Mental Political Parent

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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