Tag Archives: trauma

just hold on

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You’ve come to realize the depths of your self-loathing today. You subscribe to “dissociative identity disorder” google news alerts, and today you received such an alert. The news alert featured a story with a video of someone describing their experience with DID, and in the video the person briefly spoke using the voices of all of their alters. You find yourself wincing as you watch this, and you ask yourself Why? Why would I wince at this? You wince because you see how it looks to others. There’s no question it looks strange. You look strange enough in life (with your thick glasses and nondescript face, for starters), and to have another piece of strangeness (DID) juxtaposed upon your original strangeness sometimes feels like a strangle hold, an infinite prison of madness and weirdness.

As much as you have grown to love Letty, your younger alter, you hate having DID. You wish you could somehow give it back, return it, exchange it, anything but have it. But, that is not how this works. It’s not how it works with any mental illness. It’s here, ensconced in your being, and you have to learn how to cope with whatever ails you.

DID is the great division between you and the rest of the world. It’s the big secret that you have to constantly weigh when and if to disclose it to people. You know, you’ve heard it all …

“DID is what saved you, kept you from going insane, made it possible to survive your childhood.”

Lately, you truly wonder what the worth was in being saved. Saved to function in some half-assed way with the DID albatross? Yes, because that’s a full life, getting all triggery, and freaky from time to time with PTSD, DID or a lovely hybrid of both. And, you argue that DID helped you go insane. It most certainly did not protect you from mental illness.

If only DID was like a rock you could throw back into the ocean. Alas, no. DID is something you have to work around, like a part of the road that tends to flood. You either avoid that road when it rains, or you do the hard work to fix it.

DID is full body robbery. It robs your mind, your body and your voice, all at the same time. The professionals call it protection. Let’s dispense with the euphemisms. It’s robbery. You see people with similar talents to you, and you are keenly aware that they are going to surpass you. You are further aware that they are going to surpass you because they are not held back by mental illness. You can plot all your career setbacks, and they are all attributed to your DID or PTSD. Either you let promotions pass you by because you know you should minimize your stress, or you’ve had situations with people because you are so sensitive. It’s been abundantly clear to you that the best loves and friends you’ve lost can be connected back to these two issues. You despise that you are this way. You desperately want to NOT be DID, but you might as well throw a penny into a wishing well because that’s how likely your desire to NOT be DID will come true.

You find yourself again thinking of the news article that brought a spotlight to your self-loathing, and you realize your own hypocrisy in that you want people to accept you, DID and all, but you wince at the mere sight of someone telling their DID story on the news. Ok, so you’re a hypocrite, but now what? What is one to do with this information?

Right now, in this moment, all you can do is tell yourself that in another time, and another place, heck, maybe tomorrow, you will feel differently about yourself. You’ll be kinder and nicer, and you’ll be glad you’re here. Until then, all you can do is hold on, and try not freak any more people out along the way.

The Floats

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The Floats are plaguing me again, that state where my feet feel leaded down walking/trudging through clouds. Today I was at my favorite tea shop, and I made myself sit right in the middle of the shop where the owners could see me because I could feel myself start to disappear, float away. I thought if I put myself in front of people I would, hopefully, be less likely to space out like a zombie with a thousand yard stare. But, still, there I was, floating away, and I would say to myself, “Stay. Stay here. Don’t go.” Sometimes it would work. Other times I just let myself space out.

Earlier in the week, I had an upsetting interaction with someone. I can’t write about the interaction as I’m afraid to get triggered again. But it catapulted me into another time and place with my mother. I was frightened and my entire body shook violently. My head felt like it had been kicked in, and my chest had the sensation that it was closing in on me. I hate that I have moments like this. I look like a freak, and feel like a freak when moments like this happen.

Is this how it will always be for me? Is the idea of recovery just that … an idea, a concept, a fantasy?

Sometimes I feel so strong, and able, and with it. Times like that, I am actually proud of myself. Then there are times like this, where I wonder what the hell I am trying to do with my life. I wonder why I keep trying in the face of all the difficulties.

I have no real answers to those questions, except perhaps I don’t want to miss out if there is a chance to recover.

I’m sitting in that tea shop spaced out, and this elderly woman with a reddish brown cardigan asks me why I’m not sitting in my usual spot. I almost don’t hear her because I’m spaced out. I’m annoyed at first that she is talking to me. She tells me that some people are in her usual spot, the blue chairs (she loves the blue chairs), and she does not like having to sit elsewhere. Somehow I find my voice, and say, “Oh, yes, I’m a creature of habit too. But I decided to mix it up today and sit out here.” And then we start talking about movies, and the fact that we both love the independent theatre in town. She also reads movie reviews before viewing to make sure the movie is not too upsetting or violent. The movie, Blue Jasmine, made us both teary. She asks me to google author Lynda La Plante for her on my phone. We both love police procedurals on tv. And then the place closes down for the night. I pay for my stuff, and leave. I hear her tell the owners, “I sure liked talking to that girl.” I felt the same way talking to her. And that’s why I keep trying, for those small moments that would otherwise not be possible if I gave up. I wish I could have thanked her for helping me fend off The Floats.

a strange coincidence

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Kat,

In my last post I mentioned you, Kat. And, mysteriously, an email from you landed in my inbox today after all these years. If you are reading my blog I have to tell you that it will do nothing for your search for absolution.

I gave up my youth with you. It’s true that I could have left, but I chose to stay for far too long. I regret it all with you, the entirety of it. And this is because you betrayed me in every way possible. Cheating on me with your secretary was nothing compared to everything else. But, really, the secretary!? Wasn’t I better than such a cliched betrayal? I can still see myself yelling, “What a fucking cliche!” at you during Christmas season 2004 when I learned you were cheating on me with her, the very woman who had fucking Thanksgiving dinner with us when we went through our vegan stage. There we were having god-damn Tofurky Roll (what was I thinking? Tofurky Roll!?) with this entity I can hardly call a person because of the sheer betrayal from both of you.

Do you remember telling me a couple months later that you didn’t know who you wanted to be with? Then, an hour later, at a club you became irritated with me because I was not outgoing enough at the club, not fun enough? In a huff you said to me that this was why you were “torn” between us. I thought so little of myself that I put up with this, and even hated myself for the fact that I did not live up to your standards. I get mad at myself just thinking of how fucked up my thinking was in all of this.

There was the night you were enraged that I would not have sex with you. I could not believe my own strength when I kicked you off of me as you tried to force yourself on me. I don’t know who was more surprised when you hit the wall and landed on the floor. Thankfully, you were too drunk to fight back. Through out our relationship you felt entitled to have sex with me. Entitled! This example is just that, an example of other instances.

But even more insidious is the way you caused me to doubt my own sanity. You were so brilliant at turning a situation around, and convincing me that I was wrong in the end. The sad part is that you were able to do this because you are incredibly smart. You should try using that brilliance in a more positive fashion instead of manipulating people in your life. The nice takeaway for me in this situation is that I became a fabulous bullshit detector because of you. I became a damn good interrogator in my job. I learned how to follow the falling-apart-story. Strangely, a lot of my career success I attribute to learning how to stand up to you. It is no accident that I got into this field right around the time that I left you.

Oh, yes, and then there’s the small item of being ripped off of no less than $50,000. Even in the midst of our breakup you promised you would not do this, but you did. You.Are.A.Thief. That is what your grave should say. Here Lies A Thief, of Life, Love, and Money.

For the sake of some kind of brevity here, let’s just end this traipse down memory lane with the recollection of your ultimate trump card in getting me stay with you, and that is your suicide attempt. You attempted to kill yourself right after I stood up to you and told you not to contact me until you could treat me like a human being. And you wonder why I want nothing to do with you? You wonder why I have not responded to any of your contacts to me over the years? Wonder no more. I allowed you to take my youth and a decade of my life because I thought so little of myself, and you exploited that to the fullest extent until I walked away.

Yes, I loved you at one time. And I regret it all. It was all a waste on you because you betrayed me in every possible way. You have no capacity for true love and friendship. I want to leave this earth without every hearing from you again in any way. If you really care about me, do this one thing for me. It’s the least you can do given what you took from me.

Beatriz