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Archive for the ‘insight’ Category

DID Is Horrid

Posted in children, depression, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, insight, Sadness, Spiderman, Triggers, tagged , , on August 18, 2012 | 18 Comments »

I stopped watching TV ages ago; I think it was as far back as 2010, I can never be sure. I stopped watching it as it did something to me, I wasn’t sure what and I couldn’t define it but I knew that TV made me mental. I covered it up for ages by saying the noise bothered me; this sounded “normally abnormal” and fitted with the experiences of other mentalists. Those involved in my ‘care’ at the time accepted this and understood.

When I was confident that my suspicions I had DID were correct and I decided to share my findings with my ‘care team’ one of the things I mentioned was television- I revealed to them that I had stopped watching television as it made me switch, TV was very triggering. Those involved in my ‘care’ at the time didn’t accept this and didn’t understand.

I used to love TV, all sorts of TV and I loved films, all sorts of films. In the time I have avoided the TV I have occasionally watched a film but anything I watched had to be something I’d seen before, was familiar with and therefore could identify any potential triggers. I had to have enough knowledge of a film to ensure I was watching it with the correct eyes- or at least not the wrong eyes.

For the past two years or so I have repeatedly watched Mulan, Heathers, The Breakfast Club, In The Loop, Spiderman, Monsters Inc. and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Whilst all of these are fantastic films, it does get a bit boring and I think I sometimes miss TV, watching TV is such a normal thing to do, it’s easy, entertaining and informative. Mostly I’d like to be able to watch TV as I feel inept that the TV still fills me with fear, I feel like I’m failing in some way.

I did once watch something I had never seen before- Disney’s Up and I’m still haunted by it. I don’t know why and I daresay it’ll all come out one day but that film was a horrific ordeal and now any reference to it- be it a picture or whatever is triggering, it is to my great sadness that my previous love of balloons has been replaced by fear as they now remind me of that film. I was retraumatised by Disney/Pixar, which sounds amusing and indeed would make a great t-shirt slogan but it was a further knock to my confidence that I’d ever obtain anything resembling stability.

Just over a week ago I decided once again to try and challenge my fear of TV and settled down to watch Curious George- a cartoon about a monkey, I love monkeys. I’m not sure what it was about and I’m not entirely sure what happened but I suspect that the episode of Curious George was not unconnected to the awful body memories and flashbacks I went on to experience a couple of days later. I don’t know what all of my triggers are, I can’t imagine I ever will but I have a vague idea of some of them. Some are obvious and probably common, some appear ridiculous (Party Ring biscuits) and some make no sense at all. One of my triggers is umbrellas; there were umbrellas in that episode of Curious George. So you see it makes perfect sense- if you’re mental.

So once again, I was avoiding the TV. TV is far too unpredictable when your summary of yourselves is “triggered by everything” it’s far too dangerous when you just don’t know what might come up and how it may affect you.

Last night I decided that it might be nice for the 7 year-old to have a movie night. I had ‘purchased’ the live-action Horrid Henry film from isohunt and we had obtained the necessary supplies from the Spar- popcorn, chocolate and crisps. I despise Horrid Henry; the animated series on TV is rubbish as are the books. I consider myself something of an expert on children’s fiction and children’s TV, the popularity of Horrid Henry confounds me to this day. I’ll spare you my critical analysis but suffice to say I find the stories of a child with some sort of oppositional defiant disorder with parents who display inconsistent parenting styles from one incident to the next, very dull indeed. I had therefore decided that the Horrid Henry movie was likely to do nothing more dangerous than bore me to death and add fuel to my hatred for Francesca Simon.

I was wrong.

I don’t really remember watching Horrid Henry- always a bad sign, but from the tweets I made during the film I can tell that several pairs of eyes watched it and it ultimately was a confusing ordeal. Not as traumatic as Up *shudders* but not something I’m keen to repeat.

I can, thanks to my virtual paper trail point to some things that made Horrid Henry quite so difficult- one being mixed cultural references, I have the same problem with Stuart Little (I have many problems with Stuart Little as I detailed here). The Horrid Henry film had outfits from times I couldn’t identify but they were anything from 1950- current day. Henry has an iPod shuffle- my poor little brain just could not compute.

Well-known faces in the film, whilst no doubt good for the box-office were also confusing for me- not least as I wonder what on earth Richard E. Grant was thinking being involved in such a pile of dross. Gavin from Gavin and Stacey was in Horrid Henry but he wasn’t Gavin. I think Jo Brand was in there too but I can’t be sure. I know Noel fielding was in the film as I tweeted about it and promptly lost my mind.

Last night I vowed never to watch a film again- ever.

I feel depressed today that something so fundamental still evades me and I feel hard done by that DID feels the need to constantly remind you of its pervasiveness and sneak into every corner of your life. I daresay that eventually, as therapy progresses I’ll gather the knowledge I need to be able to watch TV and films again, but I can’t help feeling angry that something that should be easy, even enjoyable is like planning a military operation.

As Horrid Henry would say IT’S JUST NOT FAIR!

Little shit…..

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Weird Science

Posted in crying, DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, insight, Internal Communication, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, Triggers, tagged , , , , , on August 8, 2012 | 25 Comments »

I can’t see properly- sometimes. I used to wear glasses to correct astigmatism; sometime in 2010 I stopped wearing glasses and also became the “first person the optician had ever met in his career who has spontaneously cured their own astigmatism.” I spend an inordinate amount of time squinting, reading through one eye or just not being able to see very far or very well.

I’m allergic to lilies- sometimes. I often ‘forget’ and buy them anyway, I then find myself wondering why my face is swollen and I’m wheezing a couple of days after bringing them into the house. I’m also allergic to kiwi-fruit, bananas, latex, rats, lanolin and pineapple- sometimes. I err on the side of caution and assume that I have the potential to be allergic to anything so always keep a supply of anti-histamines in the house. Using products from Lush in the bath is like playing anaphylaxis roulette.

I have terrible eczema- sometimes. My eczema has defied explanation at various stages over the years, it appeared to be linked to hormones for a while- but then it wasn’t. It appeared to be due to allergies for a while but then it wasn’t. Some of the vast array of treatments I have been prescribed worked- sometimes.

I found out in August 2011 that I have curly hair- very curly hair- sometimes. I mentioned this to someone involved in my ‘care’ at the time; she asked if I simply hadn’t noticed I had curly hair- for 36 years- as I straightened it. I’m not sure when GHD’s were invented and I know my recall of anytime previous to right now, right this minute can sometimes be sketchy but I’m pretty sure the explanation is not that straightforward.

I can explain all of these physiological anomalies in a very straightforward way- I have enough system knowledge to tell you which parts have bad eyesight, which parts are allergic to lilies, which parts have eczema, which parts have curly hair- but I’m not going to.

What I can’t explain is why and that frustrates me. I am a logical person, I like cold, hard, quantifiable facts- this makes me curious, analytical and sceptical. The physiological anomalies of dissociative identity disorder really challenge me. I’ve looked for information, I’ve found a lot of fellow DIDers sharing similar experiences but I’ve found very little science to back it all up. I like science.

I’m tormented by my natural, logical nature as I know on one hand I can explain the weird things in terms of ‘who has what’ but I also know, that even though it doesn’t feel like it and even though I would argue it wasn’t the case 90% of the time- there is only one of me and I only have one body.

The weird things are also difficult to talk about and I’m very reluctant to offer anything regarded as ‘fanciful’ that will add fuel to the ‘does DID exist’ fire. I would never have believed any of these things either- until they happened to me. Those of you who have been reading for a number of years and indeed those of you who read who have known me in real life will know I have no reason to lie.

I am forced to simply accept the physical changes between identity states in dissociative identity disorder just ‘are’. I have trawled the internet for information and found very little, partly as I’m constrained by Google scholar and have no journal subscriptions so am reduced to reading abstracts which perhaps pick up on one key word in my search. I have other theories as to why there’s very little research into this fascinating aspect of DID. I can’t imagine that many of us would make very willing test subjects, we’re all different but our general aversions to being asked questions and the medical profession probably makes us poor participants in research. There are no drugs to treat DID, in the absence of big-pharma being interested there are very few revenue streams for funding research. What research there is tends to be on the physiological changes associated with trauma or differences in memory between identity states. I read a lot, I’m an information junkie, for the longest time this was done in a tireless pursuit to somehow ‘prove’ to myself I didn’t have DID- I never found what I was looking for.

Writing this is difficult, not least as I can’t see very well. The obvious answer is to go to the optician and have my eyes tested but for the time being that is impossible. Eye-tests involve close proximity to another person, being in darkness, extended periods of eye-contact and being touched- it’s far too triggering. Besides how would I ever find an optician willing to accept that I might need glasses- sometimes and that indeed I might need three different prescriptions- sometimes.

I’m fascinated by myself and by DID, in many ways I’ve fulfilled one of my dreams by finding something that can hold my interest and satisfy my pursuit of knowledge. Right now I’d settle for knowing why DID is so physically exhausting as it’s only just past 8am and I’m so tired I could cry.

I do cry- sometimes.

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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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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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According To Our Latest Findings- You’re Super

Posted in Anxiety, CBT, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, emotions, Fantastic CPN, hypervigilance, insight, Internal Communication, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, Spiderman, The Fear, The Smallest House in The World, Triggers, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 26, 2012 | 20 Comments »

I don’t think  I’ve ever detailed my virulent hatred of CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) on the blog, I talk about it a lot on twitter and as some of my poor victims will know, I used to practise it there.

In times of distress I was always available to offer therapy, mainly along the lines of-

WHY ARE YOU DEPRESSED? OTHER PEOPLE ARE FAR WORSE OFF; SOME HAVE DEAD PETS. JUST STOP IT!

And

YOU ARE EMPLOYING MAGICAL THINKING. JUST STOP IT!

And

YOU’RE NOT BEING PARANOID. PEOPLE DO HATE YOU- BECAUSE YOU’RE RUBBISH. JUST STOP IT!

I’m in semi-retirement from my CBT practise these days, though rest-assured, should I spot you indulging in a little black and white thinking, mind-reading or catasrophising then I will point it out and insist you desist.

It may surprise you to know that I’m not a trained CBT practitioner, but I am a quick learner and managed to pick-up quite a lot during my own very brief dalliance with the technique. I had three sessions of CBT before I was declared too mental; I don’t remember much, in fact all I remember is

“WHY WOULD YOU MAKE YOURSELF VOMIT? THAT’S JUST STUPID”

Which as you can imagine was enormously helpful for someone who at the time was attempting to ‘regulate their emotions’ by throwing-up every morsel of food she ate. I waited 9 months for some harridan in a maxi-dress (she may have been a psychologist) to berate me for being mental. I’ve never been so glad to be declared ‘un-helpable’ in my life, being discharged was a gift.

CBT was never going to help me; I’m quite capable of berating myself, I don’t deny I sometimes indulge in all the common cognitive distortions but I’m a multiple so I also know when I’m doing it, why and what to do about it. I can administer CBT to myself. It doesn’t make me any better or help at all in any way but I know I should keep doing it or everything will go completely wrong and end in disaster. Furthermore it will all be my fault; I know others will blame me for everything as they all think I’m rubbish anyway.

There is one psychotherapeutic technique with a cognitive basis I don’t despise completely- reframing. I love a good reframe. I often reframe my days in order to make myself feel better; I’m quite the Polyanna and on balance, probably wear my rose-tinted spectacles as often as I wear my shit-tinted ones. At this stage I probably would lose the will to live by 10am most days if I didn’t paint everything with rainbows-

Forget an entire day- it must’ve been rubbish anyway.

Got lost in Tesco- accidentally found the stationery aisle.

Haven’t been out of the house all week- didn’t run away to Paris/Newcastle.

Drank too much wine- didn’t mix with benzos.

It’s a useful technique but there is a danger that a reframe can become a wanky platitude. The two run very closely together, I’ve sketched a graph to illustrate.

I can also spot a reframe a mile away so often feel patronised and invalidated, sometimes this is justified. Back in the day of the frequent dissociative trips that ended in police involvement, MHAs, helicopters, trips to A&E and the bin etc the Fantastic CPN would always comment “but you came back and you’re ok”. I’m not sure what my response at the time was, these ‘trips’ left me confused, terrified and ashamed but the fact I was still alive was supposed to be enough to comfort me when it was quite clear I had completely lost control of my mind and my life. So reframing, whilst useful can also be a tricky balancing act.

The 7 year-old has returned home, earlier than I planned. I’m not entirely sure how this came about but I’m sure there’s a paper-trail somewhere. Today I finally have a man coming to fix the TV- you can’t have a 7 year-old child in the house with no working TV, well you can if you

a)     dislike children

and

b)     are happy to provide round-the-clock entertainment

I’ve mentioned before that this kind of situation, where I have to allow a stranger to enter the smallest house in the world is very challenging for me. I don’t imagine for a second that the TV man presents any real threat (other than to the bank balance) but I am crippled by hypervigilance.

I have extremely keen senses- all of them, they are my useless superpowers. I’m always on the lookout for signs of danger, be they real or imagined. I am permanently primed, ready to freeze, flee or have a complete meltdown at the first sign of peril. It’s not a good way to be, physically or emotionally- hypervigilance makes me mental, bonfire night in this house is probably similar in many ways to bonfire night in Battersea Dogs Home. I can’t just stop being hypervigilant and so, at times I hate myself for it.

I clearly needed some sort of reframe, so you can imagine my unbridled delight when I found this article that confirms that I am not only super-human but Spiderman. I have nothing to fear from the TV man, unless of course his name is Norman Osborn…….

click image to read article

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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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Same Difference

Posted in Anxiety, depression, DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Eating Disorder, emotions, insight, insomnia, Internal Communication, labels, manic, mental illness, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on July 18, 2012 | 22 Comments »

I don’t fit, or at least if I do, I don’t know where. This feeling is nothing new to me; I’ve never fitted, always felt different. I suppose I should be grateful that at least now I know why?

I didn’t think I had a problem with being different, in fact I’m still not sure I do after all I can’t imagine I’d enjoy being normal. Just a quick reminder to anyone even thinking of saying or even just thinking “oh but what is normal anyway?” I don’t know, but I know what it isn’t. That question rates even higher up the irritation scale than any of the wanky platitudes, don’t do it.

When I went mental, I started to feel a bit like I wasn’t different anymore; I was the same as all the other mentals. But that’s just it, I am the same

as

all

the

other

mentals….

I have a lot in common with the depressed, the manic, the obsessive compulsives, the voice hearers, the eating disordered, the self-harmers, the suicidal, the psychotic, the delusional, the gender confused, the insomniacs, the narcissists, the anxious, the attachment disordered, the selective mutes, the substance abusers, the paranoid- I could go on…..

I can identify with everyone; I’ve been there, am often there and will no doubt be there again at some point. I suppose if we’re looking at transferable skills at least I can rest easy, safe in the knowledge that I have a promising future career in writing leaflets about mental illness?

I left a comment on a blog last week; it took me some 4 days of writing and deleting to actually click ‘submit’. My comment wasn’t anything controversial or even particularly interesting or important but it was different. The topic of the blog piece was labels- what we mentals call ourselves and are called by services. I’m a firm believer in self-definition but of course, for me this means selves-definition. My comment reflected this

I cut the comment short, I define myself in numerous different ways but I was feeling incredibly self-conscious about what I’d said.

So I feel different from other people like me, other mentals

I don’t fully understand why I felt so self-conscious, I’m not ashamed of having DID, I’m happy to talk about it. You may have noticed.

I feel like I ought to say “my illness doesn’t define me” but it’s simply not true. When your illness makes you believe you are more than one “me” it does tend to dictate how you operate.

I’ve felt uncomfortable within the Madosphere for a while, I don’t read many blogs at the moment and I comment on very few. Whilst I have something in common with everyone and can offer advice, sympathy and understanding in all and any situation, I shy away from doing so. I don’t feel unwelcome, far from it but I do feel very different and quite alone. The ultimate paradox of sharing your head/body/life with [number I will never reveal] people is that it can be incredibly lonely.

I know there are several people out there with DID, I read some of their blogs; I don’t even feel like I fit there. Why? What makes me so special? What makes me think I’m different from all the other multiples out there?

On paper, nothing. Whilst all multiples are unique, there’s a sameness about us too, we share similar experiences and face similar struggles. There are a few tangible things I can point to that make me feel out of place within the online DID community.

Other DID bloggers use different terminology to me, I can’t discuss this further as it’s triggering, therefore other DID blogs can be triggering for me. So I’m like the meanie of the madosphere, I have no blogroll and generally don’t follow blogs. I have some in my reader as then I can carefully choose when to read them. I tend to avoid using terminology at all, I slip in the odd technical description but my story-telling approach to blogging often doesn’t call for it.

Other DID bloggers share names, I nearly fled Starbucks in terror last time I went and they asked for a name to put on my drink (why do they do that?!). I can’t work out if my reluctance to share names is symptomatic of the denial that we had any for so long or indicative of my overall secretiveness. I’m happy, for the most part to hide behind the collective noun, it feels safer that way.

Other DID bloggers share system information, I am like the MI5 of the multiple world when it comes to sharing information. I think it would make me feel incredibly vulnerable and unsafe to detail parts of my system.

Other DID bloggers talk about therapy; I allude to it but can never imagine retelling a session. I’m not ashamed about what happens in session, I often don’t know and am in no doubt that it’s always overtly mental but I think that therapy is for me, whoever I may be on the day and the <?> therapist.

Other DID bloggers talk about trauma. I have no trauma. I know that’s the typical multiple response but I genuinely have no memory of trauma. Sure my childhood was less than perfect and I can remember a lot of the less than perfect bits- which suggests they don’t count as trauma, but more unhelpful additions to a psyche that was already teetering. I can’t imagine if I ever uncover any trauma *clings to denial* I’d want to share it outwith therapy though.

So I feel different from other people like me, other people with DID

I’ve done the sums and if I’ve correctly identified ANPs (apparently normal parts) and EPs (emotional parts) I am 63% normal or apparently normal anyway. So the majority of the time, I’m technically, apparently normal. Twenty minutes in a room with me however and it becomes glaringly obvious that in spite of the mathematical evidence, I’m not normal. In fact, you don’t even need to be in the same room as me, anyone who’s ever received an email from me will know that bits of apparent normality do not compound into something totally normal, indeed it has the rather opposite effect. Those of you who’ve been lucky enough to receive hand-written correspondence from me (always unsigned but you can tell it’s from me as you recognise the handwritings) will appreciate that whilst there’s no doubt I can be normal and often am, all the normal together or even just a few of the normals together at the same time makes something completely abnormal.

So I feel different from other people like me, normal people

I think I feel different because I feel different and have always felt different. It’s causing me some angst it’s fair to say, especially as I think I’d be equally angst ridden to find out I was just the same as everyone else.

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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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