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Helpful Letters; Safety In Numbers

Posted in blogging, Internal Communication, therapist, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, tagged , , , , on August 31, 2012 | 50 Comments »

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

[redacted]

Xxx

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I Know Something You Don’t Know

Posted in blogging, conflict, Internal Communication, tagged , , , , on August 25, 2012 | 8 Comments »

I’ve read yesterday’s blog post, responded to comments and been smacked hard in the face with the mental stick.

Nobody helped me write that blog post- those blanks I hoped to be filled weren’t filled. I sometimes blog individually as do other parts (you may have noticed) and many posts are more of the ‘compilation’ type, a round up of individual events, experiences, thoughts and feelings pulled together by someone with a talent for writing and diplomacy. Unusually, no other part blogged in my absence, there is a veil of secrecy around my lost week; I’m hiding something from myself.

Internal communication whilst not brilliant is good enough that I know the information about my lost week is there somewhere. I’m still not sure I want to know what happened or why but I get the impression that even if I did, nobody would tell me. It’s clear whatever happened had a knock-on effect and unsettled my various selves, it’s clear I was worried about myself and it’s obvious I am now eyeing myself suspiciously.

I hate saying things like that as it makes DID sound complicated- it’s not, I’ve made a diagram to illustrate-

Click on it, it looks far better in full size.

I know there’s ‘something up with me’ and whilst I don’t know what caused my week of mentalness I know what that something is. I don’t want myselves to know what it is though I know one of them does.

I know what to do about my something that is up, I’ve done it before and consider myself something of an expert but this time I’m having to do it alone and I’m scared, lonely and confused. Last time I did it I had [number I will never reveal] amazing, intelligent, strong, compassionate, courageous people to help, this time I’m alone. My head is suspiciously quiet other than the lone voice, from the nonchalant whistler (whom I do my best to avoid at all times as her particular set of skills scare the fuck out of me)….

“[redacted], stop playing with MS Paint and writing blog posts and do what you need to do”

I don’t want to. I’m too scared, that smack in the face with the mental stick was too hard and too painful. I’ve astounded myself with my useless ability to take mentalness to its limits and I’m not happy.

Which for me means that delirious happiness can’t be far off. I think I’ll continue being avoidant for a while longer, it’s taken 37 years to get here and in the absence of any of myselves expressing a desire to off themselves anytime soon, I’m guessing I’m not going anywhere for a while- well physically anyway.

This is hard, DID is hard, too hard.

That sentence was a test, when I start with the “it’s too hard” I usually get rescued, switch and someone who finds it all a bit easier comes along- nobody else has.

Bitches….

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Functional Dysfunction

Posted in blogging, children, lost time, NHS, Sadness, single-parent, Spiderman, therapy, tagged , , , , on August 24, 2012 | 11 Comments »

This is a functional blog post, the past week or so has been a bit of a blur. It’s clear I went mental but as it was the quiet kind of mental as opposed to the screaming/road trip/helicopter/bloodshed/trip to the bin kind of mental there is very little evidence as to what actually happened. I have to admit I’m somewhat grateful that the selective mutes were running the show this time, I’m sorry to all of you who worried in my absence but it’s much easier to come back when there isn’t a trail of [visible] mental carnage to clear up.

In my experience there is little as effective as the WordPress “new post” screen to help fill in some of the blanks. Besides I’m also trying to avoid some essential but terrifying internal work that’s become necessary following a new discovery, well new to everyone else, I’ve known for ages- I’m just not sure why I never mentioned it. I’m a mystery even to myself.

I only know I went mental as others have told me, there are no tweets, Facebook updates, emails or text messages to give me any clues. The best clue I have is this snippet of conversation I remember from today’s session with the <?> therapist-

The <?> therapist “do you remember speaking to me during Monday’s session?”

Me “no, are you sure it was me?” (I think I managed to avoid admitting I thought it was Monday today, but I can’t be sure)

I often wonder if therapists who treat DID come back to these kinds of conversations later, perhaps over dinner and think “WTF?!”  I’m very glad that those who know what they’re doing can resist the “WTF?! face” during sessions, it’s a face I’m very familiar with having become acquainted with a number of health ‘professionals’ in my time.

I was there, in body on Monday- for the full hour and a half- but it wasn’t me.

I talked about lost time in a previous post and clearly that’s what’s happened again, it just happened for a very long time. As I described in that post just because I’ve lost time doesn’t mean things haven’t got done, on the contrary it appears life has run quite smoothly in my absence.

The house is no messier than usual, there’s even a clean teaspoon in the drawer, the children are well cared for and the stupid car has a new timing chain. I have no recollection of going to a garage and indeed no idea what a timing chain is but I know the total bill for parts and labour was over £500. I’m very glad I still have the overdraft limit and credit card limit of “someone who has a decent income” as opposed to “benefit scrounging scum”. I haven’t been this poor in a number of years, it’s painful and unjust and what with it only being 122 shopping days until triggermas I have a feeling I’m going to need to hold onto that “mañana” attitude to finances lest it becomes something else to add to the very long “things that make me mental” list.

So I went mental, but it’s ok as you can’t tell by looking. Dissociative identity disorder is often described as “amazing” it’s an “amazing survival mechanism”, an “amazing way to cope with an intolerable situation”, “amazingly complex”.

DID is amazingly tragic

I don’t know what happened this week, I don’t know why and I don’t want to know but I can’t imagine that I’ve spent the week blissed out, feeling fulfilled, content, generally unperturbed and satisfied by life. I suspect I never so much as cried the whole time but I was clearly so distressed by something I chose not to speak- for 6 days. Other parts did any speaking that was necessary and I’m glad they did as it allows life to continue- for those around us. I’ve lost time and time stood still. My distress was hidden, from those around me, from those who care about me and from myself. It’s heartbreaking that an illness borne of secrecy continues to shroud itself in secrecy. I’ve been on the planet for 13,592 days, I don’t know how many of those days were so intolerably painful I’ve forgotten them, I don’t know how many of those days I’ve spent in distress whilst all around me life carried on as normal. I don’t know how many of those days I spent in need of comfort, comfort I deserved.

I’m grateful for my amazing powers of dissociation; they were useful again today when the 7 year-old was leaving for a week with his father. I was so distressed by the prospect that packing his Spiderman costume made me feel physically sick yet I was able to pack, collect him from school and send him off to his father’s appearing well the entire time.

The pain and distress doesn’t go away, it simply gets stored and it all has to be dealt with another day. I’ve done 13,592 days, I can’t guess at how much pain and distress I’ve stored over that time. I do know that it’s going to take more than 182 days to address it though which makes the letter I received from  NHS Fife advising me I’d been awarded another 6 months funding for therapy laughable at best. 6 months; 72 hours of therapy- that’s barely enough to recover from the pain and distress caused by the iatrogenic damage inflicted by NHS Fife, never mind anything else.

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Your Loss Is Someone Else’s Gain

Posted in Amnesia, blogging, communication, Dissociative Identity Disorder, parenting, Skills, tagged , , , on August 11, 2012 | 14 Comments »

“Lost time” is something multiples talk about a lot; it sounds ethereal, wistful, almost romantic. It’s none of those things.

Dissociative amnesia is to blame for lost time; this occurs due to switching between identity states- I’ve made a diagram to illustrate.

How this manifests in everyday terms is that I often find myself somewhere with absolutely no recollection of what’s happened. I can ‘lose’ anything from minutes to days; I lose a lot of time.

I used to panic when I’d lost time, would desperately start looking for clues as to where I’d been and what had happened. It didn’t help that those involved in my ‘care’ at the time failed to spot I was experiencing severe dissociative amnesia and would incredulously ask “how can you not remember?!” I’d spend far too long trying to remember- trying to actively recall a period of time generated a sensation in my head like the force felt when trying to push the north poles of two magnets together. I now know that I can’t recall these memories as they’re not mine. My memory is fragmented, shared.

Now that my understanding of DID is better, I no longer panic about lost time, I just accept it. Now that we have the <?> therapist (4 days, 2 hours, 22 minutes until her return as I write- still pining) we have managed to develop skills that compensate for the amnesia. Internal communication is much better than it was and where that fails notes, emails, whiteboard scrawlings, photos and indeed “guest posts” on the blog help fill in the gaps.

Now that my understanding of myselves is better, I no longer panic about what might have happened in my absence. I trust my skills and what the past few days have demonstrated is that I’m absolutely correct to do this.

The children have all they need in order to return to school, as happened last year I have no recollection of obtaining the clothes, shoes, stationery and bags- but it’s ok as I know that someone else does.

The 15yo had no phone, I had attempted to try and rectify this but found myself incredibly confused by exisiting contracts, new contracts and phones in general. I couldn’t work it all out at all. The 15yo has a new contract and a phone- my old one. I have a shiny new HTC One S. I have no recollection of sorting all of this out but it’s ok as I know someone else does.

The stereo in the stupid car had stopped playing any music from the iPod, I was reduced to burning CDs like a fucking Neanderthal. This has happened before, I knew it had been fixed before but I think it was fixed with a combination of crying and pressing random buttons. I didn’t know how to fix it- it’s fixed. I have no recollection of fixing it but it’s ok as I know someone else does.

When the 7 year-old came home, he brought with him very little in terms of information. I haven’t been very involved with his life for a long time so details about how he was doing at school and what was happening in terms of his new class and teacher when he returns on Tuesday were missing. The 7 year-old and I were both becoming increasingly anxious about Tuesday. I’ve arranged a meeting with his lovely head teacher on Monday to fill in any gaps. I have no recollection of doing this but it’s ok as I know someone else does.

I have many clues as to who all the someone else’s are, whoever bought the school supplies for the children also bought herself a new dress, I found it in the wardrobe. I know from internet search history who had been eyeing up the HTC One S (I fancied the One X myself) and I can tell from the wording of the email to the 7 year-olds head teacher who intends to meet with her on Monday.

Dissociative amnesia is far from ideal but it’s not something I choose to do. I’m confident that in time, as therapy progresses and communication improves that it will lessen in frequency and severity but for now, it just is and that’s ok.

I appreciate that when things are difficult, I have help.

We appear to be living in a kind of relaxed squalor, the house is a shit-tip but it’s a laid-back, happy shit-tip. I know when it gets to the point that every meal has to be eaten with fingers off kitchen-roll and a basic level of hygiene can’t be maintained that it’ll get sorted. The 15 year-old is going to the hairdresser this morning to have her hair dyed pink. I don’t recall granting consent for this in fact I’m not sure she asked but it’s ok, it’s her hair. Once I get used to her looking different and am able to recognise her again I’m sure I’ll enjoy having a pink-haired daughter around the house.

So it’s not right, but it’s ok. I may not know but someone else does and what I know is that we all have the same interests at heart and everything will be taken care of. I sometimes resent sharing my mind, life and body with [number I will never reveal] people but it’s ok.

Dissociative amnesia can cause problems but it can also create solutions. I trust myselves and I obviously like me as apparently I bought myself this rather fab t-shirt.

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Semi-Detached

Posted in attachment, blogging, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Sadness, therapist, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, tagged , , , , , , on August 6, 2012 | 24 Comments »

The foundations of DID are built on poor attachment, with ‘poor’ being a massive understatement. As a whole, I have a horrendous attachment disorder and demonstrate this in various ways. My attachment styles are ‘all of the above’ it depends on the people involved [both internal and external] and is as subject to change as everything else.

In part I demonstrate this by attaching to those I deem worthy- like a fucking limpet. Some of you may have noticed. Those I deem worthy tend to be like me in some way, share my interests, be up for a laugh and be considered ‘safe’, I’m not sure what the actual criteria are for being considered safe- it’s more of a feeling than a list of quantifiable qualities. Chances are if I’ve ever pined for you or thought you may be dead should you not have tweeted/facebooked/texted/emailed for an extended period of time then I like you, you’re safe.

This is a good thing; it even feels good most of the time. I adore people- lots of different kinds of people, people make me happy. This is where it all starts to get complicated.

I don’t get to do my own happiness; I am a complete emotional cripple, my emotional tolerance is around zero- laughter is triggering for me. I can get to a certain level of hilarity before I switch and someone else takes over- I’ve made a diagram to illustrate.

I start laughing but it takes someone else to finish it. I tend to come back quite quickly but my general default piss-taking, hilarity seeking position means that it is never very long before I disappear again.

I can’t do happiness either and as I learned this week, this is strongly linked to my attachment style. I love to connect with people I care about, am attached to but should that connection become too ‘real’ then I’m off. I’ve made a diagram to illustrate.

So I may well love you to bits but it all gets a bit overwhelming rather suddenly and I’m off, often for an extended period of time. I do come back but it can all be a bit tentative for a while, I may even avoid you for a bit just in case you ‘make’ me have feelings for you again- as then I’d have to go away again.

I think the fact that good emotions are triggering for me is tragic, I often wonder how someone ends up not even feeling safe to be happy- and that makes me sad. For some reason, I’m allowed to do my own sadness for a while. I’ve made a diagram to illustrate.

So I do get sad, very sad- I can even cry for around 4 seconds but then I’m off. It takes me quite a while to come back and having the emotional intelligence of a 3 year-old I often come back laughing and start the whole sorry cycle all over again.

Today I’m sad, today I hurt and again it’s linked to attachment. I have broken the first rule of multiple club and formed an attachment to the <?> therapist. Generally speaking we don’t attach or trust anyone but we’ve been a bit blindsided by the <?> therapist being there, knowing what she’s doing and how to do it and making it clear she’s not going anywhere. I’m not the only one who’s attached to her- a couple of others have too but their attachments are based on confidence or mutual respect, mine is akin to that of a puppy. I’ve only actually met the <?> therapist once but I see the effects of having her on everyone and it’s good. Problems get solved, questions get answered, she is right and helpful. Others would give you various critiques of her practise; describe her as ‘empowering’ or ‘a good guide’ or ‘accepting’ I just like her. I also have the ‘privilege’ of being rather sensitive to what’s going on as regards the mentals and I worry about how we’ll cope without her guidance.

I don’t have many people I consider safe, trustworthy and good company. I don’t have many people who understand me, who listen to me. The <?> therapist has become one of those people. The <?> therapist has had to attend to a family situation and therefore we won’t be seeing her until the 15th of August. That’s 8 days, 20 hours and 14 minutes away as I write this.

Today I am drifting around despondently, I’ve spoken to a few friends about what’s going on and they’ve been great but for some reason I’m still here and still sad.

I know that one of the things I have to do is increase my emotional tolerance, accept emotion, know it can’t hurt me but I’ve been up since 4am, entered advanced pining stage at around 7am so you can fuck off if you think I’m hanging around for the next 8 days, 20 hours and 12 minutes feeling like this.

The upside of multiplicity is that I can go away; I’m not short of others to take over. It means twitter and Facebook may be quiet, blog comments may not get moderated and replied to- but leave them anyway. Posts will probably get written but they won’t have MS Paint diagrams. I have a list of mundane tasks I can do but I don’t want to do any of them. I daresay I’ll pop up from time to time, laugh a bit and go away again. I probably should be grateful that I’ve escaped the usual silencing when things are a bit ropey, that in itself is progress- the fact that I still have my words is good but I don’t want to use them- I’m too sad.

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Friends: The One Where Nothing Happened

Posted in blogging, children, communication, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, friends, Internal Communication, mother, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, parenting, single-parent, Skills, stress, therapist, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 29, 2012 | 16 Comments »

Nothing happened yesterday so I’m still fine.

I’m still coping, it still looks good.

It’s as though, when the 7 year-old returned home, I faced a choice-

Parent

Or

Have DID

Obviously this wasn’t a choice I could make and as with all things for those of us with DID, the choice gets made for us. I can see what’s gone ‘wrong’ for want of a better word, what happened wasn’t a wilful mistake, it was a reaction. The way things are now is working; yesterday even included some fun activities, such as-

  • Very brief visit to a fruit farm
  • Watching Mama put petrol in the car
  • Playing Lego Star-Wars on the Wii
  • Grief counselling (he didn’t save his game)
  • Sibling rivalry- complete with screaming
  • Watching videos of Brown Recluse spiders on YouTube
  • Freaking out about sweetcorn

I can deal with all of this- and more, I can remain calm and appear normal the entire time, nothing gets the job done quite like dissociation. It works well for the children but It’s not sustainable.

I’m exhausted and that constant, low-grade pain that appears to have been gifted as some sort of bonus with DID that I’d usually be able to ignore completely has shifted up a notch. I’m horrified at how rapidly shitty “coping mechanisms” (why we call them that when they are invariably methods employed when we’re not coping is a mystery to me) used in the past have tried to creep back in and saddened by how difficult I’ve found this weekend so far.

I’ve been buoyed by the messages friends have continued to send, here and elsewhere, our resident comment moderator has been allowed to sneak out in the wee small hours to reply- that connection is vital and I’m grateful to those of you who recognised that even when we’re not allowed to talk, we’re allowed to read. You’re all very special and very missed, the internal pining-o-meter is off the scale

The silence is making me desperately unhappy and the external silence is no longer reflective of the state of things internally. I’ve never been so glad that you can’t tell by looking and again, I’m grateful for dissociation as this has allowed me to parent seemingly unhindered by the inner turmoil. I have a million thoughts but very few words, I miss my words.

If nothing else, this weekend has dragged me out of the creeping denial that was setting in again and that’s positive though painful.

I won’t deny that things are incredibly difficult at the moment but as ever my natural curiosity and love of learning has provided a distraction. I don’t always like what I’m learning but I do manage to pique my own interest often enough to make it all a bit less shitty for a little while. My low emotional tolerance and high distractibility have been assets this weekend.

I have an appointment with the <?> therapist tomorrow and I’m awfully glad I do. I’m confident that between us we can come up with some things that will help make the current situation not better, not even ok but just less de-stabilising. At the moment I’ll settle for regaining the courage and confidence in my skills to face coming home again after the session.

I have some new practical issues to face tomorrow. In order to get to therapy on time I have to leave the house at 7.30am, half an hour before the 7 year-olds holiday club thing opens. I’ve asked the 15 year-old to get up some 7 hours before her preferred rising time and mind her brother whilst I’m out. She’s agreed to do this but has yet to be persuaded to go to the extra effort of washing dressing and delivering the 7 year-old to his holiday club thing. So I am a little concerned that the current need to crash out on the bed for anything up to three hours in a switchy, drowsy, head-noisy haze after a therapy session will have to be ignored in favour of a return to coping.

So as ever, I don’t have my troubles to seek and the pace of life just feels relentless at the moment, there’s never a dull moment with DID.

I’d love some dull moments.

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Weakened

Posted in blogging, children, crying, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Internal Communication, mother, parenting, single-parent, stress, tea, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , on July 28, 2012 | 10 Comments »

I don’t know if I’ve always hated weekends but I know I’ve always hated them since acute mentalism arrived. There are many reasons to hate weekends, that fluidity of time, lack of structure and routine leaves me even more bewildered than I usually am. Weekends bring with them an expectation that things will be different in some way, better in some way- everybody looks forward to the weekend.

You don’t get time off from being mental, we work 7 days a week and are just as likely to be mental on Saturday as we are any other day of the week.

Now that the 7 year-old is home the weekend looms before me  his expectations that it will be somehow different, somehow better have to be respected, he’s not mental. Though slightly better than I was, I’m still the world’s worst sleeper and the 7 year-old is 7 years old so long-lies and lazy days are ruled out. The days begin early and are long.

I’m still stuck in coping mode, it’s going well and things that need done are getting done. One of the dangers of being stuck in coping mode is that you start to feel like maybe you did make it all up; maybe you’re not mental anymore, maybe you were never mental in the first place. After a few days of coping one begins to feel somewhat invincible- in relative terms. So as I look at the weekend and all that time to fill, all that time to spend with the 7 year-old I start to think of all the answers to the question

“Mama, what are we going to do this weekend?”

I think of the things we used to do- trips to museums, swimming, days at the beach, trips the cinema, long walks and picnics in the forest, gardening, shopping and I think for a moment “we could do any of those” and then I remember.

We can’t.

I’m fine.

Fine until something happens.

I don’t always know what that something is or is going to be. I risk-assess every potential activity and rule them all out. I’m not being risk-averse, I’m not wrapping myself in cotton-wool, I’m accepting my limits. I’m laden with guilt that my limits become the children’s limits too but for now, I accept that it’s better for them not to be taken swimming rather than be taken swimming by someone who probably wouldn’t make it through a trip to the swimming pool without several public meltdowns.

Obviously entertaining children can be done at home too; the 7 year-old is content to play the Wii for extended periods of time. I’m not as happy to leave him being babysat by technology as he’d like me to be. I feel obliged to do something with him, to entertain him, educate him and engage him.

I’m rarely short of ideas for activities and never short of the required materials, we live in a house packed to the ceiling with art supplies, books, games and toys. I’m not bad at playing, in fact I suspect as 37 year-old women go I’m rather good at it. I’m very bad at allowing myself to play, playing doesn’t feel safe. My inclination is to direct or observe the 7 year-old at play, I can’t join in. The upside of multiplicity is that I can do this and do it well, the 7 year-old is none the wiser and enjoys my company and comments as he plays. Only I can hear the crying inside.

It’s 7.45am, Saturday morning, I have two days to fill and right now, I have no idea how to do it. I suspect I’ll switch to auto-pilot, continue coping and appearing well, entertain, educate and engage the 7 year-old and this weekend will be as weekends have been for some time- a complete gap in my memory.

Coping brings with it silence, there are no tweets, texts, emails or Facebook updates to track my days the blog is the only form of outside communication we have it is also the only form of internal communication we have. Silence weighs heavy, it feels safer but it’s an ominous safety- I am tip-toeing around inside my own head trying not to cause upset. I know there will come a point where I run out of cope, I’ve been awake most of the night wracking my brain, trying to think of ways to combine parenting with the mentals and so far have come up with nothing other than to continue relying on my amazing powers of dissociation and hope nothing happens.

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Oh I’m Sorry, Did We Take That Too Far?

Posted in activist, bipolar, blogging, Celebrity Mentalism, communication, DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, hospital, illness, insight, Internal Communication, mental illness, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, politics, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on July 24, 2012 | 44 Comments »

Last night the world, or at least my tiny view of it from behind the laptop screen was talking about the 4 Goes Mad season, specifically Ruby Wax’s Mad Confessions- hosted by the self-dubbed “poster girl for mental health” (or “poster girl for mental illness” according to her twitter bio), Ruby Wax.

I didn’t watch it, the TV is still broken and it’s still too difficult for me to contemplate having someone come into the house to fix it. I ‘watched’ Ruby Wax’s Mad Confessions on twitter, the same way I have ‘watched’ TV for some time.

Obviously this show wasn’t going to represent me, I knew that. I also knew that as it championed celebrity mentalism which I have talked about before here, I probably wasn’t going to like it. I’d read a bit about the show, watched Ruby’s interview on BBC Breakfast, watched some coverage from the 4 goes mad launch night and read some comments from Ruby in an article in the Independent- I didn’t like any of them.

I have nothing personal against Ruby Wax, I don’t know her and generally I applaud anyone who tries to battle the stigma surrounding mental illness but as I’ve said before, I don’t think celebrities are the right people to do this. I could take umbrage with her investment in the medical model but I can’t really be bothered. I could point out that she’s no longer bipolar and none of you seemed to notice- but I can’t be bothered. I could point out that Ruby has never spent time in the hideous pit of shitness that is an NHS acute psychiatric ward- but I can’t be bothered. I could point out that Ruby has never had to wait months, maybe years for the correct treatment- but I can’t be bothered. I could point out that Ruby has never been unnecessarily over-medicated- but I can’t be bothered. I could point out that Ruby has never had to apply for a mortgage payment holiday (long since expired) from her bed on a psych ward- but I can’t be bothered. I could point out that despite ‘confessing’ to being mentally ill, Ruby still has a job, in fact- extra jobs- but I can’t be bothered.

So last night turned out, as expected to be a rage-fest for me, not pretty but I had every right to be angry. I was angry at the content of the show and could sit here for weeks picking through all the bits that pissed me off. I’m not going to; I can’t be bothered. Ruby Wax’s Mad Confessions left me feeling more worthless, patronised and misunderstood than I have felt for a very long time.

What last night confirmed for me is a suspicion I’ve held for a while.

As I watched the reactions to Mad Confessions roll-in and watched some fellow mentalists and all the mental health organisations swooning over the ‘honesty’ and ‘bravery’ of the host and those featured, crowing about how this time, this time someone was really challenging stigma. This was it- she was going to be the one, Ruby Wax was our saviour. I felt an increasing distance from some members of my adopted community. It’s not just my rampant hatred of celebrity mentals that created this distance, it was more.

As I trawl around the madosphere reading blogs, tweets, articles, campaigns and press releases I’m frequently smacked in the face by

RECOVERY

I don’t like the word recovery and as a concept in its broadly accepted form it is meaningless to me. I’m not going to recover, DID is for life, if you meet me in ten years time I will still have DID, sure I’m hoping that there’ll be a lot less disorder by then but I will still be several different people in one body. This makes me unacceptable to many of you. This makes me unacceptable to society and mental health organisations. I’m not alone, this is not a situation unique to those of us with DID- though that’s my drum and I will continue to bang it. There are many mental illnesses from which people will never recover to an acceptable degree; some of us will be mental forever. I’m not some petulant recovery refusnik and I’m not playing “my mental is worse than your mental” (though if you want to fight about it I’d give you a good run for your money) but I think I have found one of the reasons I may feel that difference I talked about in a previous post.

I’m not striving for recovery. On a good day I’m living, the rest of the time I exist, I just keep on keeping on. Yes I’m in therapy and yes I work hard but I work hard to achieve a level of communication and cooperation with those who share my mind, life and body, I’m not working hard to get rid of them. This is not because I have some sort on ‘investment in illness’ or a desire to stay ‘stuck in the sick role’ this is because I am accepting of my condition and what it means for me.

When I briefly and reluctantly accepted I was bipolar (I still never believed it) I was applauded, acceptance is a big deal in mental health- after all it’s the first step to recovery. Now that I have fully accepted I have DID and also fully accepted that I’m not going to recover in a way that looks like recovery to others, I’m shunned. I’m treated like I have decided that no matter what I’m going to stay determinedly mental- forever. I go against the grain, I talk freely and openly here and elsewhere about my experiences with mental illness but there is something distasteful for some of you that I talk about working with it and not working to get past it. I’m not waiting for my meds to reach the right level, I’m not practising mindfulness techniques, I’m not going back to work, I’m not finding new hobbies to ‘distract’. I just am.

I’m letting the side down by not joining the cult of recovery, I’m not shouting from the rooftops “I WILL BEAT THIS!” I’m not laying a virtual trail of M&Ms to try and coax other mentals into doing what I do, into joining me on a righteous path of recovery and return to normality. I tell it like it is, I tell my story.

I’m not writing myself off, far from it. I have the potential to be awesome and I know it- but I will be awesome and mental. But I know that for some, I have gone too mental, taken it too far.

I’m not sorry.

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A Thoroughly Modern Multiple (Part 1)

Posted in activist, blogging, book, DID, Dissociation, insight, Internal Communication, laptop, politics, stickers, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on July 17, 2012 | 6 Comments »

My head is brimming with blog posts; I think it’s a testament to improved internal communication that our writer in residence is being inundated with ideas and requests. It’s also wonderful to know that now I know I’m not bipolar (I never thought I was and I told them it wasn’t like Stephen fucking Fry) this is not due to mania; it’s also nice to know that all of these potential blog posts are safe, won’t be forgotten. I may not know what they are but I can rest easy as someone else does. I’m still wary of blogging “too often”; I’ve never managed to define what “too often” would be so the aforementioned posts may all appear today, over the next year or so- or not at all. I don’t know.

Anyone who knows me will know I have a love [twitter]/hate [fucking iTunes] relationship with technology and that overall I am technology dependent. I’m not unique in this I know; after all it’s 2012 who doesn’t have internet access at home and on the move? Who doesn’t depend on social networking to stay in touch with friends? Who still buys CDs? I suspect though that as with everything I do- I’m doin’ it the DID way.

This post is in danger of being exceptionally long, this is another one of those “I could write a book on DID and …….” topics (the others so far being, shoes, books, hair, music, parenting and clothes) so I’m going to restrict my ramblings, I can never be sure if parts 2, 3, 4……….100,000 will ever get written but I still have no desire to bore my audience to death. Unless some of the mental health professionals I’ve met are still reading of course…..

The blog

I’ve blogged about blogging before, it’s clear I get something out of it- several things but it’s only now I have a good understanding of the true role it plays. First and foremost I write the blog for myselves, I advise anyone considering becoming a blogger to do the same (multiple selves optional). The blog is my story. I’m 37, I don’t have a story, well I do but it’s in several chapters and many of those chapters are completely inaccessible to me, for over three years now, I’ve had a story; a continuous narrative. Obviously there are gaps (out of all the things the unnecessary medication killed off- the blog was one of them), there’s always going to be gaps but the bare bones of a story are there. Back in the days of extreme chaos, before I was correctly diagnosed, when I sometimes knew I had DID and sometimes didn’t I would read the blog and learn things from it. I often was surprised to find that posts had been written and published as I had no memory of doing so. Posts are littered with clues to my multiplicity; I didn’t pick up on them all on the first reading or the second or even the fifteenth but eventually little bits of information began to sink in. Again back in those days of doubt, certain posts would come to the attention of fellow DIDers who were able to recognise my symptoms for what they were. Those pingbacks, emails and comments were essential validation at a time when those around me were insisting I was wrong. Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of DID who read the blog and followed me on twitter was able to see that I was in fact the most obvious multiple on the internet. I am still enormously grateful to all of you who reached out to me, I appreciate it’s a tricky and courageous thing to do. My own DIDar (it’s like gaydar) has been functioning well for a while and I know how conflicted you can feel when you spot someone, want to help but don’t want to scare the shit out of them by letting on.

The blog is also an aid to internal communication, in times of conflict or confusion I am able to consolidate some of the [number I will never reveal] thoughts, feelings, ideas and perspectives in one place- after several readings of the post some decisions can be made, plans formulated and precarious, short-lived harmony restored. I get a lot of ‘help’ when writing posts- the writer’s head noise is often the loudest. Blog posts may read to the untrained eye as a simple, humorous, sometimes harrowing account of my daily struggles with mentalism but they tell me so much more. I can tell you that some 585 words into this post that two separate parts have had a hand in writing it. I can also tell you that with my knowledge that I, the writer of the blog, am one ‘part’ of a system of dissociated identities am really struggling to make this post read as a first person account! It’s important to me that the blog, though it comes from a fragmented mind and identity represents something whole, it’s a skill I’ve had to work hard to develop. This hopefully also explains why those of you who praise my writing on twitter or wherever get the standard response of “thanks, but I don’t write the blog”. I don’t use twitter.

The blog gives me a voice, allows me a place to make a contribution of sorts. I suspect I have ruined my future career in politics but here I can be political and people listen and respond; it’s enough to satisfy that need.

I like to think that each post educates in some way, demystifies DID, I may be talking about extreme and sometimes ‘scary’ mentalism but I like to think the way it’s presented here makes me your friendly neighbourhood multiple. For those of you who have known me for a long time, the blog comes from “Zoë Smith” (not so much a name as a concept), the same Zoë Smith you have known and loved/hated/tolerated for a while. I may be officially mental now but in many ways I’m just the same as I was, I’m not scary, DID isn’t scary.

The blog is a community for me, I’m having some other thoughts on my place in the larger madosphere community (those thoughts being one of the potential blog posts) but here, on one of the best blogs on the internet I have a family. The regular commenters, some of who know me elsewhere, some who only communicate with me here play an important role in my life. All bloggers love feedback – I love to write, I write for myselves and if I’m happy with it then that’s enough- though I do wish someone, anyone would pick up on the sheer genius that is the title of the posts. I’m beginning to wonder if they’re just a bit too technical or DID-specific as to me, each one, though brief is an essay in itself. When I look back through the blog, as I often do, frankly I astound myself with insight I didn’t know I had- “Where I Play And Do?” being a classic example. That post was a collaborative effort with another part- as many are (if we can get a few more political posts up I reckon the blog could be a contender in next years Total Politics blog awards in the group blog section); it appears to be a fairly banal post about an inappropriate attachment to a laptop. It is far more. I may not have understood a lot of the content myself, my role is to create writings that are easy on the eye using information fed to me from more learned parts but, yeah, I’m dead proud of that title and nobody picked-up on it! All posts are a learning experience for me, in fact I notice for the first time I’m talking about myself- as that one part of many. I’m not comfortable with it so I’ll get back to what I was supposed to be discussing.

I don’t respond to the comments left here, I leave that to someone else but the conversations and connections made in the comments are essential and bring much needed friendship, love, humour, support, sympathy and acceptance. Many friends have been made through the blog and as a collector of people (they’re cheaper than stickers and stationery) this brings a lot of joy to an otherwise challenging life.

So there you have it, my own unique relationship with blogging. I was going to write about twitter too but I think the relationship I’ve described with blogging is revealing, weird, convoluted and mental enough for one post.

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Swiss Army Mental

Posted in #MadParisJolly2011, alcohol, art, birthday, blogging, book, communication, diagnosis, DID, Dissociation, emotions, insight, Internal Communication, MPD, Paris, Skills, therapist, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, tagged , , , , , , , , , on June 13, 2012 | 16 Comments »

Do you remember this?

Mad Paris Jolly

Well I don’t but I still love the blog post. As humorous accounts of dissociative fugue states go, I think it’s possibly one of the best I’ve ever written.

There’s lots I could say about that post, I could tell you how angry I am that even though fellow multiples all over the internet spotted it and correctly identified it for what it was my ‘care’ team at the time continued to be oblivious to the bleeding obvious- even when I very kindly pointed it out.

I could tell you how glad I am I wrote it as it has been read many times since and has helped immensely in seeing what was really going on for me.

I could tell you how disappointed I am that a literary agent didn’t stumble across my beautifully crafted piece, browse the blog and negotiate me a six-figure book deal with a major publishing house.

I could tell you that now I know (and I know I know) I have DID the trip to Paris makes perfect sense, even if I still don’t know who went or why.

What I want to tell you is that I didn’t go to Paris this year.

For reasons unknown I hate ‘my’ birthday and it’s clear from what happened this time last year that the birthday is a major trigger for me- Paris was just the start of a period of several intense crises, another trip to the bin and a further decline in my mental health. I daresay at some point during  my long therapeutic journey I will discover why I hate the birthday so much but it was enough this year to know that I did so that I could ready myselves to cope.

This year, the birthday passed without any major mishaps. Those of you who know me elsewhere will be aware that there was some preparation involved and I’m very grateful to you all for understanding and doing what you did. Some of you will also be aware that the birthday weekend had a number of added complications and some of you will know that I found it necessary to drink myself into a nice safe coma on two consecutive afternoons.

But I didn’t run away to Paris and I didn’t end up in the bin.

Frustratingly I’ve lost count of how many sessions I’ve had with the <?> therapist but it’s really not that many, around 16 maybe? I was going to start the next sentence with “in those 16 sessions I have made more progress than…” but I don’t need to compare it, you’ve read the blog.

In those 16 sessions- I have made progress

It’s a slow progress and sometimes it’s almost a kind of inverse progress but having spent my entire time in the MH system so far deteriorating, I’m delighted.

The bloody, painful, distressing, protracted battle with NHS Fife for the ‘right help’ was awful but I’m so glad I did it. The ‘right help’, the <?> therapist isn’t somehow magical, she just knows what she’s doing and what she’s done is help me to see that though my life is often painful and difficult, I have the skills and tools I need to keep going. Accessing these skills can be difficult, frustrating, exhausting, frightening and confusing. The right skills for the occasion aren’t always available, they are often not willing to do what they need to do, the wrong skills sometimes volunteer but they are there- all of them.

I have multiple opinions on multiplicity, having DID is hard for so many reasons and I still think if I could choose I’d choose not to have it.

I’d choose not to have needed to have it.

I’m glad I do have DID.

Only a multiple could cope with multiplicity. We have all the skills we need to do what we need to do, all the knowledge, all the experience, courage, tenacity, compassion, empathy, curiosity, humour and emotion. We are the ultimate self-contained, self-help units.

Now I have the right help and guidance I’m gaining confidence, learning about my condition, learning about myselves. I’m often uncomfortable with what I’ve learned, but knowledge is power and having spent the last two years or so feeling increasingly powerless and hopeless it feels good to get some of that power and hope back.

I checked Google calendar- it’s only been 14 sessions….

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