Category Archives: mental illness

Maybe sometimes it’s better not to know

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I now know what I didn’t know last Saturday before noon. I know so much more, and yet I know I probably know only a small window, but that small window is plenty to hurt the heart. I came to this dissociation journey with parts first, and just hazy memories that really didn’t compute for me how they led to the parts I have. When the question would come up if I am a survivor, I would say, “I guess?” in that not so sure, questiony, wishy washy answer that would annoy me because it’s not like me to be wishy washy with answers.

And the memories keep coming like a flood, a freight train. So much crying and so much pretending. Pretending because I have to work. Thank god for remote work. Thank god for parts. I’ll cry, and then my part that loves to work will emerge like magic for a meeting. Then, when it’s done, we’ll cry for a spell. I’m thankful that I’m not called upon all too often for a sudden or unplanned need for an on-camera meeting. Usually, if something comes up, I just get a Teams message. I can read a Team message through tears. Sure, I welcome work distractions while my brain is flooded with images. For a spot of time, I can pretend I don’t have images in my head, and I can work on something someone needs from me.

On a good day, my work part will completely take over, and I’ll feel like I can do anything because this part is, quite frankly, awesomely confident and unflappable. I have a new therapist, and he called me this week on one of those good days. He caught on right away that a different part was talking to him on the phone. He said, “Hmmm, who am I speaking with?” The next day he said to me, “She’s so articulate!” I said, “Yes, I wish she was here all the time.”

I’ll get a respite from the memories, and I’ll mistakenly think it’s over. And I’ll feel almost like myself again. But, it’s a trick. They come back. I asked my wife, “Do you think it’s over? That’s it?” She just looked at me with so much love, and I don’t remember what she said, but I know it was an answer I didn’t want to hear. And, yes, later that same day the memories were back, like they never left.

I thought, wrongly, that I knew all there was to know about that place and time. After all, I knew what I knew, and nothing more.

One never knows what comes next

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This southern city is not my cup of tea. It’s no Earl Grey latte, hell, it’s not even a Starbucks hot black tea. Still though, I cannot ignore the fact that I’m getting signs from the universe that I am right where I should be.

I landed a job in my field. Pays abysmally less than I made in my prior job with the same experience. But, I’ve met some great people, and become great friends already with one of my colleagues, another proud member of Rainbow Club*.

With some trepidation, I managed to find a DID therapist. She’s crazy expensive, but I can tell she knows what she’s doing. That job I got is not giving me hassle about working from home one day a week so that I can easily go to my sessions. And I can just feel that I’ve reached a new place in my therapeutic process. My last therapist was incredibly supportive of me, but she had no DID experience. I tried a few times to find a therapist in my last city that had DID experience, and it did not go well for many reasons. I sense that it’s time for a new phase in my process, and I’ve found the right person for it. And I am in the right city with the right job and with the right wife to make it all possible.

And, yet, despite all this, I’m aching to ask my new therapist, “It’s all a mistake right, I don’t have this DID thing after all?” The feeling that it’s all made up, and all for attention just permeates my sense of being at times with no warning. It just pops out like a bad, obnoxious pop-up shop on the street with never ending noise and confusion. Then the feeling goes away like it was never there, until it is again.

*Rainbow Club is my own way of describing those of us that identify as LGBTQIA.

The Black Car

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I have found my own modern day hermit’s cave, which I call The Black Car. I work, only because I must. And on days when I have to bring the magic in my job I have one of my parts do the heavy lifting. I’ve stopped answering most text messages and phone calls. There are a small few people whom I will reply to or answer calls, but its often painful for me to do so, and I’m usually itching to cease the communication.

Last month I had memories start to come forth, though only slivers of clues that beg further questions. Though enough has come forth that I am constantly stupefied by memories that pour out of my brain at moments when I need my full concentration, usually at work.

I tried explaining to one friend in particular this afternoon why I had been isolating and strugggling. When I told him I had been struggling with memories he just looked at me, and said nothing. And then after an uncomfortable silence he changed the subject altogether. I felt silly sitting there in that sushi restaurant with too many sushi rolls between us, and the cloud of discomfort in the air. The interaction confirmed my instincts for staying hidden away from most people to the extent possible.

I walk around only seeing what is directly in front of me.  An old friend saw me in the tea shop yesterday, and she had to wave me down and say my name loudly to get my attention. I honestly did not see her sitting in close vicinity of me.

I have days where I can fake it very well, when my dear Sabrina can fully come out at work and bring the magic. And then at the end of the day The Black Car is waiting again, and Sabrina has left when she senses that she is no longer needed for work.

The Black Car is a dependable old girl, and she’s always there patiently waiting for the next ride.