As I typed in the title of this post, I wondered when (and if) I would ever stop labeling the weeks of my life based off of the time I escaped my ‘old’ life. I’m sure there may come a point in the future when I will be so occupied with my new life that I will no longer need to base it off of the old. For now, I feel that each week that goes by is an accomplishment. I came here expecting very little of myself. I’m not even sure I expected to make it one week. Now I’ve made it five weeks. So what’s stopping me from making it six, seven, eight weeks?
I probably shouldn’t even be writing this blog post right now. I have a thesis that is not writing itself. Chapter 5 was due last Sunday while I was hospitalized and I have yet to hand it in. Honestly, I haven’t even started it. I’ve been so preoccupied with work, so exhausted with adjusting to a new schedule, and so many things on my mind that I just haven’t been able to sit down and focus. It will get done today, I promise..right after I finish this post.
I can’t believe I have one more week of school left. One. More. Week. I have to give myself credit. In five weeks, I have moved/escaped, got a new job, started therapy, gotten hospitalized, and still managed to write 60 pages of a thesis on a topic that I unfortunately live with every day. And in one more week, I’ll have my 120 credits (121 actually) for my BA in Psychology. I don’t know that many others would have been able to do what I’ve done. I have fallen, but I’ve also gotten right back up.
In my previous post, I briefly mentioned the possibility of a DID diagnosis. For me, it was hard to swallow. That whole experience was hard to swallow. I was dissociating so badly, it was out of control. I could have been hospitalized again. The other therapist brought up the possibility of putting me in IOP and my heart sank. For me, I see that as a failure. I am in no way saying those that go to IOP are failures, I am saying for me personally, it is a failure. I want to be as normal as possible. I want to be able to go to work every day. I want to function. I feel like IOP takes that away from me.
At the same time I understood where she was coming from. I can’t put them in a position where I am a danger and it comes back on them. They are only equipped to do so much. I told them I didn’t want to do IOP. I’ll do whatever it takes not to do IOP. But to do that, I need to accept that I have a dissociative disorder and focus my treatment on that, instead of trying to cover up my symptoms and having it blow up in my face like it did in therapy on Thursday.
I think hearing those words hurt more because I knew deep down that I had a problem with dissociation. I was familiar with DID from my courses in psychology and through meeting people with DID through trauma support groups. I always felt that so many of the symptoms rang true for me. But I didn’t want them to. No one wants DID. No one wants a lifetime of therapy, a lifetime of misunderstanding from others (although I sort of have that already). There’s no cure. DID won’t go away with a pill. A lot of therapists won’t even acknowledge its existence and therefore won’t treat it. It’s a complicated diagnosis. It’s a complicated disorder. I don’t need any more complications. Why can’t life be simple?
Maybe I am just overwhelmed right now. I’ve always wanted answers, and now that I have them, I am pushing them away because they are not the answers I want. Why is it that now that I have escaped the horrible abuses my mother had been committing against me for so so long, that I am still being affected? Why couldn’t everything just become normal once I left? Why do I still have to suffer? She should be the one in the hospital (or better yet, in prison). She should be the one in therapy trying to figure out why she does the fucked up shit she does. She should be hurting.
Instead she’s living her life day in and day out like it’s nothing, like everything is okay. Yet here I am, physically and emotionally in pain. Here I am paying for therapy instead of groceries because my mind is going to kill me before hunger does. And here I am struggling day in and day out trying to keep it together, not only for myself, but for those out there (my friends, my readers, my therapists) who are pulling for me. This shit is backwards.
There is a part of me that is strong, that knows I can overcome anything and do great things. Unfortunately, a lot of times, that part goes into hiding and I am left with my fearful, anxious self. The self that doesn’t want to get out of bed. The self that is so scared just to take a shower. The self that fears mother is coming to hurt me. I almost enjoy when I’m not myself because it gives me a break from living in fear for a while. Or maybe it’s not even myself. Maybe it’s another part of me entirely. How do I even know?
Maybe I understand myself a little more than I like to acknowledge.