dissociative identity disorder

Dissociation, flashbacks, and suicidal thoughts all wrapped up into one day of therapy.

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

Today was supposed to be a good day.

I told myself I wasn’t going to dissociate today.  I was going to be normal.  I had an iced coffee before therapy, which calmed my nerves and made me less jittery (it also tends to make me sleepy – yes, I am not normal).  It was going to be a good day.

Ha.  Ha ha ha.  Ha ha ha ha.  Why did I think that was possible?  I should have known better.  I mean, therapy started out fine.  I felt okay.  I was comfortable talking about things that had come up over the weekend.  I even brought up how i threw away my old house keys and how my mother used them to keep me under control.  Then the conversation developed into how some mother-daughter sexual abusers tend to be pathological liars.  Yep.  My mother certainly fit that mold.  And you always had to believe everything she said, no matter how wild it was, no matter how wrong it was.  If you defied her truth, you were punished for it.  Eventually I learned to just go along with whatever she said, even though intellectually I knew she was wrong (even at a young age).  I think that’s where my brother and I differ.  He never had the intelligence and know-better to realize her lies were really lies; that’s why he’s still brainwashed, and I’ve been able to take a different path.  I told my therapist I sometimes see my intelligence as a bad thing, because I think understanding so much of what went on hurts more than just living in ignorance.  Then she said if I wasn’t intelligent enough to have those realizations, I would have been brainwashed, and where would I be now?  Still at home, still a victim.  I guess she’s right.

My therapist asked me what things my mother would say that I knew weren’t true.  I told her I didn’t want to think about that.  I was trying to think about anyone else but my mother and her bullshit.  But it wasn’t working.  And the thoughts came.  And then I remembered how she believed I was the devil’s child.  I guess she treated me like one, too.  And I remember reaching an age where I knew the devil couldn’t be my father.  All this time she lied to me.  But it’s like she believed it.  She believed I was evil.  But in reality, I was born from her.  So evil breeds evil, doesn’t it?

And then I went off to dissociation land.  I’m not sure for how long.  It was Anna again.  I guess my therapist convinced her to color instead of scratching her (my?) skin off (thankfully only minimal damage this time).  She drew flowers and a yellow dog.  My therapist asked me if I wanted to keep it, or have her keep it.  I said she should keep it, since Anna likes her better.  I realize now that was kind of a hurtful response towards Anna, but it’s how I felt at the time.  I still feel disconnected with her.  It’s something I am still working on.

Shortly after coming back to reality, I was hit with a flashback.  Out of nowhere.  Why?  Why is this happening now?  I pulled my hood over my face and tried to hide.  My therapist had no idea what was going on.  She sat next to me and tried to comfort me, but I was still hiding in my hood, trying not to cry, trying to find words, trying just to breathe.  Finally she asked if I was having a flashback and I was able to tell her yes.  I was trying to regulate my breathing so I wouldn’t throw myself into a panic.  My therapist was breathing with me.  Despite my efforts, that shit was still in my head.  I didn’t know why.  Why is my mother burning me?  My therapist kept telling me it’s over now, she’s not going to do it again.  In that moment, I was just waiting for her to come through the door and do it again.  I’m a bad child.  Here comes my punishment.

Sometimes I think I fail at therapy.  What if it’s better to just keep all of these things suppressed so I don’t have to deal with them?  What good is this doing?  Therapy ran over two hours, and I missed the bus back home.  So my therapist told me I could wait out in the waiting room until the bus.  She gave me some water, some snacks, and a couple of books to read.  My mind was still out of it, but I felt safe.  Then when it got closer to the time I had to leave, I started to panic again.  I didn’t want to go home and be alone with my thoughts.  Being alone is dangerous.  I went to say goodbye to my therapist and went to give her a hug, and had such mixed feelings.  I literally went from “I can’t hug you anymore” to “Please don’t let go” within 20 seconds.  My mind was racing and I didn’t really know what to do.  She asked me what she could do to help me.  I said I didn’t know.  I said I didn’t want to leave.  So she gave me another book to read and I went and sat back down.

I soon felt myself dissociating again.  I didn’t have the energy to stop it.  I was in a weird place, as if I had gone back to believing I was that evil child that needed to be punished.  And something was telling me I needed to be punished.  But yet part of me was aware of what was going on.  Part of me knew that by going home, I was putting myself at risk.  I knew I would do something dangerous.  I was thinking of different ways I could seriously hurt or kill myself, all of which were fully accessible at home.  So I did what I could to stay out and about.  I even waited in the lobby for another two hours (once my therapist left), going in and out of dissociation (I only know because I saw the marks from me clawing at myself) before I left the building.

I left the house at 9:30 in the morning to get to therapy and didn’t get home until nearly 8 hours later.  But it’s what I needed to do to stay safe.  I’m not the most mentally stable right now, but I’m not where I was before.  Some part of me fights endlessly to live, even when another part insists on my ultimate death.  And here I am, stuck in the middle of the tug-of-war.  This happens all of the time.  I should be used to it by now.  At least I managed to stay out of a hospital (for now).  I do have to e-mail my therapist, though.  She needs to make sure I am safe.  Even though I tell her I’m fine, she knows when I’m really not fine.  I just struggle with describing all the shit that goes through my head all of the time.

Some books for Anna, some books for me.

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

I went to the bookstore for Anna today.

I was exhausted after work, but I knew that it was something that I should do for her.  I walked around the children’s section for a while to see if anything jumped out at me.  They really didn’t have anything with doggies.  Then I found the coloring and activity section.  I saw Press Out Pets book with dogs.  I didn’t know what it was at first, I just saw dogs and picked it up.  Apparently they are like paper dolls, but in dog form.  I thought Anna would like it, so I held onto it.  Then I started sorting through the coloring books trying to find something with doggies.  I thought this task would be a lot easier than it was.  I went through the entire aisle and didn’t find anything with just doggies.  Then I went over it one more time and noticed something that said Paw Patrol.  I guess it’s a cartoon or something.  Perfect.  A coloring book full of doggies.  Anna will love it.  Oddly enough, hidden behind it was a beaten up Sesame Street coloring book that looked like it was from the 90s.  I remembered my therapist mentioning that Anna liked Sesame Street.  So I picked that up, too.  Hopefully Anna will be happy.  Maybe she can help me with the Sesame Street, because aside from Elmo being red, I’m not sure I know anyone else.

I have a short day at work tomorrow, so I am going to spend the rest of the day doing things that Anna would want to do.  Maybe it will help me connect with her.  I don’t really know how this works.  I hope I’m doing this right.  I’m trying.

In an effort to educate myself, I ordered a dozen or so books on DID and dissociation.  What I know is what I’ve learned through psychology courses.  I feel that now since I have it, and that I will be blogging on an open forum about it, I should educate myself as much as possible about it.  How can I expect others to look to me for help when I don’t know what I’m talking about?  I wish I had an alter that liked to read.  THAT would be helpful.

Doggies and flowers

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

Anna made a request today.

She wants to color doggies and flowers.  She told my therapist to tell me that.

Apparently she likes to color.  Which is odd, because I go through periods where I just need to sit down and color.  I haven’t in a while, though.  Luckily for Anna, I packed my crayons and a few coloring books when I moved.  I don’t think I have doggies, but I know I have flowers.  I hope that will be enough to make her happy.

I’m not sure why she came out today.  I really wanted to get through a session without dissociating.  Hell, I want to get through a day without dissociating.  I started to talk about how the past week or so has been very low for me.  I didn’t even get into the increased dissociation, just the emotional numbness, brain fog, and wanting to die.  I find it extremely frustrating/exhausting/confusing how I can be taking so many steps forward, and then within minutes, thoughts of dying take over inside my head.  Then it takes a massive effort to suppress those thoughts and not act on them.  I’m tired.  I don’t have the energy for this.  Why?  Why do I have to go through this all the time?  I told my therapist that no one cares.  Then she asked me if I thought that she didn’t care.  I corrected myself and told her I didn’t want anyone to care.  She asked me why, and I kept telling her it didn’t matter.  The reality is that it is easier to completely self-destruct when you know that no one cares about you anyway.  What scares me is that there are parts of me that believe that no one cares about them; there is nothing to stop them from total self-destruction.

I remember trying to keep myself present, but it was a struggle at that point.  My mind was reaching that clusterfuck stage and I was starting to lose my sense of reality.  I remember my therapist coming to sit next to me and that was it.  When I came back, my therapist was kneeling next to me holding a pillow up to my hands, asking if I was back.  Sometimes it feels like I’m waking up from a dream.  Sometimes it feels like I’m just way too drunk and lose sense of what’s going on.  It’s hard to explain.  I must have been fighting her off somewhat because she joked that I was too strong for her.  Then I saw my hand, swollen and raw.  The blood was still under my fingernails.  I’m sure she was trying her hardest to stop me, but I was a 7 year-old in a 29 year-old’s body.  What was she supposed to do?

I guess Anna is still afraid of talking too much.  My therapist did say that Anna feels like I am ignoring her.  I am ignoring her, I guess.  I don’t even really know her.  I don’t talk to her.  The only way she makes herself known to me is when I find missing patches of skin on my arms; then I know she was here.  How am I supposed to not ignore someone I don’t know?  I’m sorry, Anna.  I’ll try harder, I guess.  I’m still new to this.  I’m still learning.

Wandering in dissociation

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

My therapist was so happy to hear of my small accomplishments over the weekend: spending the day at the movies, going grocery shopping, buying vitamins, and trying carrots for the first time.  I also told her I went to the book store on Sunday and spent hours going through the Psychology section and picking out whatever books interested me.  I even picked up a book on writing and a GRE prep book.  She said it’s all a part of self-care and doing positive things for myself.

Then I told her how I just find places to go because I don’t want to go home.  I told her I didn’t really have a reason not to want to be home, but I just didn’t feel safe there.  Nothing specific happened, although there have been incidents in the past.  My therapist reminded me that even though it may seem physically safe in the moment, it hasn’t been in the past and it hasn’t been an emotionally safe place, either.  I guess I’ve just assumed that any place that is not my family home is a safe place.

Some days I leave the house at 5 AM and don’t get home until dark.  I try to hang around in stores or in public places.  If it’s late, I wander the streets.  Somehow, I always end up home.  Even if I end up in a place I don’t know, I have my phone and can map out a way back home.  I was trying to avoid going into detail because I knew what was coming.  She asked if I was present during all these times.  I looked around the room trying to avoid answering the question.  I didn’t want to get into it.  The truth is I know that I dissociate during those times.  I end up in places and I don’t know how I got there.  But at least I got there in one piece and I’ve been able to get home.  I don’t want to hear how dangerous it is.  Just let me wander.

My dissociation has been a little out of control lately, and I know that.  I took a 40 minute shower yesterday.  I was only present for about five minutes of it.  This morning I dissociated at work, thankfully not long enough for anyone to notice.  One day, I’m not going to be that lucky.

I am hoping the increase is temporary.  I have been under a lot of stress lately.  My anxiety is a little high (and I am sans good anxiety medication), my sleep has been shitty, I’ve been stressing about the new blog opportunity, about my friend issues, and about work.  It’s just a lot.  My mind is on overload.  I became so overwhelmed at therapy yesterday that I just wanted to give up.  I told my therapist I didn’t need therapy anymore.  The truth was that I was exhausted.  I just wanted to cry, but I didn’t even have the energy to do that.  Part of me was giving up.  But another part of me started to fight back.  The battle continues.

Eight Weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

It’s been eight weeks now.  I’m still free.  I’m still alive.

I have bad days.  I have okay days.  I never really have good days, but that’s okay; there’s still time for those.

Physically, I could be better.  I’ve lost over 30 pounds.  I know it’s from a combination of not eating enough and being sick.  It’s not that I can’t afford to lose it, because I can, but that’s a lot to lose in a short period of time.  I’m trying to make a conscious effort to eat, but it’s difficult.  My roommate does her best to try to get me to eat.  She’s even tried to memorize the foods I eat and the foods I absolutely will not touch.  The other night, my roommate’s boyfriend asked if I wanted a garlic knot.  I reluctantly obliged.  He was so genuinely happy that I wanted to eat something that he shouted out in celebration.  Small steps.  I also made a promise to my therapist that I would at least start taking vitamins.  She actually found a vitamin for me that was chewable and non-fruit-flavored, so I have no excuses not to take it.

My foot is feeling a little better.  I’ve been upgraded to a space boot that goes up to my calf.  I’m supposed to wear the boot for at least two more weeks until I go back to the orthopedist again.  I’m also supposed to use crutches, but I was a little rebellious today and decided at the last second to go without.  I did fine.  I walked a lot slower than I would have if I used the crutches, but that’s okay.  But I didn’t fall.  I’m still standing.  The orthopedist mentioned I had quite a few old fractures show on x-ray.  All I could think was yea, I’m sure there are old fractures all over my body.  It’s probably why I have so many issues with bone pain now, and why I have random bone spurs throughout my body.  I guess my body wants to remind me of that pain again.

I had a bit of a meltdown last night.  I had this weekend off of work (which never happens, and will likely never happen again for a long time), so I was planning to go back and visit my very good friends back home (Is it really home?  I don’t know what to call it.).  I had mentioned it to my therapist in yesterday’s session and told her that I worked out all the possible scenarios in my head and it still seemed like it would be more of a positive thing for me.  I miss them more than anything.  Aside from my therapist and my roommate, I am alone here.  I told my friend and he seemed happy.  Then I text my other friend about it.  She said that was great, then she said “so are you visiting your parents?”  My heart sank and I became overwhelmed with emotions.  Why would I visit the very people I ran away from?  It’s not like my friend is not aware of the situation; she knows, though not in detail, what my mother has done to me.  Is that not enough of a reason for me to leave?  Does she not believe me?  I don’t understand it.  I shouldn’t have to justify why I want nothing to do with them.  I feel like she is on their side and not on mine.  I also felt, at that point, that by visiting her, I could be risking my own safety if she told my mother I was coming.

I had so much running through my head last night and couldn’t get myself together, so I e-mailed my therapist.  That in itself is a big step for me, because I rarely if ever reach out when I need it.  She e-mailed me back in the middle of the night.  I checked my e-mail around 3 AM and read her thorough response, and I knew that going back wasn’t the right thing to do.  Ultimately, she said if I had any doubt in my mind about my ability to trust these friends, that it is most important to protect myself and my new life here.  Unfortunately, when I hear/read comments like I did from my friend, my ability to trust that friend becomes damaged.  There is a disconnect somewhere and I don’t know how to fix it.  I can’t make someone understand something they are choosing not to accept.  My therapist told me I need to advocate for myself if this friend continues to play devil’s advocate; if that doesn’t work, the relationship may just not be worth the effort.  I have to put energy into my new life.  I don’t want to have to waste energy in unnecessarily deflecting dangers from my past when they can just as easily be avoided.  It’s sad.  It makes me cry just thinking about it (I’m crying as I type this damn sentence).  But I have to do what’s best for me for once.  It just bothers me that in the end, I’m once again going to look like the shitty person.

It just sucks because I feel alone as it is.  I can’t afford to lose more people.  While I have made a couple new friends, it takes a lot of time and effort to build strong relationships.  I turned down spending time with a friend today because I thought I was going to visit back home, and instead I ended up by myself.  Maybe I needed it.  Who knows.  I’m not really sure what I need.

I’m still having trouble coming to terms with my diagnosis.  I mean, I’m getting there…slowly…reluctantly.  My therapist told me that my prognosis is good.  She could have just been trying to make me feel better.  Who knows.  She said I’m intelligent and functioning; I guess that plays in my favor.  It’d just be so much easier if I didn’t dissociate.  Most ‘normal’ people don’t even understand dissociation.  How are they going to understand me?

Nothing like a little Sunday morning dissociation

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

I couldn’t really think of a title that appropriately summed up my Sunday.  I found it a little humorous, and honestly I have to laugh.  My life is so chaotic, yet I wouldn’t have it any other way.  As much as I am dealing with, I’m getting through it.  I’m learning more about myself, and about my illness every day.

It was 3:30-3:40 in the morning on Sunday when I was startled awake by someone pounding on the door.  I didn’t know who it was.  I only knew what time it was because I immediately looked at my phone.  Then banging got louder.  I went into panic mode, thinking either my mother finally found me, or she sent the police to come get me (she regularly threatened to call the police on me – so while not logical, it’s something that is ingrained in my head).  I don’t remember what happened after that.  What I can tell you is that somehow, I ended up in my closet, where I woke up/came back to reality/whatever you want to call it holding my blanket and my arms covered in scratches.  It was almost an hour and a half later; I heard a commotion outside.  I figured out who it was; thankfully, he was not my mother or the police.  I still felt unsafe and uneasy.  I didn’t find out until later that night that my roommate was not even home when the door-banging occurred; I was completely alone.  Thankfully some part of me had the sense to hide in the closet.

That got me thinking about what made that part of me hide in the closet.  I remember that my mother barricaded our closet doors so that we could not use them.  I always thought that was strange.  Who has closets and blocks them off completely?  Did I used to hide in there and that’s why she closed them off?  I wonder what it would have been like to have a closet.  Would I have been able to hide from her?  I’m sure she would have found me.  She always did.  Like a monster with eyes and ears all around her head, she knew where I was, what I said, what I did.  A closet wouldn’t have protected me.  That’s just silly.

Then again, it makes sense I would hide in a closet.  I still do a lot of things to protect myself that don’t really make much logical sense.  I’ve been doing them since childhood that they’ve become a part of my regular.  I always wear at least two pairs of underwear, sometimes even three pairs.  Does it make sense?  No.  That extra pair isn’t going to protect me.  But as a child, I’m sure I thought it was going to help.  I also always wear multiple layers of clothing, even in the summer, even if it makes me sweat.  Extra clothing makes me feel more protected and less vulnerable.  Maybe she won’t make me undress if it’s too much to take off.  Most embarrassing of all is my habit of stuffing myself with toilet paper.  I remember doing it as young as 8.  I thought if I could just block that whole area with toilet paper, she wouldn’t be able to touch me anymore; she wouldn’t be able to hurt me.  I created a literal barrier between her and my genitals.  It was so uncomfortable, but I wanted her to stop.  Of course it didn’t work.  She caught on.  I still did it, but not every day; only when I was feeling especially vulnerable.  Even in my adolescence and adulthood, when I had (and have) and ability to say no, I still find myself doing the same thing when I am feeling especially vulnerable or re-traumatized in some way.

As far as I’ve come, I am still very much a traumatized child living inside a traumatized adult.

Progressing in therapy

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

I sat here debating whether “progressing” was an appropriate word to describe my experience in therapy.  I’m still not 100% sure, but I’m going to go with it anyway.

I look forward to therapy, while at the same time have some fear about what might happen.  Sometimes our sessions are an hour.  Sometimes they are a couple of hours.  You can never really tell how it will end up.  I’m still going twice a week; that won’t change any time soon.  I also e-mail my therapist between sessions to check in; sometimes she even gives me homework (I’m making a face right now just thinking about it).  But it works for us.

My therapist is amazing.  I’m pretty sure she gets me.  Sometimes she doesn’t know whether I am being genuine or sarcastic – I consider that my talent (with anyone, not just her).  But she’s really smart and knows her shit, even when it’s random shit.  I e-mailed her last night to tell her that I had eaten a potato (it had been three days since I had eaten) and she e-mailed me back this morning comparing my choice of eating a potato to Carol Rogers’ description of human actualization, in which he compared the process to that of a potato, which will strive to grow in the most unfavorable, sunless, earthless conditions; with nourishment and sunlight, in the right environment, it can become what it is meant to be.  While some people might think that was weird, I quite adore Carl Rogers and I am a psychology nerd, so I enjoy random facts like that.  It made my day.  She’s also very in tune with my needs and knows my limits.  And she gives me a hug after every session and tells me all the positive things I’m doing, even though I don’t believe all of them.

Therapy has been a little slow because I’ve had so many issues come up that we haven’t had much time to begin to process the MDSA.  Yesterday was the first time we actually started.  It wasn’t much; we watched the first part of a documentary (less than 10 minutes) and then stopped it to discuss.  Before we watched it, my therapist prepared me for how we should deal with whatever would happen.  If I needed to take a break, to tell her I needed a break.  Then she asked me if I were to dissociate, did I want her to bring me back right away or could she keep me in that state?  My mind just went blank.  I’ve spent years learning about DID and dissociative disorders.  I never once thought I would have to be making these decisions for myself.  Everything is different when it’s something you experience.

The documentary part wasn’t anything tremendously difficult.  What stood out to me the most was one of the women in the documentary saying how her mother made her out to be the crazy one.  That was just…exactly my life.  Then talking about that progressed into my use of the word crazy, and how my mother liked to use that word to describe me to everybody…and here I was using it myself.  It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?

I’m not entirely clear on how the rest of therapy went.  I remember my financial issues being brought up again.  I remember mentioning how I didn’t want to turn into my parents, depending on others for support.  I really don’t remember much else.  I came back from a long dissociation wrapped in a blanket, holding a stuffed lion, with my arm red and bleeding.  I don’t even know how I ended up there, or what happened while I was out.  She just told me I was hurting myself.  All I could do was apologize.  Why can’t I have happy dissociations that are all about sunshine and rainbows instead of bouts of self-destruction?  It also sucks that I can’t remember.  I just want to remember.  My therapist insists that I’m making progress and taking steps forward.  I just don’t know.  I see dissociating as a failure.  I guess I got by before because I wasn’t so acutely aware of it as I am now because now I have someone pointing it out.

I was feeling a little down about what happened in therapy.  I feel like we hugged forever because I didn’t want to let go.  As I was writing her the check, I asked what the date was (I am horrible about keeping track of the date).  When she told me, I remembered that the date was also my parents’ anniversary.  Without thinking, I said “Oh, that’s my parents’ anniversary.  I hope they die in a fire.”  I realized what came out of my mouth, but before I could feel bad about it, my therapist actually validated what I said.  She didn’t tell me what a horrible thing it was to think or say; she sort of, indirectly, agreed.  What a great feeling that was.  For once, I didn’t feel bad about wanting those evil people to die.  Unfortunately, I don’t think they died in a fire.  Yet.  There’s still time.

When I got home last night and melted into my bed, I looked at my arm where I had scratched myself hours before.  Then I realized something.  This was something I had done before.  I remember as a child, I would scratch my skin raw.  I had to go to the doctor to make sure it wasn’t a contagious disease; it wasn’t contagious…it wasn’t an obvious allergy…the doctors weren’t really sure what caused it.  It happened regularly throughout my childhood and even as a teenager and occasionally as an adult.  Sometimes I would wake up with my skin like that, so I assumed I would scratch in my sleep.  No one ever really made an issue out of it.  And now I’m sitting here wondering if there is a connection.  Could I have dissociated that young?  And why the hell would I scratch my skin off?  What is wrong with me?

Why am I so unstable?

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

I accomplished something today.

Then it all went downhill from there.

I was sitting in a coffee shop before my therapy appointment.  I looked up from the table and noticed a vehicle parked right outside.  The vehicle was the exact same make and model of my family’s vehicle, the same color, everything.  I immediately went into panic mode, put my head down and hid behind my bag.  I closed my eyes, as if that would protect me from anyone seeing who I really was.  I started talking to myself, trying to rationalize with my logical half that the likelihood that this was in fact my family was just too small.  But my panic wouldn’t have it.

I sat there for five minutes struggling to breathe, wanting to crawl inside myself and hide.  Continuing the conversation with myself, I eventually arrived at the logical conclusion to look at the license plate.  I peeked out from my self-made protective cocoon to make out the last half of the plate, and realized that it was not the same vehicle.  Then I started to calm myself down.  I brought myself back from an episode of panic.  It may have taken some time, but I did it.

Then I went to therapy.  I was still a little shaken up from the prior incident and I told her that, but I also told her how I managed to overcome what could have turned into a disaster.  Then I talked about my incident on the bus the other day.  Then I’m not sure where the conversation went because I don’t remember much after that.

Apparently I dissociated.  I really wish I could know when the hell it’s going to happen.  I really wish I could know what happens.  I came back to my therapist sitting next to me, holding my hands and asking if I was me.  Of course I was me, who else would I be?  Then I asked her what happened.  She asked me if I remembered anything.  I didn’t.  My memory sucks in general.  I don’t even remember what I typed at the beginning of this post.  Then she told me what happened.  How the tone in my voice changed.  How she had to hold my hands down because I kept trying to hurt myself.  How I resisted her holding me.  There was clearly an angry part of me that decided to show up today.  I wish it didn’t.  Now all I feel is embarrassment over how I acted.  Part of me doesn’t even want to go back to therapy.  Then part of me is wondering what else I have done to people and I don’t even remember doing it.

There’s no more room for doubts now.  My therapist began asking about how I viewed my parts, if I had named them, etc.  I turned my head away and tried to hold back tears.  She asked me what was going through my head, and all I could say was “I don’t want to be crazy.”  I think she may forbid me from using that “c” word from now on.  I use it a lot.  She said a lot of reassuring things, but it was difficult for me to take.  She told these parts are what helped me survive. They helped keep me alive. I don’t know. This whole diagnosis is hard for me to accept.  I need time.