my flesh, stabbing sharp metal needles into my skin, causing bleeding and wounds and a pain which would linger until it had healed up.  Now some of my piercings, in addition to my compulsive need to scar my body, were also decorative (such as my navel or nose); other piercings I got strictly for the pain.  For those, I'd leave the jewelry in for a couple of days and then take it out and let the piercing heal. (Example=both sides of my labia) It should come as no surprise then that I have a number of tattoos as well; again, it just seemed to me to be another form of self-mutilation, only I was paying someone else to hurt me.  I insisted on designing all my own tattoos, and each one has a special symbolism behind it.  I get tattooed when something life-altering happens; I get pierced when I'm in extreme emotional pain. I have six tattoos, including a large black piece which covers my stomach and wraps around my navel.  I've been pierced 34 times, including a corset piercing which was 12 piercings done all in one sitting, up my back (then I was laced up with satin ribbon; it was for a photo shoot)  The most painful piercing, by far, was my urethra, and I had it done twice. Is this too much information?  I'm just talking about my wounds, wasn't that the point of this blog post?  Forgive me for rambling on about my body modifications.  But it was my psychiatrist who told me that tattoos and piercings are the "grown-up" version of my cutting and self-harm.  One other thing I found to be especially fulfilling and painful was getting branded with blessed cone incense, three at once in an inverted triangle on my lower back.  A Buddhist performed the ritual and placed the incense cones on my back and then just let them burn all the way down until they went out by themselves. Yes, it hurt.  And I'd love to do it again, on top of the same scars. So I guess the only question left to ask now is, Do I ever still cut, like with a razor blade? The answer, unfortunately, is yes, but it's not nearly as bad as it once was. The stress would have to be over the top and unbearable to make me cut with razors again.  I'm well-medicated and have a husband who keeps an eye (he times my bathroom visits) on me and besides, I can always just go get inked or pierced.  And I always have that special scar on my left wrist as a reminder of darker days.

An Apology To My Readers

I'm sitting here, and I'm reading over my last three blog posts, and I'm thinking to myself A) These are so  boring! and B) I sound like an arrogant bitch and C) I'm going to lose a lot of readers/followers.  So I've decided that you, dear readers, deserve an explanation as well as an apology.  First of all, you have to realize that I started this blog for myself, and then later my psychiatrist asked if we could use it in therapy, so it's intended to be just a record of someone mental's day to day life, no matter how mundane.  I wrote this for ME, to help me remember my symptoms and dissociative states.  It was not intended to be a source of information or entertainment (although if you find it entertaining, then that's awesome).  The only thing, if anything, that I hoped to accomplish through this blog was to perhaps help someone out there not feel alone.  I've felt alone most of my life, and I know how hard that is. I hope that if anyone who reads this who has some sort of psych issues will find some comfort or reassurance or hope from my writing.  As for those of you who began reading my blog from the beginning, then you might have a better understanding of what this blog represents, as it is a record of my journey of self-discovery and (proper) diagnosis. It's also a history lesson, collected memories which I need to have handy, details I would otherwise forget that are important to my recovery or life in general.  I'm rambling. Again.  And I don't think I've even apologized yet.  Sorry, readers, that my blog has been dull lately. I promise to spice things up a bit soon. It shouldn't be too hard--I missed over two weeks of meds recently and am expecting the aftermath at any time now.

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!

A Good Day?! How'd That Happen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scaredy Cat

I'm scared of the dark. Really I am.  Our husband just asked us to go get him a beer.  Well, it's after 2:00 A.M., and he keeps his beer in a fridge outside in the garage.  That's a spooky place for me to be at night.  I don't like to leave the house after it gets dark.  Some of the K's are nightowls and love to prowl the streets in the wee hours, but that's not me.  I'm just a little kid.  I'm a scaredy cat.  And Daddy isn't here to protect me from the monsters anymore.  I haven't told Husband about the monsters that lurk in the dark.  I'm afraid he'll laugh at me.  I don't think he'll understand.  I'm embarrassed.  I want to act like a big girl and be grown up and not be scared but I just can't stand being out in the garage.  There are sounds.  And shadows.  And places for bad men to hide.  I don't want to go out there.  I slam the door shut and lock it as fast as I can, and I imagine I can see the shadows moving towards me, coming to get me.  My heart is always pounding after a 45 second visit to the garage.  I hate it there but don't want Husband to know I'm scared so a lot of nights I suffer through this small trauma.  I could turn on the garage light I suppose, but then someone else might see me, like a neighbor, and that's scary too.  I don't want anybody to see me. I like to hide.

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.

How To Be Our Friend

It has come to my attention this weekend that I have very few good friends, either in Real Life or online.  I'd like to change this.  I figure the best way to cultivate new friendships is by giving easy-to-follow instructions on how to get to know us, as this is a somewhat tricky task.  These guidelines apply to both Real Life as well as online.

NOTE: You will probably have to approach us and initiate the conversation.  We have Social Anxiety Disorder and are most of the time very shy.  Once that is understood, here are the basics.

1. BE PATIENT WITH US
     It takes me a really long time to learn people's names in real life; I literally have to be introduced over and over again before I can recall someone's name.  Online, it's even harder because I often don't have a face to put with the name. If I only interact with you once in a while, chances are I won't remember you very well, or will have forgotten our past conversations. There's also a chance that you can catch me during a period of time in which I'm somewhere/someone else and I'll be clueless.  It's not that I don't try to pay attention, it's just that I lose memories every instance in which I lose time, and that is often.  Please don't take it personally!

2. HAVE AN OPEN MIND
     I am liable to say anything. I'm brutally honest and moody as hell.  And some of us speak or tweet without thinking.  Sometimes I ramble on and on about crazy meaningless shit.  Sometimes I get up on a soapbox. Sometimes I wallow in self-pity.  Different moods, different me's, different conversations.  Sometimes I curse like a sailor.  Sometimes I'm terribly insecure and/or paranoid.  Please don't judge me. Just because I say something that offends you one moment, doesn't mean that the next moment I won't be a different person with a different attitude.  Stick around-you might find one of us that you like.

3. HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR
     I have to make fun of my mental illness, or else I would lose my freaking mind. See that? Humor.  It's what gets me through life.  Well, humor and pills. Now in Real Life, I try to play off the mental illness jokes as just jokes; only a handful of people know that when I make those jokes, I'm really being serious. Online, I don't hide my crazy thoughts, just my identity. Don't be offended by my jokes-I only joke about different disorders because chances are, I've been diagnosed with those disorders, and so I feel entitled to poke fun at myself.

4. BE PREPARED FOR REPETITION
     This goes back to my poor memory and also losing time and switching.  I can't remember what stories I've told, so I'll sometimes tell the same ones over and over. I know how annoying that is.  Just tell me to shut the hell up. I'm used to it in Real Life. Also, be prepared to repeat your own stories, as I will forget them and the details of your life, such as your job or your pet's name, and ask you questions. 

5. DON'T EXPECT ME TO BE ON TIME
   I have my own sense of time, and unfortunately it's about a half hour behind the rest of the world.  So if you want me somewhere at 8:00, you best tell me to be there at 7:30.  I'm not exaggerating.  You also can't expect me to keep track of time, such as how long a phone conversation is; sometimes I can talk for hours, sometimes five minutes seems too long. 

6. BE PREPARED FOR SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCES
     I can be in the middle of an online chat, and lose time, and vanish for an hour or an afternoon.  Or I can go to a party and stay five minutes and have a freakout and slip out the back door without saying goodbye to anyone.  I can appear without warning-at bizarre times or bursting into the middle of a conversation-and I can disappear without warning, leaving you hanging, waiting for an answer perhaps.  This just comes with the territory.

7. BE FORGIVING
     Sometimes, I'm an evil bitch.  Part of us is quite mean and says horrible, hateful things. This is not the real me, it's just an unfortunate part of me. I don't know where she comes from or what triggers her, but she's cost me countless friendships and relationships even some family.  I don't like to talk about her. If you meet her,  it's best to keep your mouth shut and run.

I'm sure there are probably a few other tips I could give you, but my brain is exhausted and I'm ready to do some serious drinking now.  Hopefully, this post will be read by someone who's looking for a new, perhaps unconventional friend who's trustworthy and a good listener.  I figure the best way to acquire new friends is to make it as easy as possible for people to approach me.  Someone in Real Life once told me that I was "unapproachable".  Fast forward several years. That person is now my husband.  I think that says something.

Statistics

Inspiration for this post comes from our real life Facebook page, which we checked for the first time in ages on Friday (our birthday), and which was found to contain Happy Birthday comments from over 50 so-called friends. Yes, all of those comments came from actual people, but actual friends?  Not even close.  In fact, let's break it down so that we can analyze it properly. 

Number of Birthday Wishes/comments/pics posted on our Facebook page=56. 
Number of those people whose name we actually recognize=47.
Number of those people whom we've actually hung out with, in real life, ever=40. 
Number of those people we've hung out with in the past 5 years=19 
Number of those people we actually communicate with currently, either in person or online=16.
Number of those people whose phone numbers we have=12. 
Number of those people we've actually called, ever=6.
Number of those people we've actually called in the past year=3. 
Number of those original 56 people who actually "know me"=2 or less.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up

Tomorrow is my birthday.  I don't know if I can adequately express the degree of difficulty which accompanies that day for us, from both a mental and an emotional standpoint.  For one thing, it makes us think back to our childhood, and relive some painful memories.  But more than that, it forces us to face the future, and that is something we haven't learned to do yet.  I'm going to try and explain this as clearly as possible, but all of what I'm about to tell you is, to the average person, completely far-fetched and outlandish and makes no sense at all.  It is, nonetheless, my reality.  Ready? OK, here we go. Try to suspend your disbelief for a bit here. This post will seem delusional and screams "batshit crazy"! 

Time, for me, K as a whole, is not linear.  It doesn't follow a clear-cut path from past to future, but rather jumps around, backwards and forwards, rarely going in the proper order as others see it, that is to say, in a progression of years.  Time for us is more circular, waxing and waning, repeating itself in overlapping cycles which recur every few years.  Everything happens to me over and over again, my life comes full circle every 3 years or so.  Now here's where it gets really weird.  K has been the same age since birth. Not our physical body of course, but mentally and emotionally.  If you ask our mother, she will tell you that I was "born a 30 year old woman".  During my childhood years, I preferred and sought out the company of adults, and in fact found children my own age to be quite annoying.  I was irritated by the immaturity of the other kids around me in kindergarten, I remember that very clearly.  I've always preferred to socialize with people in their late 20's, regardless of my own physical age.  How did I manage to do that?  As a youth, I just hung around my older siblings' friends, or older relatives, and with the adults at church.  As I grew up, not only was I mature beyond my years, but I also matured physically at a very young age; by third grade I was being pursued romantically by high school boys (NO, I did NOT date, until the age of 13). Throughout the years, sometimes I was believed to be younger, and sometimes older, but always I remained roughly the same age to the outside world (about 25). I NEVER told anyone how old I actually was, and I never maintained relationships long enough for anyone to find out my true age; to this day, most of my friends aren't sure of the number.  After a long while, I actually forgot my "real" age, but it didn't matter because I knew in my mind that I couldn't really be that old anyway.  The doormen at local bars and clubs knew me, and let me in without question, beginning when I was about 14, because my dates were always about 26 and it was just assumed I was about that same age.  I don't know how it is that I came to be that particular age, but it fits me, and I've just always felt like an older twenty-something.  K also looks like an older twenty-something, or so I'm told, and have for decades. This is where the torture comes in.  As time goes by, other people around me age, and I can't help but witness this, even though I have no concept of time and can't tell that time is passing.  All I know is that now and then I'll  run into a friend and that person will be much older than they were the last time I remember seeing them.  As in MUCH older.  It always takes me aback.  I look at myself, I see one thing, but my birth certificate tells me another thing.  Now we get into the part that's even weirder still.
                                              
Sometimes K, or one of us at least,  is a little girl.  She usually comes out in times of extreme stress, and most often when we are sick or with our mother.  It happened often in the days before our father died.  She also appeared while we were hospitalized in Intensive Care, fighting for each breath, in the hospital two years ago.  When the little girl takes over our mind, there is no reasoning with her, as she is just a child.  She's scared and needs reassurance and attention, but she also loves to play and likes shiny objects. She's very difficult to control once she's out.  We positively cannot concentrate during these times-we are easily distracted to a fault. We try very hard to keep her locked deep inside me, but if the pain is too much, I'm powerless to stop her from emerging. I can, however, become mute, and thus prevent the outside world from learning of her existence. If someone gets close to the truth, I lie, and I run away.  I've lived like this...well, forever.

                                         
So. Birthdays are hard for me, because I can't accept the fact that time is passing and we are aging.  It's beyond me.  Since not all of the K's are aging each year,  I just can't grasp the notion that I'm getting older. My biggest fear is growing old.  I still feel just as immature today as I felt at 15.  There is a K who still shops for funky clothes in the junior miss department with pubescent girls.  I still feel more comfortable talking to 20 year-old's than I do to any other age group, regardless of the subject matter, just as I did when I was a teenager.  I seem to be stuck in time, frozen in a place in my history,  floating somewhere between the past and the present.  Around me, I watch as my niece goes from an infant to a college grad in a matter of months, or so it seems to me. Now and then I'll see a picture of someone I went to school with, and I'm always shocked at just how old they are.  I'm certainly not that old, so it just doesn't make any sense to me.  But it's as though I've been given a gift from the heavens, the gift of youth.  It is our belief that I've been touched by higher powers and given special abilities, such as the ability to float through time in circles, never really growing older, just existing on a different plane.  Different K's, different points in time, but none of us are very old.  Birthdays represent growing older, and that is something that we, the K's, just will not accept.  We can't.  It's just not in us, we cannot wrap our brain around it.  Growing up is a foreign concept to us.

Can't Remember What I Did Wrong

We are struggling.  We, the K's, are NOT all right.  I'm not sure when this current episode started, but based on how I feel in my head, and based on how many voices there are now and how loud they are (some of them are screaming at me), I'd say that we've been skipping our meds for several days.  There was some trauma recently, (which I'm too ashamed to go into) and that must be the root cause here.  Sigh.  Memory loss is worse than usual; it's causing Husband to become quite impatient with us, and of course K takes this personally and it hurts our feelings.  Can't write.  Can't think clearly.  Just want to sleep, to escape the noise.  The noise all around me, the dogs barking, the traffic, the sounds of everyday life-all so incredibly loud and overwhelming.  Then there's the noise inside me, which is even louder. Got yelled at by my mother and made to feel like shit.  I tried to tell her I was having a bad day, in a mentally ill kind of way, but she flew off the handle and told me to just go back to bed.  If I really DO go back to bed, she'll get even more angry.  Plus, Husband would be pissed off too whenever he gets home.  If he comes home that is.  He left, saying he couldn't be here today, he just wanted to get out and get away from all of this, which I'm sure means all of ME.  Fuck.  Everybody is upset with me and I don't know why and I'm trying to be good but I'm a bad girl and everybody's mad even me.  Need drugs.  But am boycotting them for a while.  Not sure why.

To hell with a title

What a fucking shit pile of a day.  I'm pissed and since there's no once else around I'm taking it out on our husband.  K hates when I do that, she gets all apologetic and weepy and tries to make up for what I say, but what the fuck ever.  I'm a bitch.  Fucking deal with it.

Our Today

We went to the post office today, to mail some packages for Husband.  I was watching my body walk down the sidewalk when we encountered an elderly man with white hair.  He smiled and greeted us pleasantly.  I don't know who said it, but someone spoke up and said "Hello! How are you?" and I could see a teeth-baring (but fake nonetheless) smile on our face.  It was so surreal, hearing the words come out of our mouth, knowing that I wasn't speaking at all.  Everything snapped back to "normal" (whatever the hell that means) when I went inside the building and saw a friend of Husband's; the proper K took over then.  Next thing I remember is the dog barking.  We are in the bedroom., and the dogs are both barking.  It's loud.  I wish they'd be quiet.  I have some time to myself now... but who am I?  There is evidence that I've eaten lunch, and if I think really hard I can kindof see me eating sometime...was that today?  It's more like it happened in a dream.  Husband will be home in 45 minutes; is that long enough to figure out who we are supposed to be?  We called our doctor to make an appointment, but the lady on the phone said she was out sick.  She told us that she would call K next week and let her know when to come in.  I'm really glad that we are going to see the doctor again; I have lots of questions for her.

Don't Look At Me!

K was diagnosed with Body Dysmorphic Disorder about 10 years ago, but she's had it much longer than that, I'd guess since she was a pre-teen.  Body Dysmorphic Disorder is a mental illness characterized by distorted body image and obsessions about perceived physical shortcomings.  A person with BDD is extremely concerned with their appearance, and this manifests as a preoccupation with a perceived defect of their physical features.  Simply put, K's obsessed with how she looks, because of her (self-declared) flaws.  This causes psychological distress that impairs occupational and/or social functioning.  The person complains of a defect in either one or several features of their body, or vaguely complains about their general appearance. (K complains both generally AND specifically.)   The disorder is generally diagnosed in persons who are overly critical of their mirror image, physique or self-image, even though there may be no noticeable disfigurement or defect.  In other words,  K sees an ugly (read=imperfect) reflection upon looking in a mirror, even though no one else sees anything wrong with her appearance.

BDD is often misunderstood as a vanity-driven obsession, whereas it is quite the opposite; people with BDD do not believe themselves to be better looking than others, but instead feel that their recognized "defect" is unforgivably ugly or not good enough. People with BDD may compulsively look at themselves, or do the opposite-cover up and/or avoid mirrors. They typically think about their appearance for at least one hour a day  (usually more) and, in severe cases, may drop all social contact and responsibilities as they become a recluse.  K positively must look at herself in any mirror she comes across, and spends hours making herself "presentable" before she will leave her house.  We haven't dropped social contact altogether, but do go through periods in which I'll avoid people for days or weeks at a time.

Common symptoms of BDD include:

• Obsessive thoughts about a sensed defect(s)
• Delusional thoughts and beliefs related to sensed appearance defect(s)
• Chronic low self-esteem
• Seeing slightly varying image of self upon each instance of observing a mirror or reflective surface
• Major depressive disorder symptoms
• Suicidal ideation 
• Strong feelings of shame
• Social withdrawal, isolation or social phobia
• Perfectionism 
• Alcohol & drug abuse
• Feeling self-conscious in social situations; thinking that others notice/mock their perceived defect(s)
• Repetitive behavior (such as constantly applying makeup or checking reflection in mirror)
• Compulsive/repetitive body modification (such as multiple plastic surgeries)

I exhibit all of these symptoms.  I must point out that K has never had plastic surgery however.  Instead, my body modification rituals include tattoos, multiple body piercings, cutting, and branding.  One therapist told me that my tattoos and piercings were another form of self-injury, and that my methods had evolved from cutting with razor blades to piercing with needles.  I guess I could believe either explanation.  I am trying to permanently alter my appearance to distract from our flaws (BDD), but K very much enjoys the pain and gets pierced to help her deal with reality or emotional distress (SH).

A person with BDD may exhibit obsessive and compulsive behaviors related to perceived appearance defect(s). (K does all of these things.) Some of these include:

• Compulsive mirror checking OR avoidance of mirrors-- I can't walk past a window or a reflective surface without looking at myself;  I'm not vain, I'm checking my flaws.  On the opposite end of the spectrum, there is a K who hates to see herself in a mirror and tries to avoid it (she also doesn't like to get her picture taken)
• Attempts to camouflage perceived defect (such as wearing lots of makeup, hats, or baggy clothing)--A couple of the K's wear little to no makeup, but most of us use a good deal of concealer and liquid foundation, and a bright red lipstick to draw the eye away from our flaws. (The Kellie loves to be dramatic and wears heavy eye makeup as well.)  All of the K's wear hats (K collects hats) and most of us wear baggy clothing to hide our body.  However, The Kellie will wear fitted clothing, and she loves to wear corsets. Note that corsets also alter the appearance of the body.
• Use of distraction techniques (such as wearing extravagant clothing or excessive jewelry)--Each of the K's has a different style, but almost all of them stand out in a crowd and are over the top with accessories-hats and scarves and tons of jewelry.
• Excessive grooming behaviors (hair-combing, eyebrow plucking, skin picking)-- Throughout the day, most everyday, K smooths or touches her hair, plucks her eyebrows and also picks at her skin. I'm not sure if this counts, but she also paints and repaints her nails and toenails.
• Seeking reassurance from loved ones-- I seek constant reassurance from my husband, friends, and family about how I look.  "Do I look OK?" comes out of K's mouth dozens of times a day.
• Comparing appearance to that of others--Not only do I compare myself to every female over the age of 16, but I almost always feel that every other girl I see is more attractive than I am.
• Compulsive skin touching (to feel the perceived defect)--I catch myself constantly touching the areas of our face and body which I feel are unacceptable; I don't know why...maybe to see if the flaw is still there or has grown larger?
• Self harm--My first memory of self-harm is from 4th grade, and it's gotten worse over the years.  I intend to do a blog post soon about my experiences with self-injury.
• Obsession with plastic surgery--As I said earlier,  I've never had plastic surgery,  but I do constantly think about which procedures I'd  have done if I could afford it. (breasts reduced and lifted, tummy tuck, forehead lift, butt lift, facelift, all-over liposuction...) In extreme cases, patients have attempted to perform plastic surgery on themselves, including liposuction and various implants with disastrous results.  I have to admit that I have done some minor work with a scalpel, but certainly nothing drastic. 

The three most common areas of which those suffering from BDD are critical are the hair, the skin, and the nose.  For K, the obsession focuses on her skin, especially that of her face, and she's particularly critical of her chin/jawline/profile.  She's been obsessed with her teeth for as long as she's been seeing a dentist.  She's also obsessed with her overall body, mainly the legs;  to a lesser degree she obsesses about her nose and hair.

In most cases, BDD is under-diagnosed.  It is often associated with shame and secrecy; therefore, patients often fail to reveal their concerns about their appearance for fear of seeming vain or superficial.  BDD is also often misdiagnosed because its symptoms can mimic that of major depressive disorder or social phobia.  K, like most people diagnosed with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, is shy, introverted, and neurotic. Certain personality traits make people more susceptible to BDD.  Others include perfectionism, sensitivity to rejection or criticism, unassertiveness, and social phobia.  K is bothered by all of these things.  Treatment for Body Dysmorphic Disorder includes both cognitive behavior therapy and medication, namely SSRI's.  K is currently being treated with both of these.  Writing about it now, and seeing everything in black and white, the diagnosis seems so simple and easy-to-see.  If only it had really been that easy for our doctors! Perhaps then K would be living a different life now, with more confidence and fewer mirror checks.
        

A Complaint To Myself

Someone inside my head is really wanting to write....  but she's being held back by the others.  I can't hear what she's trying to tell me, so I can't write it down.  I can't hear her clearly because there are too many other voices in my head, all trying to talk over one another.  Damn!  This is so frustrating.

(I wish that we could easily separate each voice inside our mind, so that I might be able to actually understand what everybody's saying at all times...)

The Care and Feeding of Us- Part II

We've talked about K's bizarre food preferences (The Care & Feeding of Us-Part I); now I'm going to tell you how her mental illness affects the physical way she eats.  In Part I, I think I demonstrated  that she's OCD when she eats (in that no foods on her plate can touch, and no food in her mouth can mix), but I'll go even further.  I'll tell you just how OCD K really is. It takes her a long time to get ready to eat.  She has to prepare her plate, by separating her food into categories.  There are different categories for different types of food; some foods are separated by color, others by texture or shape.  Let me give you an example:  K loves Lucky Charms cereal, but she must eat it in a certain way.  First, she eats all of the crunchy oat pieces out of the bowl.  Next, she eats each marshmallow one color and shape at a time, and in a specific order (In this case, yellow is first, blue is always last).  K "saves the best for last", so if there's a bite she's especially interested in, say the crunchiest, blackest part of her well-done hamburger, she'll eat that bite last, after the rest of the burger has been eaten.  Also, she always eats symmetrically. Take one bite from the left side, take one bite from the right side.  One bite from the meat/entree, and one bite from each side item, in a counter-clockwise direction.  Yes, this is time-consuming, but she's compelled to do it. 

 Food is often cut or separated into small pieces before she begins to eat, and this serves two purposes: it allows her to equally distribute a sauce or gravy onto bites of food, and it also gives her the ability to easily count the number of bites she eats.  I'm not going to go into great detail here, let me just say that K does a kind of numerology, and the number of bites eaten has to be what K considers to be a "good" number (3 is the best number).  During this process, K is also "editing" her meal, meaning she's picking out everything green as well as anything unwanted, such as peppers or onions,  plus she scrapes off any unwanted sauce.  At home, of course, she has to do less of this; her husband does the cooking and tries to accommodate her tastes.  Some things can't be made to K's liking and she has to pick out a lot of ingredients (example=chili).  Needless to say, K is a slow eater, and she can be terribly self-conscious about all of these rituals, so she prefers to eat in private.  (Not all of the K's are like this; some of us are less uptight and enjoy dining out very much.)  It's so complicated just to get a bite to eat!

Of course, the K(s) with an eating disorder tries to avoid eating altogether, and will take diet pills and appetite suppressants and guzzle energy drinks instead of consuming food.  I am trying to get K to be more health-conscious, but I'm outnumbered by the other K's.  Before the ARDS incident (When Do People Sleep Around Here?), our breakfast/lunch consisted of two pots of coffee and however many cigarettes we could chain smoke during the consumption of that coffee.  Now, we don't smoke (well, I think The Kellie does), but we still drink our two pots of coffee in the morning.  And then we can, and often do, drink additional cups or a pot at night.  K is a coffee fiend.  Probably not the best thing, considering how poor her diet is... and the worst part of all is that she doesn't even take vitamins.  Her doctor put her on some prescription strength vitamins once, but she threw them up (perhaps her body didn't know what to do with nutrients!), so now we don't take any sort of supplements.  I know we should, and every January I make a New Year's resolution to take vitamins everyday, but our memory is so bad we always forget... On many occasions I've found bottles of vitamins, some expensive, and the bottle is always nearly full but has expired, so it appears that I try to get K to take vitamins at times, I just can't stick around long enough to see that she actually takes them.

I wish that I, and Switch Kellie (aka Smart Kellie), could join forces and take control of K's body and mind and see to it that she develops some healthy habits.  I've been trying to get Switch Kellie to come back out-I can feel her just under the surface of our consciousness; she's always with us, listening, since this last "episode"-but so far she just speaks to me, not through me.  Hopefully, one day soon, Switch Kellie will come forward again and take over and whip us back into shape; I'm good at controlling K's cravings and monitoring her food intake, but I need Switch Kellie to motivate us to work out.  All of this sounds absolutely nuts, and I suppose it IS, but this is the reality that we, the K's, are currently existing in.   ...and wouldn't you know it?  My stomach is growling, but we can't agree on whether or not we're hungry.