The last thing I feel like doing right now is writing a blog post but I read a letter this morning from one of the people who share my life/mind/body, that letter said many things one of the things it said was
“Please keep blogging, there are loads of you who can do it and if you don’t we lose our story, her story.”
She’s right and I know how important the blog is to her, to us all. I know who the letter is from so it was no surprise to read the “damned by faint praise” follow-up to the request to keep blogging
“Some of you are ok at moderating comments”
I’ve never moderated comments here but I will try, though the author of the letter may appear to do it herself, probably at 3am as is her wont. I’m so grateful for the ability we multiples have to sleep internally as I’m really not a morning person.
That letter was an emotional rollercoaster, it made me laugh and cry, it offered many helpful hints and tips and had a number of trademark requests and demands. The letter could only be from one person, I know her well and many of you do too. I know she’s gone silent externally and I know many of you miss her, I miss her too.
I’m not very good at explaining DID and I can’t make diagrams with MS Paint, besides the technical bits don’t really matter, what does matter is that someone I know and love is really suffering. As is the way, it’s a hidden suffering and I’m sure at some point when she reads this she herself would find it funny that whilst she was marauding around being floridly mad yesterday, someone else was using the body to do the hoovering.
It’s painful to watch someone you’ve known and loved for a long time go through so much distress. The first instruction in her letter was
“Don’t be nice to me”
Denial used to be my thing, I’ve written about it here before. I denied we had DID for a long time, I denied we had a history of trauma for a long time, had that denial challenged in a tangible way but then denied it again anyway. I’m done with denial, I know and love someone who is so badly and cruelly damaged that if she even felt safe enough to accept she had a physical body would find being liked, being cared about physically painful. I don’t know how someone ends up like that or why but I’m furious and heartbroken that someone can. I’ve redirected my need to scrutinise every little detail and contradict all the evidence away from us and our history, I became the nightmare garage customer for a while. The stupid car needed a big repair, I dissected the quote, questioned every little detail to make sure I wasn’t being ripped off. I know nothing about cars but you can be sure by the time I dropped the stupid car off at the garage I was a veritable Vauxhall Corsa timing chain expert. We all know we’ve done our jobs well when individually we’re greeted with
“Oh, it’s you…..?”
People may not be able to tell the difference between us but very few are left in doubt about our skills.
The author of the letter doesn’t believe it and can’t see it but for all the skills in our system, hers are probably the most valuable. She thinks she’s done something wrong, thinks she’s defective, she is in fact highly effective. She did what she had to do to survive but she added several flourishes that turned her into one of the most fascinating, beautiful individuals I have ever had the honour to share a mind/life/body with. I will do anything I can to help her, if that’s writing a blog post or even being ‘ok’ at moderating comments then I’ll do it. That’s why I’m here, that’s why we’re all here- to help each other and it’s just as well we are.
There’s the traditional “wrong kind of ill” paradox here, I don’t think we’ve ever had more distress and ever been more unstable than we are now but you can’t tell by looking. We decided this week to stop seeing the Fantastic CPN, at least for the time being, she’s a wonderful woman but ‘help’ from those who don’t know our system and who won’t, can’t or won’t allow themselves to ‘get’ DID is unhelpful, unsafe. We’ve been damaged enough.
We have 3 hours a week with the <?> therapist (and several emails/texts, I would hate to be a multiples therapist) and currently those three hours are all given over to one person, one part of [number I will never reveal], we may have a range of opinions on the <?> therapist- from “who?” to mistrust, suspicion all the way to ‘vehement hatred’ but that one person for those 3 hours a week feels safe. I’m choosing to be grateful for that rather than fly into a rage about the shocking lack of resources for people with DID in this country. Besides, flying into rages is someone else’s job.
Addressing lack of resources is also someone else’s job.
I know what my job is at the moment and I’ll keep doing it for as long as I have to, I have no end-goal, no great ambition other than to see those I share my life/mind/body with are ok.
The letter ended with
*very sad face*
I wept and made a mental note to check Amazon for an emotional dictionary, she really is stretching the definition of ‘sad’.
The letter’s signed