Physical boundaries

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I have been extremely busy this past week. I have a lot to write about, but I haven’t had the chance to sit down and type it all out.

I had a bad experience at work earlier today. A woman came up from behind me and grabbed my arm. I tried my best to remain calm, but I felt myself slipping into a panic attack and snuck to the back where no one would see me. I sat for a few minutes, shaking and crying, trying to breathe and trying not to throw up, trying to block out the intrusive memories that were trying to flood my brain.

Eventually I went back out to the floor, but I was still out of it. I just wanted to keep myself occupied hoping that the flashbacks would go away. A coworker came by and he knew right away something wasn’t right. I told him what happened and he stayed by me trying to get me to calm down. My manager was walking towards me and saw by my face that I wasn’t okay. He asked me if I wanted to go to the back, but I told him I didn’t want to. I needed to be out and doing something. I was certain that sitting idle would only make it worse.

Fortunately I had less than an hour left of work when this incident happened. I was still having flashbacks, and I was still intermittently crying, but I was trying my best to keep myself together. I felt myself drifting while I was on the bus home. I tried to keep myself engaged in something to keep myself grounded. I put my earphones in and listened to Pandora on my phone. I tried to focus on each car that we passed by.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to wait for the next bus. I bought some hard candy from the drug store hoping it would help distract me. I walked all the way home, crying and breathing like I was about to go into lanor. I kept walking despite my pain and exhaustion, because at that time, I couldn’t even acknowledge the pain in my feet. I was teetering between two worlds: reality, and where my mind believed me to be.

I’m still on edge. The flashbacks have subsided for the most part, but my mind is still not entirely back to the present. I’m exhausted, but part of me fears that sleep will bring nightmares, so I’m avoiding it as long as possible.

I just wish people would be aware of personal boundaries. It doesn’t matter that I have a history of trauma. No one should grab another person like that, especially someone you don’t know.

I wish I didn’t have to break when somebody touches me.

Grit

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I managed to make some progress on my graduate school essay. I sat in front of my computer last night for an hour and managed to write three pages (the limit is five pages). I answered two of the four questions and then I hit a roadblock.

What skills, abilities, and personal qualities do you possess that prepare you to succeed in completing graduate-level work?

Oh no. This is one of those questions that requires you to think positively of yourself. Acknowledging positive qualities and strengths is still something I struggle with. I mean, I’ve made some progress over the last few months, but I’m definitely not in a place where I can just freely talk about myself in a positive light.

I mentioned my essay progress and subsequent roadblock to my therapist in our session today. She tried to help me, but for every positive thing she mentioned, I came up with an opposing, less positive answer. She brought up my thesis, and how in the weeks before it was due, I insisted that I was never going to finish it. But I did finish it, on time, with a near-perfect grade. She said that has to prove that I have some abilities. I told her it was just luck. She insisted that it was not luck that I managed to finish all of that work in such a limited amount of time.

“Well, you’re right. It was the Adderall I took that allowed me to finish.”

“Well don’t write that in your essay,” my therapist responded, as if it needed to be said. We both laughed a little and by that point I think we both realized that this back-and-forth battle could go on forever. I wanted her to give up, but she finally said something that rang true for me.

“You’ve got grit. Yes, you’re intelligent, but I’ve seen many of my intelligent students end up accomplishing very little because they lacked the ambition and the grit needed to succeed. You’ve got both. You continued to fight when the odds were against you, and it got you to where you are today.”

Damnit. She’s right. I do have grit. Grit got me through school. Grit got me through my thesis. Grit got me through life. I could have given up at so many points, but I didn’t. I struggled, sure, but I never gave up entirely. I’ve always had an end goal in mind. Sometimes it gets a little muddled in all of the bullshit, and sometimes some of my parts can’t or don’t want to acknowledge that goal, but it’s always been there. It will always be there.

Now let me go write about my grit.

19 weeks

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

As I sat here preparing to write this post, I asked myself when I would stop counting the weeks of my freedom.

The truth is, I’m still amazed that I’ve managed to keep it together and stay alive each week that passes by. I still struggle every day. Cutting myself off from my abusers and starting a new life away from everyone and everything did not mean that all of my problems were left behind with them. I admit, part of me believed that leaving would solve everything. Leaving doesn’t cure you; it only heals a very small part of a very large wound that you have to continue to treat, or that wound will get infected.

I realized yesterday that my PTSD is still affecting my life. There was a series of noises downstairs (which I later attributed to the cat) last night that instantly made my heart race. I started to panic and shake each time I heard the noise again, with the most irrational thoughts going through my mind. I couldn’t sleep because every little noise would startle me awake. The noise doesn’t even have to be loud; thanks to hyperarousal, even the slightest noise in the distance will startle me and I begin to fear the worst. I still panic when the phone rings or when I get a text from an unknown number. I still have flashbacks. I still have PTSD.

It’s been difficult for me to get things done this past week. My poor eating habits have caught up to me again and have left me drained of energy. I stopped taking my vitamins months ago because I thought I wouldn’t need them anymore. I’ve noticed for the past couple of weeks that I’m starting to have the same symptoms I had last year before I was hospitalized for malnutrition. I still had my plethora of vitamin prescriptions, so I started taking them again. I tried to eat more, but eating has resulted in me getting physically sick. Intellectually I know it’s because I haven’t eaten, but part of me tries to blame the sickness on food so I can continue the cycle of not eating.

I’m also dealing with a lot of physical pain. The foot that I broke a few months back has become increasingly painful to walk on. I’m assuming it has a lot to do with being on my feet longer hours at work and walking more. I’ve been taking pain relievers on a regular schedule, but they provide minimal relief. I know that eventually I am going to need to go to the doctor. I’m also a bit overdue for the surgery on my other foot. I was supposed to have it this past summer, but with everything going on, I didn’t make it a priority. I don’t even want to make it a priority now.

During our last session, my therapist asked me why I didn’t want to do something that would relieve even just some of my pain. I thought about it for a minute, and I realized that I’ve been in pain for so long, that pain has become my normal. I’ve learned to live with pain in all of its forms. I had to in order to survive, and even now that I have methods of improvement, I don’t take advantage of them. I have to wonder if part of me believes that I deserve to suffer.

I’ll manage, though. I always have before. I will continue to now.

Charlie and my (our?) misplaced anger

~ KJ ~ Leave a comment

I have mentioned before that Charlie is the most vocal part of me. He is also the most angry. It’s difficult to deal with him sometimes, and I admit I haven’t been responding to him in the best ways.

I’ve been back and forth with Charlie these last few days. He doesn’t trust the two people in my life who I hold closest. He hates when I talk to them. He hates when I talk about them. He keeps telling me they are not safe. I told him that for now, they are my friends and I’m not just going to cut ties with them because that is what he wants.

I told my therapist in session today about Charlie’s hatred of these particular people. She said it makes a lot of sense and explains what has happened in some of our past sessions. When we engaged in in-depth conversation about one person in particular, I would dissociate. It happened a few times, and neither of us realized that she was the trigger until now. It was probably Charlie’s way of getting me to stop talking.

My therapist talked about communicating better with Charlie. I admitted that I felt that most of the time, I responded to Charlie in ways that my parents responded to me – with anger, hate, and disinterest. I fear that in some ways, I am turning into my parents, that I am repeating the cycle. It’s not just my words that bother me. I have outbursts of anger. I have had them for a long time, since my later years in high school. I would physically hit my boyfriend for no reason. I was fortunate enough in that he understood and didn’t react to my outbursts negatively. The other day, I hit a coworker hard in the arm. Once again, I don’t even know why I did it. He didn’t do anything to provoke it. He was simply walking past me. He laughed it off, but it bothered me.

I hate hurting other people, physically or emotionally. I feel like I have no control when I do it. My therapist asked me if anything happened right before I hit him. But I couldn’t remember anything that happened, or how I felt. I just did it. Then my therapist asked me if I’ve only ever hit men. I thought about it for a couple of minutes, and couldn’t think of any incident in which I hit a female. My victims have always been men. My therapist told me that part of it may very well be learned behavior, but a huge part is likely misplaced anger. When I realized all of my targets have been men, I couldn’t help but think I was somehow misplacing the anger I feel towards my father and putting it on these other men; since I can’t hit my father, I take it out on the closest thing to him.

I also wonder if this anger is coming from Charlie in some ways. I am usually very good at containing my physical anger urges, whereas Charlie is constantly angry and likes to make it known. Is he taking his anger out on these people as well? Is he angry at our father for what he has done? While I don’t know Charlie’s exact age, he is a younger teenager, which is around the time the physical abuse against me increased significantly. It would make sense that he is angry. We all have a reason to be angry. But we need to be able to control that anger, not act out on it. I’m going to have to dig a little deeper into this. Maybe Charlie will feel more comfortable talking to my therapist instead of me, since I’m not so great at communicating right now. I feel so sad for him in a way. He’s just as lost as I am.

My therapist also mentioned that in some ways, it sounds as if Charlie is trying to be my protector. I said “Well he’s not doing a very good job of it.” We both laughed, but I did understand what she meant. He tells me that people cannot be trusted. He doesn’t want me to open up to people. He may very well be trying to protect me, it’s just that his methods are not the best (we have something in common, I guess). But then again, he’s a teenager, and probably doesn’t know any other way. I am starting to think of Charlie in a new way now. Maybe he is my protector. Maybe we both need to listen better.

I’m working on it, Charlie.

 

Struggling

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I haven’t written in a few days.

I’ve really been struggling physically and emotionally. I’m going on nearly a week straight with this headache. I feel like all of the energy is being sucked out of me. I slept for more than 15 hours Sunday into Monday, and I still feel like I could sleep another 15 more. I’ve managed to drag myself to work each day, but that’s just adding to my exhaustion.

I had a bit of an emotional breakdown today. I’m sure my physical exhaustion didn’t help. I finally realized (or admitted to myself) that I’m alone right now. Everyone is talking about Thanksgiving and holiday plans and I feel lost and alone. I’ll be spending the holidays by myself. I know I’m better off without my family, but it still hurts. I had to pull my hat down over my face this afternoon because I couldn’t stop crying. Reality hit me like a ton of bricks.

As if that wasn’t enough to deal with, I’m having conflict with Charlie. He doesn’t like my best friends; he doesn’t think they are safe people. I’ve been talking about them more than usual lately and I guess it was too much for him. Now he’s mad. He’s always mad, but now he has a reason to be, I guess. I’m hoping he calms down soon. I don’t think I can please everyone.

I just wish I was feeling better. I don’t have time for this exhaustion and conflict.

18 weeks

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I can’t believe I’ve made it 18 weeks.

This journey has been anything but easy. But I’m still moving through and moving on. Not everyone would be able to do that. I never thought that I would be able to do that.

My coworker has told me numerous times that I have “found a home here.” I know that he is referring to our workplace as home, and I agree. I fit in so well at work, even being the only female among so many men and boys. I can be myself…my sarcastic, funny, cursing-like-a-sailor self. I’ve also learned that I don’t have to put up a wall there. It’s okay not to be happy all of the time, and they accept that and embrace it. As much as my workplace is a home for me, I feel like I’ve also found a home here, in the city where I now reside. I’ve met so many people and done so many things here that I would have never done in my old home. Being free feels so different, so scary and yet so rewarding.

A friend of mine reached out to me yesterday. It was strange because I had just been thinking about her, realizing that her birthday was coming up and wondering what I could mail to her just to let her know I still care. My best friend showed her some recent pictures of me and she noticed how much better I looked. She said I looked good and relaxed. I thanked her and told her it’s still a struggle, but I manage. Then she told me she was proud of me. I put my phone down and tried to hold back the tears, but they came through anyway. Someone was proud of me. I know it’s such a simple statement, but it’s something I wanted and tried for so long to get my parents to feel towards me; of course, that never happened. I’ve recently heard it from other people in my life and rejected it, as I tend to do with positive compliments given to me. Hearing those words from her just…I don’t know how to describe it. It meant so much to me.

I’ve been working on acknowledging my denial of my DID diagnosis and trying to get past it. I think I am in a better place now – not all the way there, but close enough – to accept everything. I’m not going to lie, I’m still scared of what will happen in the future. As I get closer to my parts, I know that I will have to deal with new memories, and those memories will not always be good ones. I think I have a good support system in place to help me through it, though. I’m not alone. We’re not alone. We don’t have to feel like we’re all alone anymore. I don’t want my parts to feel like they have to hide anymore. They’ve been through enough.

There is a DID conference coming up in February through An Infinite Mind. I’ve thought about going to a conference for the last two months. There was a conference given by another organization just a few weeks ago, but it was on the other side of the country and just not feasible. This conference is probably the closest and most accessible to me, as it’s taking place in Orlando, FL. On a whim, I asked my best friend if he would go with me (the conference is for people with DID, their supporters, and therapists). He said he would. I feel so much better about going there with someone I know and trust. I think it will be a good experience for me. I still have to figure out exactly how I am going to manage it financially, but I’ll do what I have to do. I’ve already gathered some things to sell online to earn some extra money that I can put towards the trip. I think I deserve it. I know I deserve it. It will work out somehow.

I have a little more than two weeks left to get my graduate school application completed. I’ve ordered the transcripts, mailed out recommendation forms to be filled out by my professor, and filled out the FAFSA. All I have left to do is the essay. It’s funny how writing comes so easily for me until there is something that I need to write. Then I put it off for as long as I can because I feel that my writing will be inadequate, or that I won’t have anything substantial to write. I’ll get it done. I need to get it done before life gets so crazy that I just won’t have the time.

I felt a little guilty today because I had off from work and didn’t really do anything except wash my laundry. I haven’t really had a day off to myself in a while. I probably needed to sit at home and do nothing. I’m tired, physically and mentally. I’ve had a headache for four days. I need a break. But there’s really no time for breaks. I just hope I don’t burn out.

The ball

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

Yesterday was interesting.

I was planning to come home after work and start writing my essay for grad school. While I was working, I hit my head on a display. I ended up with a tremendous headache and I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on writing anything. I knew if I went home, I’d go to sleep and that wasn’t good, either.

So after work, I decided to go to the toy store. I told the littles inside that they can pick out something small to play with. I quickly realized that it was just like being in a toy store with children. Someone was very excited and wanted just about everything we saw. I had to explain a few times that we could only get one thing, and it couldn’t be the giant stuffed dinosaur that was on display.

After 20 minutes or so, I realized we were never going to settle on one toy. I compromised by saying they could each pick out a smaller stuffed animal. After another 10 minutes, we ended up with a pink elephant, a troll (not sure who wanted that – it’s not cute), and Sully from Monsters, Inc. I also picked up something for a friend and ended up walking out of the store with a huge bag of stuffed animals. Everyone seemed happy, so it was worth it.

I came home, changed my bedding, and lined up the new toys on the bed. Someone didn’t like the arrangement and I had to switch things around a few times, but now there’s a menagerie of stuffed toys across my bed. Everyone seemed happy.

Later that night, as I was preparing myself to go to sleep, I started getting flashes of a memory. I had one of those cheap, colorful inflated balls that you used to see everywhere. My mother took the ball from me and told me I didn’t deserve it. Then she took a knife and stuck it right through the ball, and pushed all of the air out of it until there was no air left.

The memory just kept replaying in my head over and over. I don’t even know why it came up. I ended laying in bed for hours because I couldn’t get the images out of my head. I hadn’t remembered my mother doing this before, though I have no doubt that it happened. When she wasn’t destroying my soul, my mother was destroying everything around me.

I needed a hero

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

Sometimes social media leads me to feel things I would rather not feel. For this reason, I try to avoid social media around holidays like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day because I know that I’m going to see things that will make me angry or upset. Still, there are posts about great mothers and fathers all year round, and I can’t avoid social media forever.

I don’t take most posts personally. I do when someone says something like you must honor your mother because she’s the only one you have. Unfortunately, I’ve seen my fair share of these posts and experienced many people carrying this belief in real life. I used to shut my mouth and quietly seethe on the inside. Then I started answering back. No, mothers need to earn honor and respect. No, being a mother doesn’t automatically make you a good person. It still amazes me how unreceptive people are to the reality that mothers are not all good. Many people shut me down. Most just ignored me. I hope that I got through to at least one person. If so, my battle was worth it. It’s difficult to fight against something that is still reinforced so strongly in society.

The less direct posts about parents just make me sad. They are a reminder of what I missed throughout childhood. I came across this post on my Instagram last week and had to stop myself from getting emotional.

image

I needed a super hero. So many times as a child, I wished that Superman would come and take me away from my mother. My mom was never my super hero. She was the villain I needed to be protected from. She was the evil that needed to be fought against. She should’ve been my hero, but she wasn’t. I never had the chance to feel safe and protected. Why couldn’t she just be my super hero? Why couldn’t my father? Why did my world have to be full of villains?

I feel like I’m constantly going to be grieving the loss of the family I never had. There are always going to be reminders of it: any time I see a parent hugging their child, any post on social media glorifying a mother or father, each holiday I spend without a family. There will always be that piece of me missing, my point of origin. Sure, I can build my own family, but it will never be the same as what I should have had from the beginning.

A Letter to My Father

~ KJ ~ 7 Comments

I managed to write that letter to my father yesterday.

I went through a whirlwind of emotions as I was writing it, but it didn’t stop me. I cried, I wanted to throw my pen at the wall out of anger, and then I cried again. And then it was finished. I didn’t read the letter over; I folded it in half and put it in my planner so I wouldn’t forget to bring it to therapy. Then I laid in bed for an hour and just let whatever was going on inside of me flow through. I was okay.

During our session today, my therapist asked if I wrote the letter. I told her I did. I told her that at first I was afraid that I would break down like I did so many months before, but that I did it and I was okay. She asked if I wanted to go over it, and I said yes. I thought I would be able to hand her the letter and she would read it to herself. But no. She wanted me to read it. My anxiety kicked in. I didn’t think I could do it. I started second-guessing everything. Writing the letter was one thing, but reading it out loud felt like I was putting everything out into the world, that I was voicing everything I felt. I struggle with having a voice because it still feels so inherently wrong to speak.

My therapist saw that I was struggling. She asked me why it was now so hard to talk. She knew why. She said I didn’t have to read it or talk about it if I wasn’t ready. I went back and forth in my mind for a few minutes. Then I told her I wanted to read it. I told her I didn’t want to be afraid of speaking for the rest of my life. I needed to start somewhere. We went over a plan to keep safe in case I started to dissociate or it got to be too much. Then I took a deep breath and started reading.

Dear father,

I have trouble just calling you father. Fathers are supposed to love their daughters. You never showed me love. You never hugged me or showed me that you cared. You only showed me disdain. How could you let me suffer for so long? I was hurting, and instead of making me better, you only added to my pain.

You and my mother should have never had children. Neither of you know how to be a parent. You brought me into this world to torture me. I don’t understand why you and she just didn’t drop me off in a ditch somewhere. Sometimes I think that I would have been better off if one of you just killed me. You would have saved me a lot of pain. But you couldn’t even do that. Instead, you killed my spirit. You made me dead on the inside.

It scares me that I can’t remember everything you did to me. I know that if I asked you, you would never admit to anything anyway. You and my mother choose to live in your own made-up world where everything is perfect and you are perfect. That is nowhere near reality. There is no way that you didn’t know what my mother was doing to me all those years. I have memories of you being there with her, but I told myself they couldn’t be real. How could you? You are no better than she is.

You’ve broken me, but none of that hurt more than that night you broke my spirit. Instead of being concerned about why I was feeling sad and depressed, you took all of your anger and hatred out on me. You told me I had nothing to be depressed about. Nothing to be depressed about? How could I NOT be depressed? I had every reason to be sad, to be angry, and to be depressed. But you told me you were going to give me something to be sad about, and you did. You broke me. The only way I could make you stop was to not feel at all. You made me believe that feelings meant pain, and I didn’t need any more pain.

I’ll never forget that night. I still cringe when anyone says I’m depressed because it reminds me of what you did to me. You taught me that feeling anything is a punishable offense. But you got your way. I wasn’t sad or depressed anymore. I couldn’t feel anything. I lived for years without feeling anything. It was the only way I knew how to survive.

Even after all of the shit you put me through, I dropped everything to take care of you when you got sick. Your wife didn’t care whether or not you died. But why? You would have never done the same for me. I still had hope that you would be a father, that you would see what a good daughter I was, that you would be proud. But you weren’t. I held out hope for something that would never be. But I know now that it is not my doing; it’s yours. You’ll never know what love is. You should have died years ago.

Now that you’re sick, I’m not sorry at all. I actually find it a little funny that your heart has been slowly dying all these years – I would have never known you had a heart. My heart may still be beating, but you broke it long ago. And now yours is broken, literally broken. At least my heart can be fixed with time. You’re shit out of luck.

I hope when you finally die, that it’s painful for you. Maybe you would feel just a fraction of the pain you caused me. You’re lucky in a way. You’ll die soon and you’ll no longer have to live with what you’ve done, as if you let it affect you anyway. Your pain will end while I will have to live with mine.

All I ever wanted was for you to love me. I never did anything wrong. I never deserved the pain you caused me. I did everything a daughter was supposed to do and more. It was never enough for you. I hate you now, and it bothers me to hate another human being. But you deserve my hate. You deserve my anger. You don’t deserve to be my father.

Thank you for showing me everything I never want to be.

Through tears and with shaking hands, I managed to read the entire letter out loud. By the end, I couldn’t stop crying. It was the first time I allowed myself to show my emotions to my therapist. As I folded the letter and looked up, I saw the sadness on my therapist’s face. Part of me felt bad. I’ve upset her. I knew this letter was horrible. I apologized, but there was nothing for me to be sorry for. There was nothing in that letter to be sorry for. Neither of our feelings were anything to be sorry for.

My therapist reminded me that all of my feelings were valid, but I had drifted back into my childhood beliefs that feelings were not allowed. I told her it was wrong not to love your parents. I’ve always felt intense shame and guilt for hating them, especially in childhood, when society seemed to push the idea that all parents must be loved and honored (an idea I still see presented way too often). My therapist told me I had every reason to be sad, and that I had every reason to be angry at him. She told me she was angry at him, too. And she doesn’t even know him. It was relieving to know that someone else was feeling what I felt towards him. It sort of pushed me out of that child-like state and back to my adult self.

I’ll never be able to get that validation from my father. Even in the extremely small chance he would ever provide it, I can never see him or my mother again. It will never be safe for me to go back. He’ll never know how I really feel. Maybe it’s better that way.

17 weeks

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

It’s been a tough week. There have been a lot of emotions and a lot of memories coming back to the surface, and I’ve been struggling with managing it all. But, as usual, I pulled myself together and got through it.

Therapy was difficult this week, but I was a lot better than I was the week before. Writing a letter to my therapist beforehand actually made discussing things much easier. We’ve been talking about some of the issues I have with my father; there’s a lot of shit to muddle through concerning that topic. I’m having trouble believing that my feelings towards him are valid. There are even times when I’m not even sure how to identify my feelings at all.

During our last session, my therapist suggested that I write a letter to my father. I actually knew that was what she was going to say before she even said it – I would have suggested the same thing to one of my clients (I guess I may not be so horrible at being a therapist after all). She said I can bring in the letter on Monday and we can work through it. I haven’t written the letter yet; I will probably write it tomorrow once I am done with work. I am hesitating a little because I know that I tend to let it all out on paper. At the retreat in April, I wrote a letter to my mother during a letter-writing session and I ended up having a mild breakdown. I had written so many things that I didn’t even realize until I read it over. Then I felt like a horrible person for thinking and writing the things that I did. I don’t want that same thing to happen when I write this letter to my father. I want to be able to handle my feelings without feeling guilty. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m also still struggling with the DID diagnosis. My therapist asked me in the beginning of our last session to ask my parts if they had anything that they needed to say. I couldn’t do it. One reason was because it meant acknowledging that my parts exist, which is an ongoing back-and-forth for me. The other reason was because of what happened on Tuesday; I didn’t want that child to come out and talk about missing our mother again. My therapist could tell that I wasn’t comfortable with it, so she didn’t press the issue any further. But I also wasn’t honest with her about why I didn’t want to do it.

I was having a rough time Thursday night. I had worked all morning, went straight to therapy, and then came home and had to process everything. Something happened that put me over the edge and I just had to go outside and breathe to try to gain back some stability. I ended up sitting outside for over an hour, contemplating whether or not I should cry, light something on fire, or go back inside and go to sleep.

As I was sitting outside, I decided to e-mail my therapist. She had e-mailed me a link to an article on DID disclosure after our session that day. As odd as it is, I am okay with disclosing the DID to the outside world. Because of my work with HealthyPlace, my name is now permanently associated with DID. I am less okay with disclosing the DID to myself. Internally, I am finding it difficult to accept, even though I know that I have it. I am trying to be in denial while at the same time being fully aware that I am trying to be in denial despite the reality. Denial doesn’t quite work out so well when you are aware of it; it only creates dissonance. I also have a tendency to tell myself that I failed somehow and that is why I have DID, that it’s just another one of my many failures.

I also revealed what happened with my younger part the other day, and why I was so afraid to get in touch with those parts during therapy. My therapist wrote back that even though it is unnerving to be able to sense their feelings and hear their voices, that it is actually a good sign. She also wrote that I may not have been ready to hear those younger parts before, but now my consciousness is allowing it for a reason. I know that she’s right. but it still scares me. I feel ill-prepared. It’s just been me and Charlie for so long, and I wasn’t even handling that relationship well. My therapist is going to work with me on how to respond to my parts, because I told her I don’t think I know what to do and it overwhelms me, like it did on Tuesday. I need to get myself to a point where I can just accept my DID and my parts, and realize that this is not an indication of failure. I feel horrible for not being able to protect all of my parts from their traumas, when the reality is that I have these parts because they were protecting me.

With all that’s been going on these last few weeks, I put grad school preparation off to the side. I have just over three weeks before the application is due. I am going to need to make it a priority to get everything finished. This is something I need to do, not only for financial reasons but because deep down, I feel like I have a purpose as a therapist. I feel that a lot of what has happened has happened for a reason. I moved to this specific location for a reason. I was chosen to write about living with DID for HealthyPlace for a reason. I started this blog for a reason, and it has evolved into so much more than I intended it to be. All of these things have helped me to grow, even though I have trouble seeing that sometimes. I think grad school will also help me grow. It will give me more purpose.

Thankfully, I’ve been given extra hours at work this coming week. It will help keep me busy, and I’ll have more money to pay my bills. I’m just hoping that I will be able to handle the extra work, and the blog, and the grad school prep, and therapy. It’s draining, but it’s what I need to do.