Alone With Our Thoughts

I've only had one meal and 2 hours' sleep in the past two days.  Husband's out of town and I'm feeling alone and vulnerable yet I'm oddly hyper and my brain is going a million miles an hour. I've been all...switchy.  It feels like my mind is a slot machine and life pulls the lever and then whatever comes up from the spin is who I will be, but only until the next spin. I keep coming in and out of time, at least the "here and now" kind of time.  I guess this is how it was for me before I got married.  Just me, alone with the voices, fighting to keep my voice heard over everyone else, but then at the same time I'm wondering if it's my voice that's supposed to be doing the talking anyway, because I have other, different voices talking too, and they somehow all feel like me, even though they don't all sound like me.  Even though my brain is crowded,  I feel so alone.  I am...incomplete.  Like a chunk of me is missing.  My husband is my strength and support and without him I feel weak and uncovered, like I'm a target or something.  It feels like all the world's problems are chasing me and I can't run fast enough to get away.  I'm sprinting through time, and I want very badly to pause for a moment, just a moment, and relax and notice all the little things that I'd normally miss as I'm going by so fast.  My husband helps me slow things down.  He helps me organize my time.  He keeps me on my toes, and on the ball with my medications and doctor's visits and the like.  Husband helps me get through the day, everyday, even when he doesn't know he's helping me.  A simple text from him can transform my mood, and it very often does.  Sometimes, after he leaves for work, a dark cloud will descend upon me and threaten to ruin my whole day.  But a message from him is like the sun bursting through the clouds.  He is my light at the end of every day's tunnel.  I don't know what I'd do without him and his support. 

It seems odd to me now that I was able to live my life all these years without any support.  I mean, no one knew about my dissociative disorder.  People thought I was a strange girl, of that you can be certain!  But no one ever guessed how fractured my mind really is.  Coming out to my husband was difficult to say the least, and not just for me.  He was overwhelmed at first, and shocked that I could hide such a secret from him for all the years we've known each other.  But we didn't live together then, so he never saw the sudden, dramatic transformations which sometimes occur.  He just thought I was moody.  Yes, yes I am. Quite. When I finally did come out and tell him, it was Switch Kellie who did the explaining.  I'm not sure, but perhaps that was the reason he was so freaked out; to his knowledge, he'd never met Switch Kellie.  In truth, he had met her, in fact she was the one who had handled all the wedding planning and she came every day to check on the details and see to it that all the wedding and honeymoon plans were in place.  She was a constant for 2 months, then she receded back inside me, where she stays until I need her.  She comes when the stress gets to be too much.  She comes when I'm overwhelmed and can't handle the pressure.  Switch Kellie is smart and tough and can take care of business while keeping a clear head. HA!  "A clear head"-I don't think that's something we ever really have.  There's always something going on in there, always people talking.

This is the longest I've been without support in what feels like an eternity.  I've not been apart from my husband for this long since we got married 2 years ago.  I miss him terribly. It's very early and normally we'd both be sleeping right now, but I am unable to sleep without him beside me. I feel unsafe.  For whatever reason, the strong K's are nowhere to be found; it's just us weaklings here now.  Last night, I got scared of the dark at more than one point in the night, and I had no one to turn to, no one to put their arms around me and tell me I am safe.  I had more than one anxiety attack last night.  In between those, I was nearly manic. So much energy, so full of conversation...but no one to talk to and so I was unable to relax and calm down.  I'm all wound up and am having trouble being in the moment; I keep jumping ahead of myself, going too fast.  I need to slow things down to a manageable pace.  This hyperactivity on my part is damn annoying! I'm trying to keep quiet so that Mom doesn't know I'm awake. I'm just not ready for interaction with others yet.  I might just hide out in my room all day until Husband gets home.  The only thing I need is coffee, and I'm pretty sure I can sneak into the kitchen unnoticed...

Scrap of Paper

I found a handwritten note to myself (at least I think it's to me).  Not all of it makes sense, but I found it interesting and it's a peek inside K's mind.  I thought I'd share it with you here.  It goes like this:

I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM.  I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT MY NAME IS.  I CAN'T FUCKING REMEMBER THINGS. RIGHT NOW. WHO THE HELL IS THIS PERSON TALKING TO (my husband), EXPLAINING TO HIM THAT WE CAN'T REMEMBER WHO WE ARE. WHO AM I? FOR JUST A MOMENT, I WAS THE ONE WHO DOES MATH.  IT WAS IN THE CAR.

(I typed that all in caps because that's how it was written) That's the end of the note, which I found on a scrap of paper stuck in between the pages of my journal.  I don't know when it was written and I don't remember writing it.

CBT or DBT?

What's the difference between CBT and DBT?  I have to admit that I didn't know the differences until I looked it up to write this blog post. I was curious as to what kind of therapy I'm receiving, as I really don't know. I usually can't remember what my therapy sessions are like anyway, due to my dissociation and memory problems. However,  I want to know what method my doctor is in fact using.  I need to know what course she's charting for me, even if my ship keeps trying to sink. 

CBT is cognitive behavioral therapy. Cognitive meaning of or pertaining to the mental processes of perception, memory, judgment, and reasoning (as contrasted with emotional processes).  Behavioral refers to the sum total of responses to internal and external stimuli.  Therapy...well, you know what therapy is. The premise of cognitive behavioral therapy is that changing faulty thinking leads to change in emotions and in behavior.  Therapists use CBT techniques to help individuals challenge their patterns and beliefs and replace errors in thinking such as overgeneralizing and catastrophizing with more realistic and effective thoughts, thus decreasing emotional distress and self-defeating behavior.  Catastrophizing is to view or talk about an event or situation as worse than it actually is. (I have a problem with this)  CBT also focuses on changing or reversing the habits of magnifying negatives and minimizing positives.  It helps individuals replace maladaptive coping skills, emotions and behaviors with more adaptive ones, by challenging an individual's way of thinking and the way that they react to certain habits or behaviors. In other words, it's showing a person another side, an alternative, something different, that happens to be more positive rather than negative. Replacing "bad" thoughts with new, improved thoughts. It's like gaining a fresh, new perspective.

DBT is dialectical behavioral therapy.  Dialectical refers to linguistics, or language, and behavioral refers to actions. DBT combines standard cognitive-behavioral techniques for emotion regulation and reality-testing with concepts of distress tolerance, acceptance, and mindful awareness largely derived from Buddhist meditative practice.  It uses a combination of one-on-one therapy and also group therapy. DBT may be the first therapy that has been experimentally demonstrated to be effective in treating Borderline Personality Disorder (generally speaking).  It also has been shown to help with mood disorders, including self-injury.  Recent studies suggests its effectiveness with sexual abuse survivors and chemical dependency. (I'm a chemically dependent self-injurer who's been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder in the past and who my psychiatrist (and some of the K's) believes is a survivor of sexual abuse, who also has an unspecified mood disorder.)  DBT strives to have the patient view the therapist as an ally rather than an adversary in the treatment of psychological issues.  Accordingly, the therapist aims to accept and validate the client’s feelings at any given time, while, nonetheless, informing the client that some feelings and behaviors are inadequate or faulty, and showing them better alternatives.  Mindfulness practice is increasingly being employed in Western psychology to alleviate a variety of mental and physical conditions, including obsessive compulsive disorder and anxiety (both of which I have).

The more I read about DBT, the more I'd like to try it. The idea of using Eastern meditative traditions in my therapy sessions really appeals to me. It's too bad that DBT also involves group therapy, and I don't do group since I generally don't like people, and am even afraid of them. It appears that my therapist is using CBT (I think) and since we seem to be making progress, and even more importantly, since I've finally found a doctor whom I both respect and like as a person, I shall continue with my current course of treatment. After all, it's taken me years to find a therapist I feel comfortable with, and I think that's the most important thing of all when it comes to therapy.

Attempting To Heal: Beginning Week 3...or Am I?

As I've blogged about before, I have Dermatillomania, an impulse control disorder; it's where a person uncontrollably picks at their skin until tissue damage is caused. It's quite embarrassing and I'm very ashamed of it.  Recently, two Sundays ago, I started a new project, that being a healing plan for my skin, which is currently afflicted with terrible wounds from CSP (Compulsive Skin Picking). I blogged about Day 1 here: Attempting To Heal My shins, in particular, had become so damaged that I was unable to wear skirts or anything which shows my legs.  I have a wedding to attend May 19, and so I decided to start a new routine, and I was hoping that by forcing myself to follow this healing regime day after day, I'd develop an obsession for it, and would begin compulsively treating my wounds. That was my hope. It's not uncommon for me to develop new obsessions and/or compulsions, so I was hoping to force this one into being.  So far, that has not happened, although I have been treating my sores daily. What I want is compulsive treatment of my wounds, and an obsession with healing. Still hoping that will happen.

 

I lasted three days.  Three days, and I caught myself scratching.  I didn't actually pick at the sores until Day 6, and on Day 8 I finally ripped off a scab and started bleeding.  So I guess I must admit this project was a failure. But. I will start again tomorrow.  And truthfully, my legs do look better.  Even though I scratched them a few times, the creams I was layering on really did aid in healing the scabby places, and there are no bloody spots anymore.  Correction: there is one place on my left leg.  I scratched til I drew blood yesterday.  Sigh.  But the number of wounds on each leg has decreased; I only have 12 on my left leg now. (it was over 20 at one point) My right leg, on the other hand, only has 6, and really it's less than that. I'm counting every blemish that I can easily see.  Some of those really shouldn't be included as CSP injuries, as some of them are moles or freckles. Of course, if and when I scratch at them until they bleed, they then become part of my list of CSP-afflicted areas.

The second week of my healing routine was a rollercoaster of good days and bad days. The bandaged areas are healing nicely, but the majority of my wounds are still tempting me to pick at them.  The itching, which I suppose is caused by the healing process, well it's just about unbearable. I unconsciously scratch my legs; I catch myself doing it and sometimes I've drawn blood and then I feel like a failure and have to start all over again with the steroid cream and the antibiotic gel and the hydrocortisone.  The wedding I'm attending is fast approaching, and I'd so hoped that my legs would look decent by that time.  I have 2 weeks from today. So I'm making a promise to myself. No more scratching. No more picking. I will NOT touch my legs other than to apply medicated creams which will aid in healing.  I lasted 3 days the first week without picking, and only 1 day the second week.  Let's hope the third week is more successful. Perhaps I should plan on rewarding myself when my shins are healed.  Maybe I'd motivate myself to stick to the plan if I bought myself a new dress to wear when my legs look good again. Last summer, my skin looked pretty good.  Granted, I have scars all over my body, but I wasn't picking at that point and I was able to wear more revealing clothes.  I even went to the pool a few times. There will be no pool for me this Summer unless I am successful with my anti-CSP plan. I MUST do this. No one in real life can find out about this humiliating condition, and I'm afraid that wearing long sleeves and long pants in 100 degree heat might look suspicious when everyone around me is in shorts and tank tops.

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.

Jewelry Jumble

I just had one of those moments.  Those moments when I remember that there's something "wrong" with me.  Those moments wherein I seem particularly symptomatic, or especially mentally...confused.(?)  It was trivial really, but for some reason it just struck me, and I can't stop thinking about it now.  I was going through my closet, and I found a box containing a bunch of necklaces and bracelets and some earrings.  According to the evidence and my husband, this jewelry was all made by K (She's an artist who has worked in many different mediums over the years) but I couldn't remember making it.  I couldn't remember the jewelry at all in fact.  That was not me who had done that, who had designed and created those delicate glass-beaded necklaces and colorful gemstone bracelets. When I got to the bottom of the box, I found a whole cluster of necklaces and other pieces of jewelry, all wadded up together in a big mass.  It looked as though it'd been long ago forgotten.  As I carefully separated each piece from the tangled mess, I looked at the necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and anklets with the eyes of a new beholder.  Here I was,  someone who liked jewelry, and I was checking out this random lady's jewelry that she'd made and collected over the years.  I liked some of it but not all of it.  It's hard to describe how it felt.... it was like I was a stranger going through my own things. They didn't feel like MY things.  In fact, they weren't my things.  They were HER things.  There was one necklace that was familiar to me, but it seemed like I'd only seen pictures of it before or something. It felt like I was touching it for the first time. Strange. Very strange.  I can't remember the last time I made jewelry...

                                                           

My Own Reality Show

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

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

Truthfully, I'm Lying

Lies.  Every word out of our mouth today and yesterday, in the Real World.  Lies.  K doesn't lie, so we're all suspicious and on edge. Something's going on.  Something...well, it's probably not good.  Negative feelings seem to be hanging in the air at times, but we can't remember if I've done anything wrong.  Feel angry.  Been pissy at everyone.  Can't control it.  Whomever is visiting lately has also been sneaking cigarettes, and K doesn't smoke anymore.  So what the hell?!

Another Day, Another K

Today was interesting.  Went to therapy. Floated across the waiting room and onto the ceiling and looked down at K. Noticed she was all dressed up and wearing heels, and that her makeup was very dramatic.  The weirdest part of all of this is that I was watching her, and she was talking to a couple sitting in the room with her.  She was talking very quickly and was using her hands a lot and was quite animated. She was out-going and friendly and chatty and self-assured. I listened to her, fascinated, and kept wondering what she was going to say next. She was a storyteller...but chunks of what she said were untrue.  She was not like K normally is; this girl was confident and not at all afraid of people.  But she was familiar to me.  When I got into my psychiatrist's office, I told her about this experience.  I asked her if I were dissociating, would I be aware that I was dissociating.  She said what I was experiencing was depersonalization (a sense of detachment or separateness from one's self), which I would be aware of, and that it can be a part of dissociation.  I know this because I wrote it down.  In fact, I took some notes today, and it's good that I did. Otherwise I'd not remember a thing I'm afraid. Which is one of the things that I wrote down, coincidentally.  Dr. H told me that I probably wouldn't remember much about today's session.  And she was right. All I can remember is what I've jotted down, and I don't really remember those things. One of the things I put down is that Dr. H believes all the me's exist to take care of K, and that each K has a different, specific job. Several times she spoke about "the other K's".  I made a note that Dr. H used the term "different personalities" today when talking about me; that seemed important. Also, she pointed out that I was dressed differently today, and that my makeup was different, and that I was different. She said the K who usually comes to see her dresses all in black, and I was wearing a full-length paisley dress in bright shades of green,  accessorized with tall platform shoes and a lime green, faux-crocodile purse in a funky, curved shape. I know all of this because I'm looking at a pile of clothes on the chair in my room and I'm able to see exactly what I was wearing. Also, I made some notes about my outfit when Dr. H was telling me that I was a different K today. 

Earlier this evening, I had to remove heavy and colorful eye makeup in shades of lime green and turquoise, and hot pink lipstick. That's the first time I've worn eye shadow in...well, a good while.  I just know that I've felt funny all day long. I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong but I was...um.. I felt like I was just outside of my body, or like I was in a movie, that it wasn't really real. I also felt like I was sharing a brain with someone else; I was an us, more so than usual even. Sitting here now, reading my notes from therapy, and looking at the facts in black and white, both from my notes and from this blog post, it occurs to me that I remember this K, but that I can't recall seeing her in at least a year, perhaps longer. Tonight, though, there's physical evidence that she was here.  The clothes. The jewelry. The glitter I found in the bathroom.  The fact that my toenails are now painted lime green-the same color as the purse I carried today. The fact that my freshly cut and colored (bright red) hair has been meticulously styled.  All of these things describe one of the K's whose job is to socialize, to see and be seen.  She often went on dates for K before she got married, and yes, Husband dated her sometimes.  I remember all these things because I'm reading my old online diary now,  from 2008.  Interesting reading. Perhaps I should do a blog post introducing each of the K's, or at least the ones I am familiar with (thanks to numerous diaries/sketchbooks/photos).  A number of them journal, and that's how I get to know myself/us. I can't tell who I am at the moment; think I'm in between me's. I'm in a drugged, dream-like state and I feel as though I'm running on autopilot. I wonder what/who tomorrow will bring...

Attempting to Heal: Day 1

I'm a self-harmer, but I go through phases where I stop and let my wounds heal.  These periods have, in the past, lasted from a few days to a few years.  I'm ashamed to say I haven't had clear, uninjured skin in a year now. So I've decided to take action, before it's summer and I want to wear something that reveals skin.  I am just starting on a healing program for my Dermatillomania (or CSP- Compulsive Skin Picking). (See blog post Evolution of my Self-Mutilation: Part II to learn more about this condition) My calves are currently covered in angry, deep, red wounds. Bloody and scabby and rather large-about 3 inches long and 2 inches wide.  It all started as a small, pink rash. But I started scratching.  Soon I had scratched all the skin off, and before long I had bloody holes in my legs, all over. I mean a dozen or so wounds, maybe more.  I'm not sure how long it's taken me to get to this point; I remember that my legs looked bad back in February. I got brave at my last therapy session and showed my doctor my legs. I decided at the last minute to do that; some part of me, inside, decided it was time to break my silence.  So I showed Dr. H my shins.  She said, "Oh my goodness!" and then suggested a few products for me to try.  I got a prescription for a steroid cream, and I'm using Neosporin antibacterial cream and hydrocortisone.  I put the Neosporin on first, then the steroid, then I cover the whole leg with hydrocortisone to prevent itching. Some of the more serious wounds need bandaging.  I'm also using these 3 creams on my arms, as they're affected by my CSP as well.  So today is Day #1...sortof.  I've been using the medicines I got for several days now, but today is the first day I haven't picked or scratched or ripped off a scab.  Of course, the day isn't over yet.  But I'm really determined to get my skin cleared up and smooth and healed and scab-free by the time sleeveless weather gets here.  I don't know what I'll do if I'm unable to wear shorts or a dress this Summer.  This healing plan MUST work.  Now I've done it before, many times, but as I said earlier, the latest bout of skin picking has been constant and severe for the past year.  It's directly related to stress; when things get serious or difficult, I have to turn to something I can control. So I self-inflict wounds to my body.  Yes, I'm a cutter, but even more so now am I a picker.  It takes a lot of stress and negativity to get me to actually cut now with a razor.  But the skin-picking, well that's something I just cannot control.  I lose time whenever I go into the bathroom, and I'll often emerge hours later, covered in bleeding sores.  Everytime I enter a bathroom, there's a risk I will self-harm.  If I have no access to any implements,  that is, razor blades or scissors or tweezers, then I'll use whatever I can find. An earring post.  A nail from out of the wall.  A bobby pin. Safety pins are a favorite; when I was younger I took great pleasure in sticking safety pins through parts of my body-ears, lips, hands.  Sometimes I'd get a needle, thread it, and sew words into my arms.  There's just no telling what I'm liable to do to my skin.  My Body Dysmorphic Disorder makes it impossible for me to see myself in the mirror the way other people see me, so while I've always been told that I'm very attractive, I just can't see it. I'm obsessed with my skin, particularly on my face, but all over really.  I can find any flaw, no matter how tiny, and within a few moments, I can have it large and red and angry and bleeding.  But for some reason, in my mind, when I pick at something imperfect on my skin, then I'm helping make it go away.  Logically, I know that by picking it I'm making it look worse.  But I just can't think that way. I just think "Must remove flaws" and I'll do whatever it takes to dig out a perceived blemish. 

Dermatillomania is a condition which causes tremendous shame, and it's difficult to write about the subject.  However, I really, really am going to try and make an honest attempt at getting my life back on track and healing all my body wounds.  Plus. I've been asked to model again and I can't possibly do it unless I get my face cleared up at the very least.  So I'm doing it.  I'm going to layer the three creams onto my scabby sores throughout the day and night, every chance I think about it.  Dr. H told me that if I keep the area moist, I'll be less likely to pick. So I'm going to try it.  Giving me even more incentive to quit mutilating my skin is my desire to shave my legs.  I'm unable to shave or wax while I have these large open wounds on my legs.  It's just too risky. So I have to admit that my legs are awfully hairy at the moment, at least where the wounds are located.  I can't wait to clear up all these sores, for all my scabs to fall off (on their own, not by me pulling them off), and for new skin to start coming in and renewing my complexion.  Yes, there will be scars, some of these will be my worst ones ever...but many of the scars will fade (I have a scar-fading program I follow too) and by the time I'm invited to a pool party, I should be mostly "normal", or at least I can appear that way through the use of waterproof body makeup on the most prominent scars.  Other scars should fade to something pink and/or shiny by July.  Yes, my body is covered in scars. All over my body. In unexpected places.  But I can't help that-I've been a compulsive skin picker since 4th grade.  Dermatillomania is an impulse-control disorder which is also akin to substance abuse. It's been a lifelong struggle for me.  Hopefully, today is the beginning of a new upswing in my daily life.  I'm hoping to replace my habits of picking with habits of treating the wounds and bandaging them.  I'm determined to wear a short dress this Summer. Day 1 has been a success. Let's see how Day 2 goes...

Disorderly Eating

I have an eating disorder.  I'm sure I've mentioned it before, but I don't think I've ever talked about it in serious detail. Well, the present time seems appropriate to tell the tale, as I'm currently, right this minute,  in the process of researching the ABC diet.  The ABC diet is also known as Ana Boot Camp (ana is a slang term for anorexia nervosa). In my lifetime, I've had doctors tell me I was anorexic and I've had doctors tell me I was bulimic. I don't know what I am, but it's definitely a disorder.  There's a very loud voice inside me that tells me this is unhealthy, that I'm verging on a relapse, that I should NOT be checking out new, extreme ways to get thin. The ABC Diet lasts 50 days, and is built around a very strict caloric restriction.  Days of fasting are interspersed with days of consuming a maximum of 500 calories.  The calorie intake changes day to day, but the lowest day on the program allows a mere 50 calories. Most days average around 200-300 calories a day. Diet experts say that the minimum recommended daily calories consumed should be no lower than 1000-1500.  So this diet has risks. Any diet has risks, but this particular diet puts the dieter at risk for low blood sugar, which causes low energy and dizziness. Other risks include malnutrition, fatigue, sensitivity to cold temperatures, paranoia, depression, a learned obsession with calories, fat and sugar intakes, and an increased likelihood to participate in other dangerous eating rituals.  Now here's what scares me.  It would be a walk in the park for me to stick to the calorie counting.  There are many days in which I consume less than 500 calories, and I fast at least once a week.  This would just mean getting a food diary and keeping track of every calorie I consume.  So really, it wouldn't be all that hard for me to stick to the diet's rules.  It worries me/us that we are considering starting this diet Monday.  I have a wedding to go to in 4 weeks-that's half the time of the diet.  I really, really would love to shed some pounds before that date. It's a family wedding-I'll be in the photos-and I would hate to ruin a beautiful wedding picture by looking too fat.  It doesn't help anything that the bride has an amazingly hot body. She's tall and thin and gorgeous; I have no desire to stand next to her in any photos. But back to my point-I believe I could do the food part of the diet.  The hard part is that you have to exercise obsessively, preferably something super intense like P90X. There's no way I could handle that kind of workout in my current state of health.  I am simply too out of shape to follow such a hardcore program; sad but true.  I have no strength and no endurance.  It would take me so long to get used to the exercise portion of this diet that half my progress would be spent just getting to a "normal" fitness level.  I just don't know how to remedy this situation.  I can start working out today but there's little chance I can speed up my metabolism and start burning the kind of calories that this diet recommends.  I currently eat so little every day that my body has gone into "starvation mode"-this is according to my medical doctor-and is therefore hoarding calories and storing fat within me. My doctor actually told me that to lose any weight, I'd have to start eating more.  So perhaps this ISN'T the right diet for me, as it certainly isn't an increase in my food consumption, but rather a steep decrease.  I just don't know what to do. 

I remember the very day I first decided that I was fat.  I was in 3rd grade, just 8 years old, and I was not at all overweight. (Have you heard this story before? If so, I apologize for being repetitive.)  The weather was very warm and I was wearing shorts. I was sitting in class, in my desk, and I happened to look down at my thighs.  I couldn't help but notice how, when they were pressed flat against the seat, they spread out much wider than when I was standing.  Something clicked in my mind, and right then and there I decided that I was too fat.  I went home and walked to the store and purchased my very first diet soda. I hate to age myself, but it was a Tab; that was the only diet soda made at that time.  It was sweetened with saccharin, and so it was bitter.  I didn't like it, but I forced myself to drink those cancer-causing ingredients, and so began a lifelong habit of drinking diet sodas.  I've been drinking them so long now that I usually can't tell the difference between a regular soda and a diet soda; I'm just used to the bitter taste.  I've been a Diet Coke fiend since it was first introduced, and to this day I drink mostly coffee and Diet Coke.  I realize now that this is a terrible habit, and that even diet sodas still cause bloating and weight gain.  I understand that I must give up my Diet Coke habit in order to successfully lose enough weight to make myself "happy" (whatever that means). So I'm ready. I'm drinking coffee right now, and after I'm done I shall switch to drinking water for the rest of day. I intend to drink water only everyday from Monday until we leave for the wedding, which is on May 19.  I also intend to ingest diuretic pills so as to shed even more water weight.  I realize that this is a quick fix and that I'll only be losing water, not actual fat, but that's OK right now.  I just need to shed some pounds for the wedding; I can begin to focus on body mass index after we get back from the wedding trip. The wedding is out of state, and my husband and my mother and I are driving down for the whole weekend. Mom has to be there for the rehearsal dinner, as she's the grandmother of the groom.  My husband and I are not in the wedding, but we are attending both the wedding and the lavish reception, which is to be held at a mansion in Savannah, Georgia.  It's a very long drive for us, but since my husband has never been to Savannah, and because I simply adore that city, I am really excited to make the trip.  The wedding and everything surrounding it should be a blast.  I will get to spend time with my big sister, whom I rarely see as she lives in Utah, and my niece and of course my nephew is the groom.  He lives in L.A. and so I only see him once a year or less.  He's very, very health/fitness conscious, and I dread having him see how much weight I've gained since he last saw me.  The weight gain is not due to overeating, but rather is a side-effect of the medication which I must now take.  Worst. Side effect. Period.

I first began my dance with medication and weight gain when I was 16 and the doctor put me on Lithium; I gained about 30 pounds. I was horrified at how puffy my face got.  But I endured it until the day came when my medication was switched. Some of the pills they put me on caused me to lose weight, and that was always a pleasant bonus for me.  But many of the psychotropic medications I've been given over the years have had the unwanted side-effect of weight gain, often substantial.  I'm currently prescribed six different medications: 2 atypical anti-psychotics, a regular anti-psychotic, an SSRI antidepressant, an NDRI antidepressant, and an anti-anxiety medication of the benzodiazepine class.  I have no idea which ones of these drugs are causing the weight gain, but when I began my newest prescription I noticed a jump in my weight, a big one.  And so it could be that more than one of them is causing the weight gain; but which ones do I give up to lose the extra pounds?  And seriously, is it worth it to lose my mind in order to be thin? (someone inside me is screaming "Absolutely!")

Now as far as my eating disorder goes, I've been showing signs and symptoms since that fateful day when I was 8.  After that first Tab, I became obsessed with calorie counting and sugar, fat, and carbohydrate control.  I quit using sugar and switched to an artificial sweetener, and I began buying reduced-fat, low-cal, and sugar-free foods. I also began to regulate how much I consumed and adhered to a strict diet.  It was also around this time that I began to exercise obsessively.  At the age of 10 I went running until my legs turned to jelly, played tennis, did aerobics (with my Jane Fonda videotapes), and wouldn't go to bed at night until I'd done a specific number of sit-ups (100) and leg lifts and other floor exercises. All these behaviors stayed with me throughout my teenage years and by high school I'd begun fasting. There were several occasions wherein I passed out at school from lack of food.  But then my prescriptions changed and I gained weight and it was out of my control.  So I began making myself throw up.  After a while, it was easy.  I got sick every time I ate.  This helped drop some weight but was very unhealthy.  I didn't care though. I continued to starve myself and fast and throw up and eventually, in my 20s, I began using laxatives as well.  It was in my 20s that I reached my lowest weight.  I achieved this through the use of diet pills, which were basically just speed, and also I quit taking my psychiatric medications.  If I got hungry, I'd pop a pill and smoke a cigarette instead of eating.  The diet pills, along with the starvation, the obsessively exercising, the vomiting and the laxatives all helped me achieve a weight of 98 pounds.  I was so proud of that fact, although at the time I was convinced that if I'd only lose "a few more pounds" I would really look good.  I remember the constant weigh-ins. I was always on a scale, and I obsessed over each and every pound. Later, my doctor made me get rid of the scale, and I'm forbidden to own one now.  I remember lying in bed, running my hands along my rib cage, counting each rib to see how bony I was.  I also took great pride in having pelvic bones which stuck out prominently.  And I'd lie there and suck in my stomach and see how concave I could get it.  When I see the photos of me from that time, it's bizarre because I'm torn in different directions--the K(s) with the eating disorder think I look good, while the other K's think I look frail and unhealthy. I remember what a typical day's food intake was back then: no more than 5 saltine crackers and a plain baked potato.  That's it, along with coffee and Diet Coke.  And I fasted every 3rd day.  It's amazing I didn't cause some sort of permanent damage to my body. But this is my life, or how it's been for most all of my life.  I also later went through a phase, at age 30, where I'd gained so much weight due to the medications I was on that I became seriously depressed and absolutely gave up at one point and began compulsive overeating. I'd binge and eat everything I could find.  I could eat a whole package of cookies, and sometime I did.  I'd eat like this at night, so that no one would know about it. I was ashamed and I hid my eating.  No one ever saw me eat-it was my secret. But I reached my heaviest weight during this time, and that was 183 pounds. (God, it's hard to admit that, even though I don't weigh that much anymore.) The throwing up and laxatives and diet pills came into play again and I shed it eventually, but because of the medication I am on, it's been a lifelong struggle with my weight-it goes up and down.  Right now, I'm somewhere in the middle, but on the chubby side in my opinion (thank you new meds). I currently flip-flop between complete starvation and binging and purging.  My husband doesn't know about all these habits of mine, and I intend to keep it that way.  All he needs to know is that I want to look good for him, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes.  So I've stocked up on a variety of appetite suppressants, carbohydrate blockers, metabolic stimulators, and calorie-restricting pills.  Plus some good old fashioned "legal speed".  I'm not sure how all of these things are going to fit in with The ABC diet, or if I can fit them in at all.  I don't know exactly how I intend to shed this weight, but I guarantee you it will be unhealthy as hell.  And I will adhere to my strict diet and exercise program at least until the wedding.  After that, we'll settle into a healthier-eating/daily exercise routine and hopefully I can achieve a desirable, "normal" weight.  I just hope I can properly gauge what a "normal" weight is. I can't continue to live this life of extremes.  It's getting more and more dangerous as I get older, and I'm beginning to fear for my health...but not enough to stop. 

Psyched To Be Here

I had therapy Wednesday.  The only reason I know that is because it's written on my calendar, and I look at my calendar weekly because I need to know when I have to go out in public, e.g. a dentist's appointment, therapy, a birthday party. (I actually have to prepare myself mentally to be around other people, sometimes for days)  I'm trying to strain my brain and remember what happened in that therapy session.  I honestly can't recall anything at the moment.  Let me concentrate harder...  I still can't remember.  Damn.  I have no memory of showering and/or getting dressed, no memory of driving to her office, no memory of sitting in the waiting room.  Perhaps I should check my phone and go back through all my texts, and then read all my Tweets from the past 2 days, and check my journal for any entries made in the past 48 hours.  This is so frustrating.  I wanted to write about my session, but I can't remember it. Not any of it. Hmm.

OK, something's coming back to me now- I showed her my journal.  Yes, I remember that. I read her parts of my journal, the parts written by other me's.  (Hey, I'm starting to recall stuff now!)  I talked to her about how I switched over the weekend, and remained a different K for about 2 days. I have evidence-notes and lots of lists and partial blog posts and various writings, all written by person(s) other than "me".  Also, there is mention by the one known as Switch Kellie of another K coming to our assistance, the one known as The Cleaner.  So there's that. I talked about being 2 different me's for a few days.  I mean, I switch for short periods of time rather frequently- I'll suddenly change into someone else and get a wild look in my eye and say something out of character or do something odd or my voice and/or language will change, but it could be for an afternoon or even just a moment-but as far as a complete transformation goes, well that happens less often. It does happen however. It all depends upon my stress level and my mood and my environment, among a hundred other things.  When this incident occurred, all the factors were conducive to switching, and so the other K's took over, and my style of dress changed to something more pulled-together (for Switch Kellie) or something very casual (for The Cleaner) and my likes and dislikes (Switch Kellie drinks tea instead of coffee) and habits, both good and bad-all these things changed.  Some differences were more subtle and probably only I would notice them. But I was a different K, no bones about it.

So this past week was eventful, to say the least, and I at times had to take extra anti-anxiety medication. And I was really looking forward to seeing my doctor.  To be honest, I was hoping that I'd show up for therapy and be one of the K's who appeared over the weekend.  Even though my psychiatrist has witnessed me as a different K (she has met Switch Kellie before), I still feel the need to prove myself to her.  I want her to actually see me switch, so that she knows once and for all that I'm being serious. There are many doctors who don't believe in multiple personalities or MPD/DID.  Now granted, Dr. H has never done or said anything to make me believe that she doubts me.  In fact, she's sometimes asked me about the other K's, which implies that she accepts their existence.  And one time I flat out asked her if she thought I was full of shit, and she looked me in the eye and smiled and said, "I don't think you're full of shit."  So this whole paranoia thing is really unnecessary...I think the reason I feel the need to prove myself, to give evidence of my dissociation, is because I've been accused of faking it before.  What's even worse is that it was a family member who proclaimed I was a liar. That still hurts when I think about it.  Maybe I should discuss that incident in therapy one day.

OK, I've been going back through my Tweets and text messages and emails and diary entries and lists and anything else I can find with clues.  I have a better idea of when I switched (approximately April 14) and for how long, and what I did during those times, and where I went.  Also, who I encountered, who saw me "out".  And then there's the Tweet from April 17 which says "Back in my head and body now", so I guess that's when I officially felt like the world had stopped spinning so fast.  Thinking about these things now, it all feels like a dream, or like a story I was told or a movie I watched.  It seems like it happened to someone else, not to me.  I can remember seeing things happening, but it just comes across as so surreal now.  And of course, there are huge chunks of missing time and lost memories.

I went to a bar that weekend. Boy that was tough; I can remember how I felt so out of place while I was there.  And everyone seemed to be staring at me, like I had a neon sign hanging over my head that flashed "MENTALLY ILL".  The bartender that night was a friend, but she doesn't know me as the K that came into the bar; I wonder if she noticed the difference. First of all, I ordered Diet Coke without vodka. Unusual. Secondly, she probably thought it was strange, since for the first time ever, I chose NOT to sit at the bar, but rather to go off someplace where there were no people (I was hiding). Also, I didn't speak to my friend very much at all...I hope she doesn't think I was rude. Was I rude? I'm not sure.   My husband wanted to go check out the band, so he left me alone, just for a few minutes, but it felt like hours. I could feel the eyes of everyone on me, and I was nervous and had to pop a Xanax.  It was really hard being in that environment, surrounded by strangers, when I myself  felt like an outsider in my own world.  That's it exactly! I felt like an outsider in my very own body. My thoughts were not my own; they were foreign to me.  But here I am, and I am fine, I survived AGAIN and no one other than my husband and my shrink knows about me switching.... except maybe anyone who might have stumbled upon certain Tweets during those in-between-me times.  Perhaps no one even noticed. After all, I've been faking normality for more than 30 years now, so I've gotten quite good at it.

I'll tell you one more thing about my psychiatrist's appointment.  She made absolutely certain, before I left, that the receptionist made me an appointment for next week, and for the week after that as well. I thought that was really top-notch of her.  My last doctor would never have been so thoughtful as to do that.  This doctor stood there at the desk with me while the receptionist tried to find an opening. Dr. H insisted that it be in one week's time. I am really beginning to like her, maybe even trust her a little bit. (!) I am holding onto her 24-hour emergency number as though it's my most-prized possession; I put it in my wallet along with my appointment reminder cards and her business card.  I don't have pictures of my kids or my dogs in the clear plastic windows in the center of my wallet; I have my psychiatric information.  How fitting. If anyone ever finds my wallet, they're going to see that I'm just a nutcase with no money but a lot of lists.

Look & Listen

Currently hallucinating. Watching the shadows of people in my kitchen move across the floor. Only no one is in my kitchen.  Am simultaneously listening to all the noise coming from the living room...sounds of the cat jumping on furniture and scratching at the carpet. Except the cat is outside. There's no one in the living room. Shit! Now I'm hearing footsteps...  this is the part where I get scared. Is someone in the house?? Did Hubby forget to lock the back door when he last went out to get a beer? Has someone bad entered my home? Am I going to die?? I'm not finished living yet, in fact I feel like I haven't even started yet. *sigh*  And here comes the panic attack...I better go take a Xanax before it gets too bad.
                                         
LATER--
Have taken anti-anxiety meds and am just waiting for them to kick in. It still sounds like there is someone in the other room.  Everyone that lives here is asleep, I'm sure of it.  So what the hell is that?!  Heart pounding, chest heaving, sweating, shaking, head feels like it's going to explode...just your typical panic attack, which always makes me think I'm going to die, literally.  Come on, Xanax...work your magic. I took a full 2 mg bar; I wasn't playing around with it tonight.

Weekend Visitors

So.  Another K was here this past weekend.  Two actually.  The main one in charge being Switch Kellie, who was with us, as far as my investigation is telling me, beginning Sunday around 1:00 pm.  She was with us for pretty much the whole day and night, except at one point in the early morning hours she receded and The Cleaner came out and took over her chores. The Cleaner was only doing what Switch Kellie had written down on her list.  Switch Kellie always has a list, or I guess I should say lists, as there are so many of them.  Lists of all sorts of things....things to do, places to go, people to call, emails to send, groceries to buy, books to read, I could go on and on.  But on the list were a number of cleaning tasks, and so The Cleaner came out and took over and cleaned everything.  She's quite obsessive about her chores.  If only she showed up everyday, my house would be immaculate!  But unfortunately, that's not the way it works. After she'd cleaned, she went back inside and Switch Kellie was here to finish up some tasks, including writing a journal entry. Both The Cleaner and Switch Kellie wrote in our journal Sunday/Monday.  I'm eager to show it to my psychiatrist tomorrow at my appointment. 

 She met The Cleaner once but I don't think she knew who it was, as she never identified herself; she just went off on a rant about dirt and how it was all around her and how we were so afraid of dirt and dust.  Anyway, The Cleaner came and cleaned Sunday night and early Monday morning then wrote a journal entry and was gone by 7:00 Monday morning.  So Switch Kellie was in control again and there was more list-making (as always) and she paid the bills and went to the bank and tended to some financial matters. She was trying to get as much accomplished as possible before she left. Unfortunately, she didn't get finished before she left (sometime yesterday evening), and now here I am, with all her notes and lists and plans, and I just don't know if I can do all of this. I took a nap yesterday evening, and when I woke up, it was "me" again and I had a million things to do.  Things needing doing include taking Mom out of town to see a pain management specialist, picking up a prescription at Mom's doctor's office, taking Mom to yet another doctor at 2:30 this afternoon, returning some library books, and going by the medical supply store to get Mom a 25 foot oxygen line.  Is that a lot?  I just don't know.  But I guess I better get started, i.e. get dressed.  It's good to be back in my body but I wish that Switch Kellie had gotten more done while she was here.  She's so good at managing things, whereas I have no sense of time and no way to prioritize. All I know to do is follow her list and hope that I get these things accomplished.  Tomorrow we get to see our psychiatrist.  I'm going to tell her that I'm too stressed out, for stress is the main reason Switch Kellie comes out, she takes over when I'm unable to handle all the pressure.  She takes care of us when I can't take care of myself.  If I get overwhelmed, she shows up (ideally).  So I know that the stress level is high around here, just based on her presence.  Man, I really could use her today... If only I knew how to force out a specific me. That would be so awesome. I'd be Switch Kellie and run errands out in public, then I'd change to The Cleaner and do all the housework, and then I would change into one of the K's who is fun to be around and good for socializing.  In a perfect world, the right K would appear at the right time and everything would just flow naturally from one moment to the next.  Sigh.  If only...

The Cleaner

JOURNAL ENTRY-SUNDAY, APRIL 15, 2012  (Late night/early Monday morning)
MUST. CLEAN. EVERYTHING. I don't have time to write, there are things to do, things to clean, things to organize. I have dusted every nook and cranny in this room and the adjoining room and cleaned all the mirrors and glass in the house and swept floors and cleaned counters and put dishes away and scrubbed the shower and cleaned the sinks and sanitized the toilet and scrubbed the baseboards and cleaned the ceiling fan and organized a stack of bills and papers on the dresser. All of those things sound really lame, but if you knew how quickly I was getting each task done, you'd be impressed. I've not stopped, except for now, this moment, wherein I'm telling my story. I cleaned everything in the bathroom. I got a laundry basket and loaded it up with various types of cleansers and dust rags and sponges and a broom and dustpan and a Swiffer duster...you get the idea.  I lugged this basket of cleaning supplies around from room to room. I cleaned the kitchen while I was waiting on the coffee to brew. The other K, the one who was here earlier, she drinks tea. Switch Kellie she's called. She wrote a journal entry too.  We are having trouble deciding if we should share all this with the public. Do they really need to know that one of the K's is known as The Cleaner and is OCD about cleanliness and organization?

 
Well, there you have it. I'm always cleaning when I am in charge.  I have an actual fear of dirt. I wear rubber gloves up to my elbows (they're actually lime green with a Pucci-style print on the cuffs; they're called "Glam Gloves") I'm terrified of the cobwebs which I sometimes find in the corner of a spare room. If I get in the shower, the tiles over my head seem to try and swallow me up and drip germs on me and I look around and I'm just surrounded by dirt, dirty tiles, mildew, black gook, rust stains, red streaks where hair dye got on the shower wall, stained grout that is no longer white...oooooh Shivers just ran up my spine! I can't think about the dirt anymore.  It's freaking me out. Besides, I cleaned all that stuff, so there's no dirt now, and obviously I was exaggerating about how dirty the shower was to begin with. Everything has been cleaned and sanitized.  In pretty much every room, except for Husband's rooms of course.  I'm afraid to dust in there; what if I accidentally broke something?  So I've cleaned the kitchen, the bedroom, 2 bathrooms, the den, the dining room, the living room, the laundry room...I organized drawers and shelves...I thought about alphabetizing all the CD's, but that seemed like a task larger than I felt I had time to accomplish.  Some day, I will do that task.  I promise you.  So I, The Cleaner, for a while have been sharing co-consciousness with a different K.  The Good Daughter appeared occasionally when we went into our mother's room, but for most of the weekend, Switch Kellie was here.  She made the big list of things to do, and cleaning was on the list.  And so I came and took over and saw to it that everything got cleaned properly.  I can't vacuum because Mom is asleep, but I'll do it later. Also, still need to mop the kitchen. And I wonder if the windows need washing...What else can I clean? I don't see any point in going to bed now. Might as well keep cleaning. Let's get serious-I'm thinking about polishing silver... And have I ever mentioned that I wash the bar of soap  in the soap dish? It's true. Is that weird? I mean, it's soap. It should be self-cleaning.

Journal Entry

SUNDAY, APRIL 15, 2012

1:00 PM
I'm back. I, being the persona who's writing this post, being, I believe, (I hate to say it yet I'm excited by it as well), it is I--Switch Kellie. That's the name Husband gave to me when he first met me in January 2012, just a few days before our 2nd wedding anniversary if I'm not mistaken.  It was quite the night, that night of our introduction. Switch Kellie is mentioned here: Blog Post A and here: Blog Post B I'm faced once again with the choice of whether or not I should tell Husband that I'm here.  I'm wondering if he'd notice eventually anyway...I mean, there are clues. For one thing, I'm making lists. Tons of highly-detailed lists, of a variety of things.  What to do, Who to call, Where to go, etc. I'm also doing a lot of paperwork, researching, Googling, taking notes. I have so much work to do, I fear I won't have enough time to finish it all.  It is 1:02 PM and I'm pausing just long enough to make a note of the current time, so that I might be able to keep up with how long I've been here. Here being this moment in time, this "now". How I value time...probably because I lose so much of it. *deep breath* OK, feeling a panic attack coming on...I better go take the meds I forgot to take this morning, since it's now time for the afternoon pills.  Drat.


4:28 pm
 I'm still here, or so it would seem.  I successfully kept my presence a secret and now Husband has gone to work so I'm safe for a few hours. If only I can keep Mom from noticing. I think she might be suspicious, because I was making and maintaining eye contact with her earlier.  That's NOT something I can do very easily, and it's rare that I even try.  But I did it without thought or effort, just action. Just knowing. Just do it.  Oh dear God, have I ended up a Nike commercial rip-off? Sigh. Went to a chocolate festival with Husband this afternoon; he wants to go walk thru the carnival rides section tonight after work, so we just hit the food and vendors side today. There was an appalling lack of chocolate at the supposed chocolate festival. Now, let's get serious. I can't believe how bad this "Kellie World" situation has become. For one thing, K totally flaked out and forgot to pay a number of bills last month. Now I'm getting phone calls from people wanting their money. I had to combine money from my savings and checking accounts to cover them, and even then I had to borrow money to cover everything, since I had 2 months' payments due. *Sigh*  For another thing, K is really looking bad, in so many different areas.  Her skin is all messed up; stress has caused her to break out all over, and her Dermatillomania has caused her to pick at all the zits. Therefore, she looks like an acne-ridden teenager.  Her arms also look horrendous from CSP (compulsive skin picking) so she's been wearing long-sleeves even though the temperatures have been in the 80's F.  Her self-injury is the worst it's been in years-her calves are covered in big, bloody scabby sores. Gross. The new medications have made her gain weight so she sees herself as obese now, although that's probably not really the case. (Maybe it is though, we really don't know how to tell; we see a fat person in the mirror no matter how much I weigh)  Still, it's a major stress factor in K's life. Her hair color needs to be touched up-she's got roots showing, and her bangs are far too long.  I can't tell you the last time she had a manicure, and her nails look like hell. Apparently we've been biting them, just like old times. HA. So NOT funny.  I've been binging on Easter candy lately, and that has got to stop immediately. Also, it's time to start working out regularly again, better yet obsessively.  K has some vitamin deficiencies and needs a multi-vitamin supplement, which she's not been taking. She's been flip-flopping between starvation and overeating. Binging and purging is the norm around here on days that she eats. There is no happy, healthy medium.  This is the worst, perhaps, she's ever been; I don't mean the thinnest of course, I mean nutritionally speaking. K is very unhealthy at the moment. I mean, K is unrecognizable.  Her face is so puffy from the medications that she looks positively round. It's a nightmare. Very unattractive.  And we're supposed to go to our nephew's wedding in mid-May.  Damn.  So much business to attend to, even without all the physical makeover stuff that I must now do.  K has utterly let herself go, and I'm ashamed of her.  Obviously, she's quite depressed.  That's the number one reason she looks this bad.  Am thinking perhaps this switch was brought on by the stress of having to sleep with Mom again recently so that I would be able to hear her calling my name (she was in so much pain the she got scared and kept calling out for me).  I was afraid I'd not wake up seeing as how Dr. H increased my nighttime meds to 4 pills a night rather than 3.  And indeed, I slept long after Mom had gotten up. I slept in til about 8:15 this morning.  Well, not I per se, but us. The K's.  This K is getting antsy now.  Feel the urge to go clean something, or to self-pamper, to give myself a deep conditioning treatment and a fizzy foot soak and a mani/pedi and then I've got to get off my fat ass and get to work.  The bathroom needs sanitizing.


6:09 pm
 Paranoia is putting crazy thoughts in my head. This is making me wonder if I'm faking it, this dissociative disorder. Is this all just in my head?  Am I really all that different from the other K's? Signs point to yes, as I am thinking more clearly and quicker and just...differently.  I see things in a whole other light than what K sees.  I'm more responsible than she is, more able to multitask, I'm more mature and dependable. I don't do drugs. Cigarettes? No. Not Switch Kellie. I might have a drink or two (well, I would if I were allowed to drink; my meds interact badly with alcohol) but I'm definitely not a party girl. I'm more serious than that.  I think about things like our future...Mine and Husband's....I think about what's going to happen after Mom dies. I don't know if we'll be able to continue to afford to live here in this house. Plus, Sis will probably want to sell the house and split the money.  I would do anything for Mom, I'd give away all that I have if it'd make her pain stop. The Dilaudid seems to help a lot, and they gave her some pain patches which I've cut in half and put on her back and chest. Things with Hubby's health are sketchy too. His asthma attacks are getting frequent and more serious. Aunt B gave us some Advair that she had for her husband but he never used. Too bad she gave it to us the day after we'd spent $266 (borrowed from Mom) on a month's supply. At least by the time those run out he'll be enrolled and active in the discount prescription drug plan at the medical complex and can get his meds for like $15 or something. What else has been happening? It's so hard to remember.  A few things on my Master List:  Wash car, Fax letters to banks to add me to Mom's account, a facial masque, dusting the bedroom, cleaning the bathroom, painting the porch, refill the sugar canister, blog about Switch Kellie, Cancel online gaming subscription, etc.  Notice how the list is so scattered-they can be trivial, like the sugar dish, or labor intensive, such as painting the porch. I also have written down to call a dermatologist. It's time to get my legs looked at. What started out as a light rash has now become large scaly patches of itchy, red skin. I've been self harming by scratching them until there are bloody holes in my legs, and now I have awful looking scabs over most of my calves in a spotted pattern. It's quite a shame. I've been trying to let Crickette (Husband's little dog) lick the wounds to help them heal. Speaking of Crickette, did I tell you that Mom was telling me what she wanted on her headstone (just what someone who's a big baby with abandonment issues wants to talk about), and she said she wants her dogs. Sam (Daddy's, now Mom's schnauzer) & Crickette, their photos or engravings or something like that on her marker.  I told Husband that and he teared up; said it was touching.  I thought it was sad to be thinking stuff like that.  But I, being the smart one, know in my heart that Mom is not much longer on this earth.  I don't know if she can ever learn to live with the pain of PHN. She told me that she understands now what Daddy had to go through all those years he was suffering. I would do anything to take away her pain; I can only wake her up to give her Dilaudid, put ice packs on her back, and stick pain patches on her.  She squeezed my hand really tight tonight and thanked me for taking care of her.  I told her that I didn't really do much, and she said "You're here with me, and that's something". Or something along those lines. Damn I can't remember exactly as I keep switching, or trying to switch or something.  Something happened to me sometime around 1 pm this afternoon, and I became Switch Kellie.  I don't drink, or at least very rarely/lightly, and I don't smoke and I don't do drugs. I enjoy reading and crossword puzzles and brain teasers and philosophical debates and hot cups of tea in my "#1 Wife" (isn't that funny? as in #1 of many) mug that Hubby gave me for Christmas.  Now I think, but I can't really be certain without going back into the bedroom and asking Husband the question, but I think that I told him that Switch Kellie was out. He asked, I believe, if "the other Kellie was here", and I told him I'd been here since this morning but didn't want to tell him. I didn't want to freak him out.  But it must not have freaked him out, or else he's just drunk enough beer to cope really well, for he's back there now on the phone with his buddy, not even thinking twice about me or her or any of us.  OK, I've got to get back to my list. I have so many things to do and so little time to do them all. Well, I don't know how much time I have actually; I've stayed over a week before...longer if I'm needed.  OK. Gonna change clothes and start cleaning the bathroom.  Also going to dust the bedroom ceiling/corners/walls.  Need to get some sticky tape and remove the dust from my wigs, especially my favorite blue & black one. I hope it's not ruined.  :(  The K that wears the wigs hasn't been around in a long time, that's why the wigs are all covered in dust.  She last came out.. I believe the year was 2008 or 2009. I really should tell you about her sometime; I find her fascinating, if I do say so myself.  And I do say so, to myself. HEHE  Mental illness humor.  OK, now let's see. Here are the facts as we know them: Switch Kellie was triggered, possibly by stress (from worrying about Mom's health and money and Husband's asthma), possibly by the new increased medication dosage.  At any rate, she's here now, I'm here now, I am in control and I will see to it that all this business gets taken care of.  K has let her finances really get into a mess. We have to close one bank account and switch to a credit union account in order to save $11/month.  We have to write letters and fax them to banks and financial institutions, so that I can do banking for my mother and also talk to phone support about her accounts. OH and VERY important-we have to find our misplaced medical insurance cards!!! Or call and request new ones.

5:15 am (Monday)
Sigh. So much to do. K has really dropped the ball here. But I'm a hard worker.  I've already cleaned everywhere, thoroughly. I never went to bed last night because I felt like I had too much to do, and so I cleaned all night/morning instead of sleeping.  There's just so much that needs to be taken care of.  So much adult stuff.  Not many of the K's can handle adult stuff, so I've got to hurry up and accomplish as much as is humanly possible before I go away again.  If only I knew how to control which one of us comes out when... wow...I'd be like a super hero! *mind wanders again*

Unwelcome Visitor

I (or someone inside me) was really nasty to my husband this morning.  I mean early this morning, around 4:00 A.M.  I was so sleepy that I could barely keep my eyes open, and he was wanting to stay up and talk. He was having a bad day and was feeling down and just wanted some encouraging words.  He'd had a few drinks, and perhaps more importantly, I'd had none.  He stumbled a little as he came into the bedroom, and suddenly someone jumped up off the bed and growled loudly at him. I can't remember now what was said, but it was absolutely hissed at him.  I can hear the sounds in my head, but I can't make out the words.  It makes me very uncomfortable, the noises emanating from this creature who appeared all at once, without any warning.  I can see her gesturing wildly at him, and I can hear her spitting out words, but I can't control her at all. She is a part of me, of us, but she is a person all her own.  I am so ashamed of myself for letting her take over my mind and body, even if only for a few minutes.  She doesn't have my permission, she just comes out at random moments in time...and she leaves behind her a trail of hurt.

Thoughts After Therapy

I was very angry before I went to therapy yesterday.  I mean, I was really pissed at my doctor.  Her office had said last month that they would call me to set up an appointment, and they never did.  Subsequently, I ran out of medications and then proceeded to lose my mind.  I really thought I was going to let her have it when I got there. I was scared she'd dump me as a patient, for I intended to cuss her out big time. My stress level was very high when I walked in the door...but things didn't go as I thought they would; someone sad took the place of someone angry when I sat down.  It felt like 15 minutes, but according to the clock I was at my psychiatrist's office for nearly 2 hours (30 minutes were spent in the waiting room, 15 minutes in the lab for blood work).  Can't remember all that we talked about, but that's not unusual.  I do know that I complained (without the use of swear words) about the fact that her receptionist had never called me after our last session to tell me my next appointment time, and since I have trouble calling people, I just kept waiting on her to call me and 2 weeks went by. So not only did I run out of meds, but I went quite crazy by the second week. When I finally got up the courage to call her office, I found out she was on vacation and the office would be closed for another week.  I had a major crisis (my mother was hospitalized and could've died) while she was on vacation and had no medication to help me, so she felt really bad that I'd had so much trouble. She was determined that I never be put in that situation again, so she gave me an emergency contact number for her. I am so grateful for that! In all my 20+ years of therapy, I've never had a doctor give me a 24 hour emergency number. She said I can call that number any time, any day, and they'd be able to contact her and/or refill my prescriptions. That is fantastic and I couldn't have dreamed of  anything better.

For some reason, I asked her again what my proper diagnosis was, and she told me-again-that she doesn't put labels on her patients.  She would only verify that I am experiencing frequent dissociative episodes.(Duh!)  At one point, however, she asked me if perhaps a different K had been taking care of me for the past few days; doesn't that indicate she knows about the other K's?  (She brought it up when I made a casual remark about the fact that I didn't recognize the clothes I was wearing, that it wasn't something I would normally wear.) Isn't that an indication that she's leaning toward a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder? I'm feeling more hopeful now that I know she believes me. I asked her if I could ever get better, and she asked me if I was sure I wanted that.  Made me think.  On the one hand, it'd be nice to be more stable and on less medication, in other words, more normal.  On the other hand, I don't think K could handle the stress of our day-to-day life with only one of us in control of her brain and body.  We help each other, we keep an eye on K, you know?  Each of the K's has a specific job to do, a specific area of our life which they handle for her. K needs all of us. Dr. H thinks the other K's are for my own well-being and protection, and she doesn't seem to think that integration (the blending of all the different personalities of someone with DID into a single identity) is the best goal for me.  To be honest, I'm glad I don't have to integrate.  I am fond of a few of the K's and would miss them were they to be fused into my core personality (whomever that may be). Not to mention the fact that if, say, The Good Daughter goes away, then K won't remember everything she needs to know to take care of our mother.

 I'm blogging too much, or at least spending far too much time online.  My husband says I'm obsessed.  Big shocker there. And my shrink stressed that she really wants me to hand write a diary which I should bring with me to therapy every week. Of course, I forgot to take it with me yesterday.  I did start a diary, but I find it difficult to remember to write in it everyday, and a lot of days I just don't have the mental energy to do it. Plus, while there are some diary entries which are obviously written by someone else (I can tell by the handwriting, the grammar, and the language) some of the K's refuse to participate in that activity.  I think maybe there are parts of me who are still hiding from the outside world, or even from myself.  Apparently, this blog is worthless to my shrink, and that just sucks.  "Blog less," she said.  But this blog is my outlet for my madness!  Some of the other me's blog sometimes, and I think that's important.  I can't talk to anyone in real life (other than my psych) about my mental issues. My husband has never fully recovered from the shock of seeing me become a different person right in front of him.  I feel like he looks at me differently now.  That's why I worked so hard to hide it after we got married.  I thought I was doing better at that time.  I really did.  I seemed happy and safe and stable and I kept the other K's hidden from him for 2 years.  But it was not meant to be.  I have crashed and burned, repeatedly now, since January.  Yet I still asked my shrink yesterday if I could cut down on some of my medications; instead, she increased my dose of one of them. She explained that each pill has a different function and that if I were to stop taking the meds, I'd be bombarded with all the hallucinations and voices that I now experience to a "lesser" degree, plus I'd be likely to fall into a dangerous depression.  I don't think I'd want it to be any worse than it is.  I can get used to the dissociation, the depersonalization, the derealization for the most part, now that I understand what is happening during those times.  I guess I must just accept the fact that I'm always going to see and hear things that are not real, I'm always going to have anxiety attacks, and I'm always going to be prone to depression.  The other issues I still need a lot of help with. The paranoia.  The self-harm.  The suicidal ideation.  The self-loathing.  The fear of people.  So I guess there are plenty of things for us to work on in therapy, even without a specific diagnosis.  It still frustrates me though.  If someone asks what my disability is, I don't know what to say. (How about "Pick one"? LOL)