Tag Archives: Dissociative disorder

There are limits

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There are inherent limits with DID.

With DID you watch the world pass you by. On your strongest days you feel like you can do anything, but the feeling is fleeting, and not sustainable.

It was on one of my strongest days that I applied for a promotion in a different office. There may be a job offer tomorrow that I have to turn down.

And I sit here frozen because typing any further renders me teary.

I know the awesomeness of my productivity and skill set is inside me, but the state of my system in the midst of integration renders this as not a good time for this kind of change.

But it angers me because I see others passing me by into other positions that I know I can excel in if my system was more stable.

I don’t want these limits, but they are there nonetheless. No amount of wishing or determination will extricate them out of my system, at least for today.

I trick myself into believing that I can really rock it as a professional, and that I can burst right through the limits that DID imposes on me because I am one hell of a determined woman.

I just want to excel in my career.

But with DID there are limits.

Dear Mr. Last Date

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flowers

Dear Mr. Last Date,

The yellow and peach roses you gave me on our second date last Sunday are still blooming on my dining room table. I find it ironic that they’ve outlived our dating venture. Today the yellow one is in full beautiful bloom. It still makes me smile every time I see it.

Last night was our last date, and that’s okay. It truly is okay.

Thank you for being candid and straightforward about not wanting to pursue a dating relationship with me. It’s okay that the PTSD is a deal-breaker. I actually kind of knew it was coming. Somehow, I’m not sure exactly how, I assessed that once you learned about my PTSD that we would be done with dating. I figured that with the fact that you have young children, and your OCD that it would not be a fit.

You said you want to be friends, and I hope that does come to fruition, though you can understand my skepticism as I’ve been told this a few times before.

You didn’t get to learn that I also have DID, but that’s just as well. I’ve learned to be incremental in disclosing my issues. I’m glad I did it this way as I might have felt worse if I had told you I had DID, and you dropped me at that point. I’m not sure why, but the rejection with DID is the hardest for me to take. It makes no sense to me that it’s that difficult for me as I understand why that’s usually the deal breaker for most people.

Mostly, I just want to say “thank you” for being kind and honest with me. It seems that those two items are in short supply these days.

I’ve not yet eaten my leftovers from that last date. Tomorrow the flowers will be wilted, the leftovers will be eaten, and that will be that.

Beatriz

Thank you for the overcooked omelet

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English: An omelet with ham, cheese, and a gar...

There’s a diner near my apartment that overcooks the omelets. My cheese omelet inevitably has that tell-tale brown crispiness on the edges with burnt blisters splotching up the whole thing. There’s a bit of a crispiness and a certain unusual chewiness to this omelet, and I love it! Every single time that omelet lands in front of me in that shape I smile and dig right into it.

Recently, it occurred to me why I like my omelets in this shape. Though I was often hungry as a child, my grandmother always made sure I had something to eat when I stayed with her. She would pour copious amounts of vegetable oil into the pan prior to pouring in my scrambled eggs. I had crispy, greasy eggs that were like no other eggs I had consumed prior to that time. I only knew powdery fake scrambled eggs and my grandmother’s version.

My grandmother was the poorest person I knew, but she always made sure I was fed, and never hungry. She’s the reason I love my eggs overcooked.

 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)