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Archive for the ‘communication’ Category

Mental Arithmetic

Posted in Anxiety, children, communication, Dissociation, insomnia, Internal Communication, parenting, single-parent, sleep, tagged , , , , , on August 12, 2012 | 32 Comments »

To sum up the weekend-

60mins + 30 mins = 90 minutes

- how much sleep I got on Saturday night, when I woke and checked the clock at 11.30pm I was sorely tempted to smash it into my face repeatedly until I was unconscious. I wept pitifully for a while, lay in bed until 3am listening to the thoughts of many and feeling a little hard done-by then I got up. Obviously lack of sleep is nothing new to me but I had dared to hope that the days of almost no sleep were behind me.

5 fish – 5 fish = 0 fish

- the number of fish the 7 year-old caught on Saturday when I decided to introduce him to blood-sports and take him fishing. In spite of failing to land anything the 7 year-old seemed to enjoy the experience, he even managed to overcome his ‘sensitivities’ and handle bait. Given his extreme squeamishness I think it’s probably for the best he wasn’t lucky this time.

100bpm + 80bpm = 180bpm

- my average heart-rate during the hour I spent on the harbour with the 7 year-old, a child who embodies “perpetual motion” and occasionally “dyspraxia”. I think I may need to get him a life-jacket for future fishing trips- just in case that theory about a finite number of heartbeats is correct. Two more fishing trips and I’ll be dead.

12 arms – 11 arms = 1 arms

- the number of arms the 7 year-old claimed to have had broken by the 15 year-old. The children decided on Saturday that they hated each other and a day of bickering, shrieking and moderate violence ensued. I’m sure this was not unconnected to the fact that the 15 year-old was forced to wake some 6 hours earlier than her preferred time in order to attend her appointment with the hairdresser. I left them to it, they weren’t armed (though I considered giving them weapons at one point to bring matters to a speedy resolution) and there’s a hospital five minutes up the road.

1 arm – 1 arm = 0 arms

- the number of arms the 7 year-old actually had broken. I didn’t even bother to check when he initially made the claim, he came to find me some five minutes later, appearing jubilant, I suspect he won that particular round.

1 + 1 = 2

- the number of serious problems with the stupid car that I am now unable to ignore, it often fails to start at all and now 9 times out of 10 the key won’t even turn in the ignition. We have a skills gap, none of us are mechanics. I will simply have to break out the magic Barclaycard of power and send the stupid car to a garage.

25mg ÷ 5mg = 5mg

- the amount of Diazepam I took on Sunday in an attempt to get something resembling sleep. Old habits die hard, it’s been a while and it’s indicative of a general “things are a bit difficult” feeling at the moment but it did the job and for 2 hours I was oblivious.

1 x 12 = 12

- the number of teaspoons we own and coincidentally the number of teaspoons that were waiting to be washed. Teaspoons are a kind of benchmark for washing up in this house- when they run out it’s time to address the state of the kitchen. Having no clean teaspoons was not as problematic as you might think- there was so much washing up and general debris on the worktops that there was no room to make a cup of tea anyway. The dishes are now washed and the worktops clear, I’m considering buying some more teaspoons.

1 x ∞ = ∞

- the number of problems at the moment. It’s often the way, some are small, some are big and some are massive. It’s caused a kind of ‘stalling’ and almost a complete lack of internal communication as individual parts mull over their own problems and how they want to tackle them or indeed ignore them completely.

3mins + 40secs= 3mins 40secs

- the average length of a track on the new album by Two Door Cinema Club- Beacon. It’s not due for release until next month, I’ve listened to it and it’s ok but I’m glad I didn’t buy it. I’ve yet to give it the magical second listen so my views may change, I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

300 fucks – 300 fucks = 0 fucks

- the number of fucks I give right now, right this minute. There’s no lack of very obvious signs that something is very seriously wrong but thanks to my amazing powers of dissociation it needn’t be a problem, which is handy as I have much to do and no time to be mental.

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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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A Girl Worth Fighting For?

Posted in communication, crying, diagnosis, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fab Psychologist, Fantastic CPN, friends, hypervigilance, insight, NHS, social worker, support, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on August 4, 2012 | 3 Comments »

It’s been a dreadful week [again] thanks to my amazing ‘insight’ which I’ve actually decided isn’t insight at all, simply knowledge and knowledge I only have as the other people I share my mind/life/body with choose to share it with me, I know why.

Having thought about and discussed the events of the week I’m left in a quandary [again] as to what to do with my new found knowledge.

Thinking back to the social work assessment I mentioned briefly in my previous post- I know what went wrong.

One of the peculiar upsides of DID is the ability to recall events from a third- person perspective, it scares the shit out of you when you first realise that not everyone ‘remembers’ things this way but you soon learn to file it under ‘handy skills’ with the rest of the ‘mental but useful’ stuff- like always having someone available to paint the nails on your dominant hand. So I’ve replayed the tiny portion of ‘film’ I have from Wednesday and watched it multiple times.

The assessment began ok, the right set of skills were present but around 8 minutes in, when the questioning turned from “name, address, date of birth” to “so tell me about [redacted]” it all went horribly wrong. At that point I left the room- I think it was under the thinly veiled excuse of “going to ground myself” but this was a classic trauma response- fleeing, running-away. I wasn’t going to ground myself at all (for the most part this is something I’m still incapable of doing except in very controlled circumstances); I had switched and from that point on had totally lost control of the situation and my mind. The assessment should’ve ended there instead of continuing to compound the trauma and chaos. I’m torn between thinking it was my responsibility to call the assessment to a halt at that point and feeling horribly let-down that the Fantastic CPN failed to notice what had happened at a time where I was unable to see it.

I’m very selfves-sufficient, whether this is borne out of strength or a complete inability to trust or rely on anyone else is debatable. My pathology suggests the latter. Self-sufficiency morphs all too easily into taking responsibility for everything, which in turn just becomes guilt and cries of

“It’s all my own fault”

To be fair though, I have very little evidence that it’s safe to trust or rely on anyone else. Again, my pathology suggests this mindset is firmly rooted in my distant past but two years or so of being let-down and betrayed by the mental health profession is fresh in my mind- unlike the distant past.

It’s all become a bit cyclical.

So I know what happened, what I don’t know is what to do next. I am driven, compelled to educate anyone and everyone about DID. I do this obviously here on one of the best blogs on the internet when I discuss the details, I also do it here and elsewhere subversively just by being who I am and saying what I say. This I can cope with, in fact I enjoy it or I wouldn’t do it. If, by telling my story more people learn about DID then that’s a bonus. What I don’t enjoy is the continued fight to get those who should understand to understand.

I’m told the social worker responsible for the shambles that was Wednesday felt “really bad”- she phoned the Fantastic CPN to tell her this, adding helpfully “I felt like I’d abused her”, the Fantastic CPN in turn then told me this. On one hand I’m glad the social worker was able to recognise she’d made several grave errors but I could’ve done without having to accept the guilt of someone else, particularly someone who had caused a lot of damage. I’m also still waiting for her to contact me to apologise…….

I’ve pondered over whether there is any point sharing what I know with those who need to know it. Is there any point in me telling those who made mistakes what those mistakes were or do I just cut my losses, stick to those who do understand and keep myself safe?

Obviously if I share what I know I have the ability to prevent something similar happening to me again. Though as the social worker made it quite clear I was the wrong kind of ill for the support they had available then gave me some bullshit about how I wasn’t eligible for direct payments as I had no physical care needs, I doubt I’ll be seeing her again. If I share what I know then perhaps the next person like me won’t have to suffer in the same way? How will anything ever change if nobody tries to change it?

I don’t think I can change it. I don’t think I can make people who can’t or don’t want to understand, understand. If the social worker cared enough to try and get it right, she would’ve done some work beforehand, perhaps even contacted me, maybe emailed me the assessment form so I could’ve looked over it, and seen it was far too triggering and not bothered with the assessment? If after all this time the Fantastic CPN still thinks it’s ok to say “I know it was dreadful but you did ask for it” then either I’m explaining things badly or I’m wasting my time.

I suspect this is how people with DID end up with no support. When support becomes something that poses a potential risk, it’s safer for us to go without.

I’m tired of the fight; I’m tired of not fitting, not being what those who should be helping me need me to be. I can’t imagine if I had the kind of illness that presented in a more traditional way, if, for example I wept throughout the assessment on Wednesday that those two professionals would’ve carried on. The fact that I switched chaotically and constantly was probably missed by both of them- except that I do recall saying at one point around 20 minutes in “I don’t know; I’ve only just got here”. I’m aware a lot of my switches can be subtle but when I had verbally drawn attention to it, perhaps it was time for someone to step in and protect me when it was clear I was incapable of protecting myself?

I’m tired of the fight; I’m tired of having to fight by myself for myself. My complaint about NHS Fife is still with the SPBO, it came to light a couple of weeks ago that they didn’t have any of my notes from the Fantastic CPN- I had to contact them to tell them this. It came to light this week that they didn’t have my notes from the Fab Psychologist- I had to contact them to tell them this. I had to send copies of emails between myselves and the Fab psychologist to them as they didn’t have them either. I’m losing the fight, the process is too triggering and I know that the important bits, like the conversation between those in my ‘care’ team where they decided not to help me obtain the correct diagnosis as they believed it would be stigmatising for me, won’t be written in any of those notes anyway.

I’m tired of the fight; I’m tired of having to explain DID to people who I need to help me.

After the assessment on Wednesday I turned to friends for comfort, I relayed 3 of the questions I could remember and immediately friends replied “they should have known how triggering that would be for you” so again- friends get it. None of my friends are qualified experts in trauma and dissociation but they get it. I’m told by them, they get it because I explain it so well. I think it’s more to do with the fact they are willing to listen, accept, learn and care.

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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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The Incredibly Poor Escape

Posted in children, communication, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, insight, Internal Communication, Skills, therapist, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on July 27, 2012 | 12 Comments »

The 7 year-old has been at home since Tuesday evening, it’s now Friday morning. It’s going well, really well, too well. I’m coping- admirably.

Housework is done, shopping is done, meals are homemade, nutritious and served on plates instead of kitchen-roll, admin that’s been put off for months has been done, the TV is fixed. The 7 year-old has the new shoes, clothes and pyjamas he required (having him home has been much like adopting a refugee) I don’t remember completing any of these tasks but they’re done.

The children are well and happy, the 18 year-old is off to Dublin for a few days and called me this morning to let me know he’d arrived safely. The 15 year-old is in an extended huff with me as I had the audacity to tell her off for not coming home from the cinema until after midnight and going out without her phone. The 7 year-old is delivered daily to his holiday club thing, picked up in time for dinner, happy to come home, energetic and sleeping well.

Coping is not an ‘act’, I’m not ‘putting a brave face on’ most of the time I am genuinely absolutely fine and I feel fine. I’m so fine; I’ve even invented a new word to define my current phase-

Escoping

My favourite response to stress is always to escape, to run-away. Escaping takes many forms, I can run-away physically or to the bottom of a bottle of wine, I can escape for a while in a Diazepam-induced nap and of course there’s always the ultimate indulgence, the ultimate escape of suicide.

Coping is just another form of escape, it’s no less destructive than any of the other methods it just looks better. It’s not that I don’t want to cope but I have been propelled into coping. I initially thought that as the 7 year-old was out of the house between breakfast and dinner that I would have the peace to not cope for a little while and therefore do what was right for my mental health. I am stuck in high-functioning mode, I know it’s not helpful but I don’t know how to get un-stuck.

I look well, sound well and feel well. But I’m just not myself at the moment- a feeling that is nothing new to me. Those of you missing ‘me’ on twitter and Facebook, those of you I keep closest will know, I miss me too but I’m not allowed out to play.

In the past, the mental health professionals involved in my ‘care’ loved it when I was coping, I tried so hard to make them understand, to explain what was going on for me but they never got it. Now I have the right help, the <?> therapist I don’t have to worry that when she sees me on Monday, she’ll be relieved that I appear well, am coping and discharge me. I’m grateful for the selves-imposed rule that states someone must attend every therapy session unless it’s physically impossible to do so- even though I can’t rule out going to therapy on Monday and telling her I made a terrible mistake, I’m actually completely normal. This is not some flamboyant form of avoidance; it’s not that I don’t want to talk about it- I have nothing to talk about. I am ‘symptom’ free, able to do the things I need to do when they need done and my head is quiet.

The only thing worse than head-noise is head-silence.

I’m not better; I have merely turned my back on myselves in an attempt to cope with a stressful situation. I’ve stopped listening and stopped talking; I am the lid on the pressure cooker. Part of the admin that got done was renewing the insurance for the stupid car, this reminded me there was a blog post from around this time last year- it’s about my Weirdest Day Ever and talks a lot about coping.

Self-awareness can be a bitch.

I’ve re-read that post and this one too, I have so much insight I often wonder why I can’t heal myself. I suspect I am just too busy coping.

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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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Personalisation(s) Of Services

Posted in communication, diagnosis, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fife, friends, insight, Internal Communication, laptop, mental illness, money, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, Nicola Sturgeon, parenting, Paris, single-parent, social worker, support, The Smallest House in The World, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , , , on July 22, 2012 | 7 Comments »

To quote from the Mind page on personalisation and to save me launching into a lengthy explanation of what it’s all about- The Government wants more people who use support services to have ‘choice and control’ in their lives. That is why they have introduced direct payments. I’ll leave the debate about Government, what it actually wants, what this means for mentalists in general to others.

I mentioned in a previous post that I had applied for an assessment of my needs from the local authority in order that I could apply for direct payments. This assessment is on Wednesday the 25th of July. This is not about me having more ‘choice and control’ this is about me actually getting some sort of service. Currently I’m deemed ‘too complex’ for exisiting services, indeed the reason it’s taken so long for a social worker to arrange to do the assessment is because I am ‘so complex’. Whilst I’m relieved that this isn’t because the social worker was too scared to come back after being met with the simmering ball of frustration and hatred I was last time which, in my defence I only was because NHS Fife were still refusing to recognise, diagnose and treat my illness and the last thing I wanted or needed was someone to help with the shopping, I need to say something about my perceived ‘complexity’.

DID is complex, I am not complex, I’m actually very straightforward, all you have to do is listen to me. If you look at me as a disorder then I’ve no doubt what you see can be quite challenging but what anyone tends to be met with is an individual, sure sometimes things go awry and you can be met with several individuals but all you have to do is listen to what they say. My ‘complexity’ is used as a stick to beat me and a reason to treat me differently, it creates barriers. Instead of all those referral letters that begin “Zoë is a very complex….” How about “Zoë is a lovely…..” or “Zoë is a very funny….” or “Congratulations, now you too can experience, first-hand the sheer awesomeness that is Zoë….” Unless perhaps it’s a referral to social services in which case and in the interests of honesty and transparency the letter should probably begin “I’m sorry, Zoë will probably despise you by virtue of your chosen profession, it’s nothing personal as I’m sure you’re lovely but she’s had some very bad experiences with your kind….”

So I’ve been thinking a lot about what my needs are, what kind of things would be helpful, would make life easier. It’s very tricky as I struggle to ask for or accept help, I feel undeserving of help and a lot of the time would deny I needed any. Coping is what we do best, those who have DID or know about DID will know that the perceived level of coping is actually inversely proportional to the mental health of the individual and I know, personally that ‘coping’ is one of my biggest danger-signs and is usually a precursor to crisis. I’m keen to avoid coping so I know I need some things in place to help make things easier, especially as I am soon to return to caring for two children full-time again.

I’ve considered the obvious things, practical support- help with housework and shopping- and ruled them out. Having to deal with people is problematic; bringing a person into my life introduces a whole new set of challenges. In a moment of insight the other night, whilst sitting in my local Chinese takeaway I figured out one of the main reasons people are so triggering, I briefly felt like a genius until I realised that reason was ‘because they move’ I then felt like a persuasive case for euthanasia. At the moment I simply couldn’t stand having someone come into the house to ‘help’ with anything, I’d be constantly on my guard to protect myself and besides they’d have had a quick run-down on DID, and they’d be waiting for me to “do a Sybil”. I’ve never read or watched Sybil so my frame of reference is lacking in detail but I know enough about it to know that for the most part, it’s a very poor portrayal of DID.

I’ve tried to look at my average day to get an idea about what my needs are, I don’t have average days. The only constant running through my days is that they will be fragmented, random and involve some chaos. Today for example involved an early-morning excursion to Tesco for milk. The trip to Tesco was derailed slightly as the store I usually go to and have well-mapped had had a slight re-modelling. I only know this as there is a ‘distress tweet’ from around 6.30am saying this, I’m very sensitive to changes in my surroundings so it may be that Tesco is much the same as it was last time, they may just have adjusted an onion or something. So I came home from Tesco with all the essentials- milk, bread, cat food and three boxes of Fuzzy-Felts (dinosaurs, under the sea and pirates for anyone interested). So I suppose I could argue that having someone to do the shopping would be helpful- but then how would I get Fuzzy-Felts?

You see my needs are unique and whilst I’m sure one box would have sufficed I can argue that Fuzzy-Felts, particularly the dinosaur ones are an essential part of my care. Similarly I could argue that I should be given black Converse free on prescription. Confusion is a major feature of DID, black Converse are the ultimate, dynamic, age-appropriate footwear- they are shoes for everyone. In situations where it’s likely switching can be rapid and chaotic, making sure everyone is wearing shoes that make them feel safe is essential. I could also make a good case for being given stationery on prescription. Post-its are an essential part of my selves-management; notes to selves are a mainstay of internal communication. The “whiteboard of madness” which hangs on the bedroom wall is crucial in ensuring that the days hang together in some way, important things don’t get forgotten and needs, wants, fears and desires can be communicated. So I could add whiteboard markers to that prescription. Some internal communication is done through drawing so colouring pencils, felt-tips, crayons and paper are also much-needed items. Now that I’m no longer unnecessarily drugged into a nice easy to-manage zombie-like state and have freed up 70% of NHS Fife’s budget by becoming a free-range mentalist, I’m considering approaching the GP with my prescription requests. After all 99% of the time I would claim not to exist in a physical sense, have no body and therefore never experience physical illness so I’m hardly a huge burden as patients go. This may or may not be related to the fact that the GP is still on the long list of “THINGS THAT ARE WAY TOO TRIGGERING”.

I’ve thought about my ‘social needs’ I do have them but again I’m constrained by my current, somewhat fragile state. I adore people but I fear them too and so, my social needs are best met in a virtual way and this suits me. In fact I suspect I spend more time with friends than most as I can do it in a way that’s comfortable, controlled and safe for me. So I could ask for help to pay for my broadband service? I can justify this request if necessary but I can’t see the local authority understanding. Similarly I could make a good case for having my mobile phone contract costs met by the local authority. The phone is essential in helping me keep track, avoiding confusion. Whether this be a photograph of a person/situation/place that later helps remind me where I’ve been, what’s happened and who with or a tweet that discloses my mood or location or a text to a friend to let them know I’ve been attacked by the ‘silencing mentals’ and not to worry as I’ll eventually be back,  the phone helps me communicate and more importantly, communicate in a way that leaves a written record so that it can be accessed again later. Since the Paris trip I’ve also undergone a comprehensive self-led training course in Google maps and navigation so having the phone with me is an extra guard against getting lost.

I’ve considered my recreational needs; I do have some as I have multiple hobbies. I enjoy the very occasional film though am still limited to watching films I’ve seen before and therefore have a fair idea of the potential triggers and can guard against them, those of you who know me elsewhere may remember the harrowing emotional rollercoaster that was my first and last viewing of Disney’s Up, I remain in two minds about balloons to this day they bring me right back to that film. I have a small team of film reviewers on twitter who have a good understanding of my needs but sadly, we’re still at the stage where the conclusion is usually “it was good but not for you yet” so I can’t go to the cinema and I don’t really need DVDs (DID and films/TV is another one of those book topics I mentioned in a previous post). I adore music, my tastes are ‘eclectic’ music is essential and again, DID and music is a potential book topic. I could argue that there is a need for my music supply costs to be met by the local authority but as I ‘purchase’ all my music from isoHunt I suspect I’d be fighting a losing battle.

So I’m a little stuck, I know I need something but I don’t know what that something is. On paper I’m an ideal candidate for self-directed care, I’m intelligent (another attribute used as a stick to beat me, MH services prefer their mentals to be stupid) I’m articulate, have a good understanding of my condition and am keen to make progress but in practise trying to define the support I need is just another cause of confusion for me and another thing that makes me feel different.

The other problem I have is that I am more than capable of doing everything myself. I have no doubt that eventually after a few weeks, maybe months this would cause complete de-stabilisation and a spiral into crisis but I can do it, I can do it all. I’m trying to convince myselves that just because we can do it, doesn’t mean we should or that we have to. It’s not easy. Self-sufficiency can be a very good thing but can also be incredibly self-defeating when it becomes more about control, lack of trust, fear and keeping everyone away than confidence, empowerment and choices.

So I’m still none the wiser as to what I should be asking this social worker for, I intend to give the matter my full attention over the next few day, in between playing with my new Fuzzy-Felts.

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Multiple Mama’s

Posted in children, co-sleeping, communication, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, emotions, hugs, insight, Internal Communication, mother, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, parenting, single-parent, Skills, stress, tea, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, tagged , , , , , , on July 20, 2012 | 16 Comments »

Today I have been a Mama for 18 years. That’s technically not true; I only became “Mama” around 6 and a half years ago when my youngest son decided that’s what he was going to call me, the older children followed his lead. Previous to that, I’m not sure what my title was but my job was the same.

I have three children- an 18 year old son, 15 year old daughter and a 7 year old son. The children are generally happy save for their own individual neuroses; they are intelligent and good-humoured, curious, energetic, polite, creative, sociable in their own unique way and very loving.

My parenting style is eclectic though at times, probably best described as “haphazard” I kind of make it up as I go along. Cereal (branded or generic) is a legitimate dinner at least once a week, baby wipes are an excellent substitute for a bath every other night, ketchup is a vegetable. 3 hours a day on the internet is “learning”, swearing is ok if it is grammatically correct and used appropriately. Discussion at the dinner table is actively encouraged even if it is about world hunger or decomposition- which as anyone with a 7 year-old son will know; it often is. Bedtimes can be fluid if I’m not craving peace; curfews are negotiable if the text messaged request is funny enough. Later-on drugs can be experimented with as long as they’re not chemical or addictive, getting drunk is ok as long as you stay safe and don’t get “fall down, piss yourself drunk”. A screwdriver is a legitimate toy, breaking things is “science”, woodlice are pets. Food colouring is for icing, mashed potatoes and baths. Beds are for sharing, books are important but can be annotated if desired, magnifying glasses are essential as are torches. School is crucial and should be approached with enthusiasm and the courage to question, further or higher education is optional. Individuality is cherished, love is unconditional.

In return for my eclectic parenting style I have 3 rather wonderful children, all popular with peers, all healthy, all able to come to me when necessary as far as I know- as far as any mother can know I suspect, after all you don’t know what they don’t tell you. I know I’m not an ogre- the 18 year old is able to discuss his sexuality with me, the 15 year old trusts me with her secrets and friends, the 7 year old still thinks I am a walking encyclopaedia even though I have led him to believe that the answer to many questions is “magic” (accompanied by appropriate hand-gestures and “woo” noises).

I’d be lying if I said my mental health hadn’t affected my children, particularly over the last year or so. They have had to go through things and witness things no child should ever have to be subjected to. The one thing I know I will never forgive the mental health system for is the effect their mistakes and negligence had on my children. I obviously feel guilty about my own contribution to what the children suffered but I know I couldn’t help it. I also know I repeatedly asked those who should have helped me to help- it’s not my fault they didn’t.

Even outwith times of crisis and given that the illness I have, dissociative identity disorder (DID) doesn’t just suddenly appear in adulthood but has been present in some way throughout my life, my mental health has affected my children and my relationships with them from the start.

Today, July 20th 2012, I can only remember one of the ‘starts’, I currently have no access to memories of my children prior to 2005, it’s as though I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t there.

I have a metaphorical book of facts; I can tell you birthweights, the ages at which developmental milestones were met and have the odd anecdote but beyond that- nothing. I have many photographs of the children, sometimes they can help access a memory of a time, place or event but it is to my eternal sadness that there are very few, if any photographs of me and the children. I’m terrified of having my photograph taken, in the few photos that do catch me, I look terrified. I have no proof that I was ever there and in the absence of feeling like I was there, this is difficult. The children don’t have DID, they do have memories and they often share them. Their accounts of me are usually positive so I take comfort from that. I also know that whilst I may not be able to access my memories of the children- they are there and I’m hopeful that, in time, they will become my memories too.

There’s no doubt that my mental health has had many negative impacts throughout the children’s lives but I’d argue the positives from having multiple Mama’s outweigh the negatives.

I am able to share my children’s interests- everything from the 18 year-old’s love of trains and foreign languages, to the 15 year-old’s love of reddit and shoes, to the 7 year-old’s love of Lego and Spiderman.

I am a very accepting person, anything goes. I have a moral compass that spins freely. Nothing my children do is unacceptable, certain situations may need a careful approach; some extra thought but nothing phases me. I’m slightly challenged by the 18 year-old’s support for Scottish nationalism (with a capital N) but there really is no-one better for him to discuss it with and I’m optimistic I can convince him otherwise but equally happy if I can’t. I frequently annoy the 15 year-old with my general ‘enthusiasm’ for things but she knows that it can be used to her advantage- be this in shoe or pancake form. The 7 year-old can vomit on demand at the dinner table should I stray from his desired diet of processed beaks and feet wrapped in batter, served with bastardised potato shaped into smiley faces, animals or letters but he knows I love those smiley faces, animals and letters as much as he does. I don’t stress over the little things, meeting the 5-a-day requirement in this house often includes the consumption of  “imagination salad”.

Thanks to my amazing powers of dissociation I am excellent in a crisis, should you back-flip into the corner of a table and sever a blood vessel there is no-one better to accompany you to A&E. I am a calm, reassuring presence even when faced with spurting blood and general distress.

I am fiercely protective of the children and attentive to their physical, emotional and environmental needs. This means I am happy to demand a same-day GP appointment in the face of cross-examination and insistence that such a thing is impossible from the receptionist. I am quick to challenge a school “behaviour policy” that uses shame to try and elicit compliance and should the children desire a mural on their bedroom wall or fairy lights in the kitchen than that’s ok too.

I am a good Mama.

So why today am I sitting here, worrying?

I’m worrying because tonight I have promised to take the now 18 year-old out for his first legal pint- out, to a pub. I don’t need to tell you just how challenging this is, I briefly began to consider all the known triggers and stopped when I got to double figures. I daren’t even think about the ones I don’t know about. I’m confident that I will appear well, it may be the quickest pint ever but I’m sure it’s something my son will remember forever and I’m honoured he chose me to share this moment with him. I’m pretty certain that the situation will be so stressful I’ll have no memory of it at all and I don’t doubt that it will cause some internal distress, but I’m going to do it- that’s what Mama’s do.

I’m worrying because on the 3rd of August my youngest son will return to my care full-time, having spent the last 9 months or so living with his father. I have stayed in contact with him throughout this period and it was always my intention to have him home when I felt well enough. The choice to wait until I was well enough wasn’t mine to make so he’s coming home a little earlier than I would’ve liked, I am in no doubt that this is the right thing to do. I accept it will be challenging and I accept that my progress, which to-date has been consistent and rapid will probably slow as I try to combine therapeutic work with caring full-time for two children again.

I’m worrying because although I know I’m a good Mama, I’ve lost a lot of confidence in my skills, I share the role with several others.  They all have something to bring and all have contributed in some way to the amazing creatures the children have become. I don’t expect it to be easy but I know, in time, I will get that confidence back. In spite of everything I have three securely attached, integrated little people to love and call my own.

Well I say little people- the 18 year-old is 6ft 2 with size 17 feet, I can only hypothesise that his father was a giant or a clown- perhaps a giant clown? I have no idea and I suspect, given my track record with men that some things are best left dissociated.

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This Post On Sleep

Posted in communication, DID, Dissociation, insight, Internal Communication, laptop, MPD, sleep, suicide, tea, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , , , , on June 25, 2012 | 10 Comments »

I never did write that post on sleep, I alluded to it often enough, my frequent references to sleep and teasers about “that post” are scattered throughout the blog. I’m not even sure what that post was now so I’m writing this one instead.

I can’t sleep, well I can, but not in a way that’s either useful or healthy. My inability to sleep makes me feel somehow deficient, lacking in basic life-skills, sleep-wise I am developmentally stunted, my ability being akin to that of a 3 month old infant- but without the daytime naps or beguiling smile to make up for it.

I am a horrible infant.

I know why I can’t sleep but contrary to my usual “knowledge is power” stance this knowledge does little or nothing to help.

Imagine if you will, that every night you have to get a group of people, all with their own thoughts, needs, complaints, concerns, fears and desires to get into bed, stay there and sleep all night.

Are you imagining it?

Your imagination is my reality

My sleep problems aren’t wildly different to those of your average chronic insomniac- the problem is I have all the problems of all the average chronic insomniacs- in one body.

Everybody, from time-to-time will spent a few wakeful hours in bed of an evening ruminating- a word I have real difficulty using thanks to the NHS standard CBT- based therapeutic approach.

“are you ruminating?”

“er…well..yes…I do worry…”

“WELL STOP IT!”

I feel guilty for ruminating but it’s not something I would choose to do and in my defence, much like a cow, I can’t digest things without some rumination. My rumination takes many forms, I think about all the kinds of things that other people think about- all at the same time. I think about what I’ve done that day, how it could’ve been done differently, what went right, what went wrong- all at the same time. A seemingly mundane trip to Tesco can result in hours of head noise where every possible perspective is discussed. It doesn’t help that evening head noise is inclined to be more of the “voices” type that the “other people’s thoughts” type, I hate hearing voices- it’s mental.

Everybody spends a little time at night thinking about the following day, what they need to do, want to do and hope will happen and not happen. I do this too but I think about the following day in every way possible- all at the same time. I can simultaneously plan a trip to Hobbycraft to purchase wool/stickers/glitter/paper/glue (but not colouring pencils, for reasons unknown the colouring pencils in Hobbycraft elicit a brief but heartfelt bout of sobbing) and my own death. I can think about what paperwork needs done whilst deciding whether or not to make soup. I can plan an awesomely fun trip to Ikea whilst fearing going as far as the end of the garden path. I worry about having to go out and dread a day of having to stay in. The only constant is that most days begin so early and after such little sleep that doing anything or going anywhere is often out of the question anyway thanks to permanent exhaustion.

Everybody has dreams and nightmares. I am unsure as to how I ever get as far as REM sleep given that my nights are a series of brief naps of around an hour but I’m not going to try and justify the physiology, I’m too tired. I have dreams and nightmares- often both- at the same time. I dream the dreams of many- concurrently. Dreams therefore just become another form of head noise, they are not a helpful way to process the day but are unsettling, confusing and something I’m keen to avoid. The only way to avoid dreaming is to avoid sleeping and sometimes this seems like the best plan.

Everybody has fears at night, even adults feel a little more vulnerable at night, I know I’m not the only 37 year old who does the “running, jumping thing” to get back into bed after a nocturnal bathroom trip. I can rationalise those fears- sometimes. I crave sleep; I am terrified of being asleep. I need to be awake, watchful but I fear being woken-up. I can see how ridiculous this is but I can’t help it and I console myself with the knowledge that my hypervigilance, combined with my ability to be awake for 22 hours a day means I have a very promising future in the surveillance industry.

I’m currently working on sleep and it’s very hard work, time-consuming, daunting, strangely lonely work. I’ve alluded to the “protracted bedtime routine” on twitter and anyone who knows me there will know that it has, so far been largely unsuccessful. I’m disappearing earlier in the evenings but I am still the first one up in the morning.

Daily Time Stamp- around 4am today

I’m grateful that we mentalists as a community have many interpretations of what constitutes “day” and the nocturnal mentalists are still there when I get up for the day to greet me and send me virtual tea and toast. I meet many fellow insomniacs and sympathise and of course there’s always the trusty Australians, Kiwis, Canadians and Americans happy to give me updates on yesterday and reports from the future.

The protracted bedtime routine includes your basic sleep hygiene (again, a term I hate and to quote a friend “Why do they have to call it hygiene? Hey you… dirty person…this is why you can’t sleep.. stop thinking, drink milk.”) so no tea after 6pm, no laptop/phone after 8pm, think happy thoughts, adjust room temperature, blah, blah- you know the drill.

Sleep hygiene for [number I will never reveal] separate people is a little different.

No tea after 6pm has been surprisingly easy, I suspect our tea drinkers are so desperate for sleep they’ll do anything.

Switching the laptop and phone off  is relatively straightforward though both devices are often switched on again, and off again, and on again and so on.

Getting the room temperature right is a drawn-out battle between those who like it cold, those who like it warm and those who prefer an ambient temperature.

We’ve introduced several new rules to help with sleep (oh how we love rules)

-  No nocturnal bathing- this has not gone down well, scalding hot baths at 3am were clearly very popular but we’re keen to confine the risk of requiring treatment for burns to office hours.

-  No getting up before 5.30am -some do, some don’t. I think it’d be easier if we all woke up and got up at the same time- even if it was horrifically early. Staggered wakening has the “dementia effect” with “what day is it?” being queried repeatedly until around 11am.

-  Snacking during the night is ok; we’re often hungry, thanks mainly to those who still react to any stress by foregoing food during the day. The challenge here is ensuring the snack is toast or fruit as opposed to inhaling half a kilo of Haribo at 2am.

-  No nocturnal housework- this has actually worked quite well though I kind of miss the “Elves and the Shoemaker” effect. Dissociation is many things but it can be handy waking up to a tidy house with no recollection of having tidied it.

There’s a period of around an hour before getting in to bed that is taken up with ensuring everyone knows where they are and more importantly where they aren’t. I think this is a kind of grounding exercise, it mainly involves picking up various objects and pointing out “we didn’t have this before, we do now” it takes ages and not everyone is always convinced.

We throw a little light bedtime reading onto the mix, firm favourites at the moment are Mick Inkpen, Julia Donaldson and Allan Ahlberg (should my future career in surveillance fail I have the potential to be a fantastic children’s fiction reviewer). Then it’s time to actually get into bed.

One success in all of this is that we are now able to ‘sleep’ in the bed every night. Gone are the days of sleeping, terrified on the floor or sofa. I’m glad as the smallest house in the world is also the dampest house in the world and those nights on the floor in the gap betwixt bed and wall were grim and cold, the danger of contracting mycotoxins was both worrying and at times welcome if it brought with it the promise of premature death.

Getting into bed is an event, mainly due to the size of the stuffed-animal menagerie. I used to be ashamed of the number of soft-toys in the bed, ashamed and confused, I’m 37, I don’t think (I don’t know) I had a collection of stuffed animals as a child so why now? I’m over it, pillow-height should be amongst the diagnostic criteria for DID. I’m yet to find an acceptable solution to the problem of having more stuffed-animals than hands so careful arrangement of all bed occupants takes some time.

Lights-out is at 10pm, followed by “panicking because it’s dark” at 10.01pm at which point attention is drawn to the Chernobyl-like glow from the many glow-in-the-dark stars on the walls, ceiling and furniture.

Then the head noise begins. Sleep comes eventually- another success is the ability to get to sleep without medication, (apologies to anyone who has shares in Zopiclone) albeit briefly. There is something soul-destroying about waking-up, checking the clock and figuring out you’ve slept for 40 minutes. Best case scenario is that everyone has slept for those 40 minutes but more often than not those 40 minutes are as busy and noisy as the time we spend awake.

The nights rumble-on, they feel long and a lot of reframing is required-

Only mild pain- good night

No flashbacks- good night

No nocturnal wandering- good night

Two hours undisturbed sleep- good night

In truth, it’s all very shit and I’m fed-up of it. I’ll persevere as I have no choice but I’m beginning to wonder if sleep will ever be anything other than a terrifying, frustrating, exhausting  battleground.

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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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