alters

Today in therapy…

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

My therapist sent me an e-mail this morning, even though I was going to see her within the next few hours. She e-mails me a few times a week. I save every one, because she always writes something useful or something I will need to remind myself of later.

This e-mail was full of links. Links to portable door locks for my room, links to apartment listings, and a link to an art and poetry site she thought would interest me. She actually took the time to look for these things for me.

I thought it was a little odd that she sent me apartment listings out of the blue. We have been discussing future living arrangements, but never in-depth and never as an immediate need. When we started the session today, she asked me if I read her e-mail. I told her I did, but that I read it on my phone on the bus so I didn’t get to look at everything. Then she got serious.

She doesn’t think I will be able to progress in therapy and in healing in my current living situation. She said she hadn’t made it a priority before, but I think after group yesterday, everyone realized how much the situation is affecting me. There are a lot of things that have gone on and continue to go on that I haven’t told anyone about except my therapist. I never want to be home. I never feel safe here. It is causing me to constantly be on the defense and have my alerts up and running. Those defenses are still in place even when I’m at therapy, so it prevents a lot of work from being done. I’m rarely able to sleep, I don’t eat much because my food goes missing, and it leaves me with little energy left for anything else. It’s just not good for me here.

The conversation eventually switched to yesterday’s group therapy. I told her I felt like a failure because I wasn’t able to be fully there. She tried to tell me I wasn’t a failure. I was doing fine until the session about the wise older self when I got triggered. She tried to tell me that being in therapy for so many hours talking about a subject like that has the potential to be triggering to anyone, and that it was okay. But it wasn’t okay to me.

Then she asked about what happened when I got triggered. She asked about the voices. I didn’t want to talk about the voices. I still have trouble admitting out loud that these voices even exist. I hid that from the world for so long because I didn’t want people to think I was crazy. In some ways I believe that if I don’t say it out loud, it won’t be true. I told her it didn’t matter, but she pushed on. I told her the voices had been bothering me for days, and I wanted them to go away. She asked if it would be alright to let them take control so she can talk with them. But I didn’t want to. I told her I didn’t want to deal with this anymore. I just want it to go away. I want to be normal.

I told my therapist I was having trouble feeling. A sense of physical numbness had taken over me. You could have smacked me in the face right then I wouldn’t feel a thing. She sat next to me and held my hand in hers and tried to get me to feel it, but nothing was there. It took a few minutes of pressure and concentration to get me to feel again. Even then I was still partially numb.

She continued to hold my hand and talk to me. I don’t even remember what we were talking about, when she stopped and asked me if I realized what I was doing just then. I told her no. I had been trying to pull my hand away. She said that it happens a lot when she holds my hand. I never noticed or even thought about it. I had been doing it unconsciously this whole time. She asked me if I had any memories involving my hand. I told her I didn’t. I don’t remember anything like that. Then she talked about body memories and how it could be related to that. I didn’t think I had any body memories. Why would I be pulling my hand away? Why can’t I remember anything about it, but my body does?

At one point, I had become so exhausted that I pulled away and rested my head on the arm of the couch. I don’t remember what my therapist was talking about, but I started to feel panicked so I reached out to hold her hand. I felt like my mother was coming for me. My therapist tried to comfort me and tell me that I was safe. We tried to get my breathing under control so I could relax, and I was eventually able to calm down. It usually takes me a while to get back because I’m used to managing panic attacks on my own. It’s better when someone is there beside you. It’s best if you don’t have them at all.

Towards the end of the session, my therapist brought up what I colored in group yesterday. She asked why I chose to color the word hope in black. I told her I just did. Then she explained that people sometimes try to send nonverbal cues when they aren’t able to or not sure how to say what they need to say out loud. Why can’t a color just be a color? Why does there have to be a meaning behind it?

She was right, though.

In that moment, I felt that hope was dead.

Without a name

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I’m disappointed in myself.

Apparently a new part came out to my therapist today. I don’t know her (my therapist is assuming she is a girl) name, only that she is 12 years old. I guess she and my therapist talked for a long time because my session ran over two hours. I wish I was there for the conversation.

She told my therapist she thought I was mad at her. I guess she heard(?) my increasing frustration over the last week or so about peeing my pants. I didn’t blame anyone but myself – it’s an issue I’ve dealt with for most of my life, and just as likely for those time periods in which I have no memories of. She took my self-criticizing and I presume believed that I was criticizing her; she told my therapist that she pees herself out of fear.

As my therapist is relaying some of the conversation back to me, I’m sitting on the couch across from her thinking how horrible of a person I am. In criticizing myself, I hurt another part of me in the process. I still have difficulty acknowledging that these parts can hear me. I forget that they are there. I lied. It’s not that I have forgotten. I purposely try to ignore their existence at times because I just don’t want to deal with it. I still refer to myself as I and not we. I don’t talk about my system. I haven’t yet owned my DID. And now, I’ve become just another person who has hurt these parts. I’m sure they’ve been hurt enough. I hate that I have added to their burden. It’s no wonder most of them are in hiding. I’d hide from me, too.

With my background in psychology, I should know better. Yet here I am, damaging my own parts as if they haven’t been damaged enough. There’s no handbook for this. I could read all the books in the world and still not have all the answers. This shit isn’t easy.

I just want a simple life.

She always knows

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

Today’s therapy session included quite a bit of discussion about my mother. Fortunately, I was able to stay present through the entire session. Progress.

My therapist asked if I would have ever started this blog while I was still living with my family. I quickly answered no. The risk was too great for my mother finding out, and when she did find out, I would have had nowhere to hide. I knew there was spyware on my computer; that had been an ongoing practice for a long time. I learned to do most things on my phone so she wouldn’t be able to trace anything.

Then mentioning the phone led me to bring up the first time I tried to have my own phone. I was in my 20s, and didn’t want my mother knowing everything I had done and everyone I had contacted on my phone and going through interrogations about it, so I bought a cheap Tracfone and did the majority of my texting and calling on that phone. I thought I hid it well; I actually bought a phone small enough that I could hide it behind my other phone and have them both in one holster case. But then one day, I went with my brother to pick up food after work and he said “we know you have another phone; we found the empty package in your room.” My heart started racing, because I knew this meant trouble. My mother was not going to be happy. I was in for it. What is even more sad is that I became angry with myself for not hiding the package well enough. It was wrapped inside of plastic bags, then put inside of a book bag underneath some other things, which means my mother had to go through several obstacles just to find that empty phone package.

My therapist seemed surprised at first that my mother would go to such lengths. But this was a regular part of my existence. She would inspect my room and my things regularly. My brother participated right alongside her, as if he were her sidekick. I always knew when they were in my room because they could never put anything back right, and it annoyed me just as much as them going through my things. My desk, drawers, bags, and my nightstand. They would even go through the clothes in my dresser, and my laundry hamper; even my trash was inspected. I tried to hide things wherever I could. I’d cut sections out of books to hide cash in. I’d stuff things inside of pillows. I had to get creative. When I wanted to throw something away and needed to avoid interrogation, I’d hide it in my purse and bring it to work to throw away there. It was an exhausting way to live. It was, almost literally, a home prison.

After I disclosed some of my mother’s controlling ways, my therapist seemed to understand where my fears of my mother finding things out came from. My therapist told me that a few of my parts have this intense fear of mother finding out that they’ve talked or that they’ve done something, and now she sees exactly where that stems from. My mother has been that way for as long as I can remember. As an adult, obviously I knew how she found everything out because I knew more and was aware of her ways. As a child, I believed she had some magical power that caused her to know everything I said or did. It’s why I was so fearful. I’m guessing that’s why my parts are fearful, too.

My therapist asked if I see my mother’s seeming ability to know everything differently now than I did as a child. Obviously I don’t think she has magical powers anymore. Looking back, I have to wonder if she just got lucky those times she did find things out. There were so many times she falsely accused me of talking or of doing something that I never actually did. Did she just consistently make accusations and when they happened to be true, they stuck with me? I’ll probably never have a real answer to that question. I’m forever trying to rationalize the irrational.

Therapy Thursday

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

My therapy sessions on Thursdays always seem to be the most intense compared to the other sessions during the week. This week was no exception. My general exhaustion probably didn’t make it any easier on myself or on my therapist. It was a disaster.

It started out okay. I talked about work. Both my jobs seem to be going really well. I am getting a lot of positive feedback which is a little surprising to me, because I spent ten and a half years at a job where I was made to feel as if they were doing me a favor by keeping me. I had mentioned in an e-mail to my therapist that I was working on grad school applications in between job shifts. She asked me about it in session today. I told her I didn’t get far, I still had to write the essay. She asked where I was applying to, and for what program. I’m not striving for much, just the bare minimum. Then she asked me if I would consider doing a doctorate program instead of just a masters. What? Me? I can barely function as it is now and I’m not even in school yet. I don’t even know if I can handle a masters program, and now you’re throwing the idea of a doctorate at me? Do you know who I am? I’m in therapy so much it feels like a part-time job sometimes. How am I supposed to function in a doctorate program?

Then she had to go and say it. “You’re smart enough for it.” No. No. I’m not smart. Please, let’s pretend I’m not smart. Let’s pretend I’m of average intelligence, or better yet, below average. My mother hated that I was more intelligent than she was. She always made me feel like shit about it from an early age, whether it be through negative comments or smacks to the face. She resented me for being intelligent. I think I ended up internalizing that negativity.

I knew what was going to happen once my therapist went down that road. Initiate downward spiral. Cue the negative voices in my head. Here comes the nausea. I sat there and tried to listen to my therapist the best I could, but it’s hard to focus when all I could really hear is the commotion going on inside my head. My therapist could tell I was struggling so she came and sat next to me to hold my hand and help keep me connected to the real world. She asked me what the voices were saying, but I didn’t want to tell her. They were saying horrible things. Then she asked who was saying them, if it was my voice or Charlie’s voice. But it was neither of ours. Then she asked if I thought I had other parts besides Charlie and Anna and K. I don’t want to think about that. I don’t need any more parts. I can’t handle any more parts, especially parts that seem to act just like the abusive people in my life. No. Just no.

Then I told my therapist I should have stayed home. She thought I meant stay home from therapy. I really meant stay home and not move away. I wouldn’t be struggling to keep myself together, to keep a roof over my head, and be minimally fed if I had just stayed home. I’m slowly killing myself here. How is it any different? I’m making progress, but at what cost? I don’t know.

If that wasn’t enough, I reverted back into what I call my “evil child syndrome”. I tried fervently to convince my therapist that I was evil, but she just didn’t get it. I told her she couldn’t see it because it was inside of me, but she had to trust me that it was there. She couldn’t see it yet because she doesn’t know me well enough. But she wouldn’t listen to me. I turned away from her in frustration. She said that those things my mother told me were lies. But mothers don’t lie. One day my therapist will see the evil in me.

I went out of it for a little after that. I remember getting really angry and pulling away from my therapist because I didn’t want to hurt her. I came back holding a black crayon. Not a surprising choice at all. Black is my color of choice when it comes to anger. I wish I remember what I colored. Maybe it will come to me later. Does my therapist keep these things? Does she have a folder with these monstrosities I create in therapy? My God, how embarrassing. I need to stop.

No more therapy.

Some exhaustion, some progress, and some reluctance to acknowledge my reality

~ KJ ~ Leave a comment

I know I haven’t blogged in quite a few days, which is not the norm for me.

I started my second out-of-the-house job this week. There are some days that I leave my house at 5:30 in the morning to work at my first job and won’t get home until 10:30 or 11 o’clock at night when I finish my second job. It doesn’t leave me with much time for anything, but we’ll see how long I can function like this before having a total meltdown (because let’s face it, one is bound to happen). I take my laptop with me so I am able to work on my blogs in the two-hour gap between jobs. I’m also in the middle of grad school applications, trying to figure out how to write my essay and who to get letters of recommendation from. So, yea, it’s been a little hectic to say the least.

On top of all of that, I have really been trying to take steps towards managing my DID. My therapist and I have been working on finding healthier ways for Anna and Charlie to let out their tension and anger. I had no concept of how ‘normal’ children do this, so I cheated and used Google. I decided that Play Doh would be good for Anna. She can squish it, throw it, rip it up…do whatever she wants with it. It’s age appropriate for her. Charlie was more difficult. As I was writing an e-mail to my therapist about it, I wrote “I think the only thing that would make Charlie feel any better is to hit something, but that’s not healthy.” My therapist then followed up with a suggestion for a literal punching bag. It made sense. I didn’t even think of it. So, after my shift yesterday, I went to a sporting goods store to look and see what they had. I ended up walking out with a free-standing heavy bag (which works, so I won’t have to hang anything from anywhere), gloves, and hand wraps. By the time I lugged that thing home on two buses plus a mile walk, I was exhausted. I still made myself put it together, though. It took me a couple of hours, but I did it. I may have pushed myself a little too hard, but I hope that Charlie knows that I did it for him. Heck, I might even use it myself.

Once I got everything cleaned up last night, I sat on my bed and looked around my room. I thought to myself how perplexing this room would look to a stranger. Coloring books and crayons in one corner. A nightstand with a tower of psychology books and books on DID right next to some canisters of Play Doh. A bed with a floral comforter and an array of stuffed animals resting against the wall. A giant body image poster behind my door, with “HATE” written in bold letters across the face. Paper doggies adorning a tower of totes in one corner. And now, a punching bag in the last corner. How could this all possibly be for one person? All of these items, so different, yet all important to me and my parts.

Now I just need to tell Charlie and Anna that these things are there for them. My therapist told me to just tell them that they’re there when they need them and I just gave her a look. It’s still weird for me to acknowledge having a conversation with something/someone intangible. While I talk to Charlie, it’s always an inner dialogue in my head, never out loud, and never anything complicated. I also feel like telling Anna especially means that I am acknowledging that she exists, and that is hard for me. I know my actions show that I am accepting, or I wouldn’t be going out of my way to make sure Anna and Charlie have what they need. But mentally, there is still a wall there that I am reluctant to break down.

I am hoping that my need to work doesn’t interfere with my need to take care of myself and my parts. I need to be able to know when it’s getting too much for us to handle.