DID

Sleep

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’ve gotten four hours of sleep since Saturday. My head hurts. My brain hurts. My body is weak.

I just ate two packets of sugar in hopes that it will get me through work today. I have a video blog due tomorrow that I don’t even think I can do because I don’t want to go home.

I’m contemplating sneaking in the movie theatre this afternoon just so I can take a nap in peace. At least the seats are comfortable there. At this point, I could probably sleep anywhere. Even the hospital sounds more comfortable and safe than home.

Part of me feels like this is all punishment for running away. She always did say we could never live without her. But on a deeper level, I know that’s not the truth.

My inside is in chaos right now. They are scared as much as I am. They don’t understand it. I’ve failed to protect them once again.

Failure.

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.

Group workshop

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I had a group therapy workshop today for my survivor group.

I wish I could have been fully there, but I wasn’t.

I hadn’t slept much the night before. I was fighting off the urge to self-destruct. There was so much commotion going on inside and I couldn’t quiet it down enough to sleep. Before I knew it, it was 4 AM and I had to get up for work. Then the commotion decided to quiet down. I managed to make it through the disastrous work day (everything that could go wrong, went wrong), changed my clothes, and caught the bus to make it to group just in time.

I made it through the first session okay. The next session was a mess. One of the therapists made a statement that no one is 100% evil, and that set something off. The commotion came back. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t even come up with answers. My therapist came over to check on me, but I told her I was okay. I wasn’t. I must have been drifting because she came back with a cup of water and told me to drink. I didn’t want to drink. I wanted the clusterfuck in my head to go away.

We had a break after session and the other therapist told me to stand up and walk around to help get me back to the present. I walked out to the waiting area and my therapist came out and checked on me. I told her I was fine (my default response to any question asking how I am doing). But she knew I wasn’t. She saw me struggling. I told her the voices were back and calling me evil, but that I was just going to ignore them. Then she reminded me that ignoring them hasn’t worked in the past, it only makes them worse.

My therapist didn’t think I was ready to go back to group, so I ended up missing most of the next group session talking to her one-on-one. She told me that I should tell the inside that they can be heard tomorrow during our therapy session, but that right now I had something really important I needed to focus on to help us all get better. I’m not very good at communicating with the inside. I tend to respond out of anger and frustration or ignore them because I just don’t have the energy to negotiate. I also still have trouble acknowledging that I am conversing with intangible parts that exist in my head. How does this not make me crazy?

I eventually went back to session, but my focus still wasn’t there. I was going in and out of it. I was feeling very negative overall and I didn’t want to share my negativity with the group. I couldn’t even think anymore. I just wanted some peace. I just wanted to go to sleep. All I could feel was the nausea that has become so normal for me. I couldn’t even connect to my own body. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to feel anything. I didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that my mother still affects me. I didn’t want to acknowledge that my mother broke me as a child and completely shattered me as an adult.

We ended the group with coloring. Normally I love coloring. This time, I couldn’t get myself to enjoy it. It was too mentally draining. I ended up coloring in a picture of flowers with the word HOPE in the middle. I colored it black, the least hopeful color there is. I don’t even know why I did it. The therapist noticed and asked me about the reason for my color choice, and I shrugged my shoulders. If I could, I would have colored everything black right then.

As I was making sure I had everything before I left, the therapist came out and handed me the coloring set she got for us to color with in the last session. She told me she wanted me to have it. She knew my financial situation isn’t the best. It was such a small gesture but extremely difficult for me to accept. I don’t like receiving help from anyone. That wasn’t the end of it, either. I was so overwhelmed with everything – the session, the gestures of kindness – that when the therapist gave me a hug, I just started to cry. I tried to keep it in, but I couldn’t. I stood there, crying and sniffling into her shoulder as she tried to comfort me. I tried to wipe my tears away before anyone else saw me. Then my therapist came over and asked to hug me and I lost it again. I was such an emotional mess, I was shaking. I had to let go and leave before I completely broke down.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t know where I wanted to go. But it was getting late and I knew it was dangerous for me to be walking around in the dark half out of it, so I walked home.

I’m still an emotional mess. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. I want to cry, but I’m too tired. I’m hungry, but the nausea is so bad that I can’t eat.

This is another example of how my life changes day by day. I was functioning fine yesterday. Today has been a train wreck. Now I have to see how therapy goes tomorrow. I almost considered not going because I just don’t want to deal right now. But deep down, I know avoiding will get me nowhere.

15 weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

I actually had to check my previous blog posts this time to check which week I’m on.

I’ve gotten myself into a routine here. I no longer need to use Google Maps to figure out where I’m going. I know where all of the bus stops are and what times the buses come each day. I wave to the jogger who passes me by each morning as I walk to the bus stop. I go to a coffee shop every morning before work, order the same coffee (small, iced, black), and read a book (either something by Carl Jung or a book on DID). On days I have therapy, I leave my house a couple of hours before my appointment so I can walk around town. I stop in Dunkin Donuts to pick up my coffee (this time with milk and sugar) and people watch for a half an hour before finally going to therapy. I see many of the same people stopping in week after week, and they see me. A few people have even stopped by my table to talk to me, and I engage in polite conversation.

I walk more now that the weather is cooler. I walk looking ahead of me instead of at the ground. I walk past stores and buildings (the library, the Brazilian market, the craft store) and envision myself going in one day. My anxiety still prevents me from being too spontaneous. I still plan and prepare myself for any new experience, but at least I get myself to the point of letting the experience happen. Before, I was so shut off from everything. But not now.

I’m starting to feel like I belong here. While my living situation isn’t optimal, everything else is more than okay. I haven’t met one person here who hasn’t accepted me for who I am. I don’t have to concern myself with anyone being fed bullshit by my mother because my mother isn’t here. I can finally be myself. And people really seem to like who I am.

It’s almost weird to me to have people think so positively of me. At work, I’ve been receiving outstanding performance reviews. Even on days when I’ve only gotten a couple of hours of sleep the night before or I’m feeling like I want to cry, I still manage to get my work done. I still manage to make my coworkers laugh and smile. I get through it. It’s such a different experience from what I had back home. My therapist suggested that perhaps the difference is because I am not in an environment with my mother. That anxiety and fear are not there. I’m not having to run damage control on any of my coworkers because of something my mother has said about me. I never realized it before, but my therapist was right. Even though I didn’t work side-by-side with my mother, her presence there and her influence on my coworkers affected me. I was always on alert; I had to be.

It’s so difficult to be my own person when up until 15 weeks ago, I wasn’t allowed to be anything. I still think others see more potential in me than I do myself. While I have made some progress, I still find myself stuck in some ways by the effects of my mother’s brainwashing. When I receive compliments, I awkwardly laugh or tell the person they are wrong. My mother’s negative portrayal of me still resides in my head. Compliments feel as if they go against everything I’ve lived with for the last 29 years. But that’s because they do. It’s so fucked up that instead of seeing compliments and positive statements as a normal, acceptable part of life, my mind believes the opposite. Negative comments and criticism are so easily taken in because that has been my norm for so long. Anything else is foreign to me.

Things will get easier in time. Do I wish things were easier now? Sure. I wish I could up and move somewhere I feel safe and secure. But I can’t right now. Do I wish I could work a regular 9-5 job so I could earn more money? Sure. But right now I need to continue my work in therapy, and that requires a decent portion of my time during the week that I can’t give up right now. For once, I have to be the priority in my life. I can’t function in work, in school, or in life without working through all of the shit I’ve dealt with up until 15 weeks ago. I’ve accepted that.

I’ve done a great job at appearing to be alright. A person at work, who knows just a few basic parts of my struggle, told me he would have never known all that I deal with because I seem so normal. While not the best choice of words, I knew exactly what he meant. I don’t want people to know how I am feeling. I even try to hide my emotion from my therapist; I’ve rarely cried in front of her, even though there have been so many times when I just wanted to break down. I have to appear strong and put together. I don’t want people to know my weaknesses. Maybe if I appear strong, I will eventually actually be strong.

I’m taking it one day at a time.

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.

Why didn’t she just kill me?

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

Today was another long therapy session. I really just wanted a normal session. I think that’s what I want every time, and it rarely works out that way.

I mentioned the incident that occurred a few nights earlier. My therapist asked me what happened and I explained in detail. I stared at the floor as I told her everything, still ashamed of my reaction that night. Just talking about it was difficult for me. This isn’t the first difficult situation I’ve been in at home. It’s been a concern for my therapist, but I keep insisting that I can make it through.

This was by far the worst yet in terms of the after effects. I was a mess for days. My therapist asked me whose fault I thought it was. I told her it was my fault. I left home. I came here. I moved into this house. Now I have to deal with it. My issues are not her fault. Everything is my fault.

I was struggling to stay present and my struggle was apparent, because my therapist said she could see that it was difficult for me to stay present and suggested we color some coloring pages. I obliged, of course. I noticed myself getting frustrated more than usual over the simple act of coloring. I couldn’t find the right color, so I’d sit there and stare at the box of crayons agonizing over what color to pick as if it were the most important decision of my day. Maybe I just didn’t want to think about anything else. I don’t know.

We started talking about my financial difficulties, and about getting into grad school to help ease the burden. Then she looked up the application on her computer and all of the requirements I needed: the four-question essay, the letters of recommendation, the GRE (which I never took). Nothing is overly complicated but I just don’t have the mental energy to deal with it right now. I don’t have much time (less than 6 weeks) before the application must be completed. My therapist asked if I’d want to take session time to go through some of the things and she can help me with getting everything done. I told her I didn’t know. I was really thinking that if I needed help just getting the application done, I probably don’t belong in grad school. Conflicting.

I was getting frustrated so I tried to change the subject. I talked about a recent conversation with someone close to me, and how it changed how it made me feel towards them. My therapist delved into it more, and started asking why I felt the way I did. I told her I didn’t have much of a choice; I need this person because I don’t have anyone else. I left my family. I’m alone now. Then my therapist tried to remind me that I left my abusive family, the people who hurt me for so long. I told her it wasn’t that bad. I told her I could have just been stronger. I abandoned them.

I started to feel anger building up inside of me. I stopped coloring, clenched my fists so tightly that my nails dug into my skin, and stared at the floor, trying not to think about anything. I didn’t want to feel anything.  Go away, feelings.

My therapist came over to sit next to me and asked me what I was feeling. I told her I was angry. Then she asked who I was angry with. I told her I was angry at myself. It’s a common theme for me. I turn my feelings inward. She told me that it was okay to be angry at the people who deserve it. I told her it’s not okay to be angry. She asked why. I told her that anger hurts people. In my mind, I associate anger with abuse. I don’t want to be angry with anyone because I don’t want to end up hurting them. I don’t want to turn into my mother. She told me that anger is a perfectly acceptable feeling; it didn’t mean that I was going to hurt someone, and it didn’t mean that feeling wasn’t right. She told me I have reason to be angry. I can still be angry at the people in my life who failed to protect me, even though they may have apologized for their wrongs. I can be angry at my family, at my father and mother. She tried to tell me there was nothing wrong with feeling angry.

By this time, the anger was building up even more. My hands were still clenched and shaking. My therapist insisted on holding my hand. I told her I didn’t want to hurt her. She said it was okay, she can handle it…to let her take on some of my anger. I just wanted to punch something. I needed a release. I don’t want to feel anger. I don’t want to feel anger towards my mother. But I felt some of my anger being redirected towards her and I couldn’t take it back. Then I said it. The question that has plagued me for years.

“Why didn’t she just kill me?”

“Your mother?” She asked, though it really needed no clarification.

I told her I didn’t understand why anyone would make someone suffer like that for so long. Why didn’t my mother just kill me? She wouldn’t have had to put any more effort into torturing me. It would have been easier for us both. I wouldn’t have to be suffering now. For so many birthdays, I wished for death. But not for her death, for my own. I was never so concerned with anger towards her as I was in ending my suffering.

I felt myself starting to cry, so I turned away until I could push my feelings back down. This is why I didn’t want to feel anger towards her. Once you open that box, it’s hard to close it back up. I don’t want to unleash all of that anger. I don’t have time to unleash all of that anger. I don’t even understand my anger. It goes against everything people are supposed to feel.  People are supposed to feel grateful to their parents for giving them life. So why am I feeling anger that my mother chose to bring me into this world? My feelings don’t compute. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel. Feeling angry with her only makes me feel worse about myself.

I hate feelings.

I hate her.

I hate me.

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.

13 weeks (and one less job)

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I’ve made it 13 weeks. Thirteen grueling weeks.

I spent most of today laying in bed, and by most, I mean I just got out of bed about 10 minutes ago. I was that physically and mentally exhausted. I should be at work right now, but I can’t work there any more. I made it three days before I realized what a bad decision it was.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the physical demands of the job. The job itself was easy; probably a little too easy. It was a popular baby store. It didn’t even cross my mind that there would ever be an issue for me. My therapist asked me before I started the job if I was sure being in that environment wasn’t going to be triggering to me. I didn’t think it was, so I brushed it off as a non-issue. I didn’t have any problems the first day because I was in the back doing training. The second day was slow and I was kind of out of it a little, but I bounced back. Yesterday was a nightmare. I lost complete control. I couldn’t stop crying; it got so bad sometimes I had to run to the bathroom. The nausea was so intense, I thought for sure I was going to puke. I felt like I was floating away. I don’t even think I heard half of what was going on, I was just trying so hard to make it through the night. It is exhausting trying to stay grounded for a few minutes. Imagine trying to stay grounded for a few hours.

When I finally made it home, I broke down completely. I couldn’t stop crying. I could barely open my eyes because my face was so swollen. I couldn’t handle being bombarded with all of these happy families, with mothers proudly holding their babies and toddlers. What happened to me that my mother hated me so much from the start? What did I do that these children didn’t? Why did I miss out? I won’t ever be able to experience what it’s like to be loved by a mother, or even by a family. And now I was being constantly reminded of it every few minutes at work. It just wasn’t going to work out.

My roommate heard me crying and made me open the door. By this time it was well after 11 o’clock at night. I was so exhausted, which just made me cry even more. My roommate tried to comfort me. She told me I didn’t have to work there if it was going to mess up all of the progress I’ve made (what progress?). She said I wasn’t a failure if I quit. But I wasn’t having it. Still crying. She took me outside for some air and a cigarette (smoking used to be one of the few things that calmed my nerves before I quit). We tried to figure out the best way to go about it. She said she would go there for me and explain everything if I wanted her to. Instead, she called me out of work today just so I could have a day to think. I was finally able to stop crying, or it could have just been that I ran out of tears. We came inside and she told me to stay and watch a movie to clear my head a little bit.

By 1:30, I had been awake more than 21 hours and I knew I couldn’t fight it anymore, so I went upstairs. I checked my e-mail and saw that my therapist had e-mailed me back. I e-mailed her in the middle of my breakdown out of desperation. I must say, it’s a privilege not only to have a therapist who willingly deals with my shit, but also one who answers e-mails at 1 o’clock in the morning. Some of the things she wrote were the same things my roommate was trying to tell me. She wrote that it is not a failure to admit that this work isn’t the best place for me right now, and that I’m still grieving the loss of the family I never had.

“Success is not rigidly adhering to a plan that is not working.  Your mental health is more important than that particular job, and for you, I would count a decision to value yourself and your healing process as a success. There are other jobs you can take.  There is only one Crystalie, and she is worth protecting.”

I’m still having trouble seeing this as a success. I’ve never had to quit a job before, let alone quit one like this with no notice. I don’t even think I can tell them face-to-face because I will just break down again. I considered writing a note and slipping it under the door tomorrow while the store is closed so I don’t have to see anyone. I just don’t want anyone to hold it against me. I don’t expect them to understand. I don’t expect anyone to understand. I don’t even understand it myself. Things like this shouldn’t bother me. I shouldn’t have to leave a job because I can’t mentally handle being there. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I should be.

So now I need to reassess my life once again. I am going to take a couple of weeks and figure out what the hell I can do to survive, because this isn’t going to work long-term. I absolutely refuse assistance of any kind. I am capable of working. I am capable of supporting myself. I don’t want help. I just want to be normal. I want to be able to experience the world without experiencing a flashback, or a breakdown, or dissociation.

My heart hurts more than anything right now.

I just want the pain to go away.

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.