Who? Me?
If you have visited my start page recently, you probably noticed the addition of some SiteRings having to do with MPD and DID. What do those initials stand for?
MPD = Multiple Personality Disorder
DID = Dissociative Identity Disorder
MPD is that disorder we're probably all familiar with from having read the book or seen the movie, "All About Eve", about a woman who switches from being one person to another. This diagnosis has fallen out of favor lately because it is far too narrow to cover all aspects of the disorder.
DID looks much the same as MPD when seen from the outside, but the person experiencing the disorder sees the manifestation much differently. DID is the disorder that best describes the condition as I experienced it.
Both disorders start early in life and are defenses to make an intolerable situation, tolerable. It seems the brain is already "hard-wired" for this mechanism because it is common to persons suffering severe childhood abuse and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), although not every abuse survivor experiences it.
My memories go waaay back. My earliest corroborated memory is from 18 months, but I remember earlier than that, even. I remember when the baby picture on my start page was taken -- I remember the dress, I remember a little bonnet they tried to make me wear but which I objected to because it hurt -- it was starched and ruffled, and the ruffled seams scratched my head. The picture on the opening page and the hand-tinted one in the chapter
"Ugly, Fat, and Weird" were taken the same day.
I don't know why I have such a long memory. I've read that a person's event-memory starts when they become verbal, but I don't believe that; I believe it starts with the first memorable event -- either traumatic or happy. At least, that's where mine seems to have started. I remember sitting in my high-chair at five or six months old and wanting a drink of water but being unable to communicate this need to Elaine. She had no experience with babies since she was the youngest in her family and not much more than a child herself. When I would cry or fuss, she knew I wanted something but didn't know what. So, to get my needs met, I started talking early. I can remember that process. I remember that I understood adults before I could form the words myself; that I thought I was saying words when the adults were apparently hearing gibberish. The first word I remember saying was "water". I very carefully pronounced "water"; whether it came out as "water" or something like "wa-wa", I have no idea, but I got my drink of water.
I have a flash-memory from even earlier than that. I am lying in a crib; there's lots of activity around me, a lot of noise. A boy of about three or four years old is standing at the foot of my little bed making faces at me, and I am laughing. Elaine told me I was three months old when she "adopted" me, and this memory seems to come from just about that time. I believe it is a recall of my "first life" with my natural family. I also remember an old man waving his arms around and shouting "Get rid of the goddamn Indian brats!", and I believe that is why Leona's "litter" was put up for adoption (see my chapter,
"TWO Birthdays?!").
The change in families was a traumatic event in my life. I went from being "just the youngest child" to an overly-coddled, mishandled baby. Elaine told me that she never let me out of her sight: even when she was doing dishes, I was propped up in a baby chair on the counter. When I was sleeping, she kept me in a little bed with rollers that she pulled around with her. All of a sudden, I had no privacy. It seemed like I was always being aimlessly poked at and prodded, never had any peace and quiet. Elaine was uncomfortable with me, and I knew it.
Dissociative Identity Disorder
What Does It Feel Like?
I am standing at a file cabinet in the office where I work, talking to my co-workers. I am prattling along, saying much more than I want to say, talking longer than I want to talk. I am outside myself, watching this, knowing I want to stop talking. I can't grab hold, I can't stop. I can only watch. I am frustrated, embarrased, and ashamed. I feel like I am six years old.
I am aware that my co-workers are looking at me strangely -- they are as aware as I that I am gabbing along much longer than is necessary. I finally manage to "join myself" and stop, but it is a struggle. I feel confused and angry at myself. I turn and walk into my own office and try to re-orient to the "real" world.
---
I am driving to work and stop at a stop sign. I look to my left and, since there is no traffic coming, I start to accelerate around the corner. When I look forward, I slam on my brakes because there's a wall in front of me. It's the wall of my office building and I have pulled my car into my usual parking space.
I try to explain what just happened to me and am told, "Oh, that happens to everyone! You know, you drive to work and don't notice where you're going, you're sort of off in another world." There is no way I can convince them that this was different, that I had done that same thing -- but this was not that, in a blink of an eye I went from turning a corner to the wall being there.
---
These are two aspects of DID as I experienced it. The stop sign incident was several years earlier than the "talking too much" incident and at two different jobs, but I chose to put "talking too much" first because it was my most common type of experience. The stop-sign involved the much less common fugue state where, basically, the ego steps out from the self for a while; the talking incident is the dissociative state with the ego being an observer, from which the disorder gets its name.
The Fugue State
It's a given that I existed between accelerating from the stop sign to pulling into my parking space, and that I was able to drive to work. But "I" wasn't there. It wasn't "Me" who drove. I am thankful that the part of me who DID drive, knew how. That was't always the case. Once, I had an accident.
It was winter in Alaska, and I was, again, stopped at an intersection. The next thing I knew, my car was nose-down in the ditch on the other side. As best as I can figure, I had stepped on the gas too hard and skidded across the road. Fortunately, neither my passenger nor I were injured.
---
I hated the last full-time job I had before my retirement. I liked the type of work I did, but I hated the environment and for the first time in my career, I didn't get along with ANY of my co-workers. It was also during this time that I started my recovery process, so I was under considerable, almost constant, stress. During this time, I experienced many fugue states.
One manifestation was that I was always late for work. Every morning, I "lost" 20 minutes, no matter what I did. I tried getting up earlier -- still lost enough time to make me late for work. I would get dressed, fix my lunch, and be ready to leave, then notice it was 20 minutes later than it should be (it was always 20 minutes -- I have no idea why). I remember one time glancing at the clock just before I tied my shoe, making the bow, then glancing at the clock again -- the 20 minutes had passed while I was tying that one shoe.
I have no idea what I was doing for those lost 20 minutes -- they are gone. I imagine that I must have "frozen in time" because there was no sense of discontinuity. I lived alone at the time (the fugues seldom happened when I was with someone else), but to an outside observer it must have looked like I had turned to stone for those 20 minutes.
The Dissociative State and Integration
Am I who I am?
Whereas during "fugues" my ego was not conscious, during dissociations I was aware of my surroundings, the passage of time, and my ego was conscious. However, my ego was outside myself, an observer, not a participant in what I was doing or felt. Perhaps "ego" isn't the "correct" technical term, but is that part of myself that is ME. The "I" of "myselves".
All of us have "parts of ourself" that make up our personality, who we are. Sometimes, the "parts" are at odds; for instance a "part of myself" might hate getting up in the morning, but another "part of myself" knows that it is necessary. Usually these parts are integrated into a whole -- sort of like a pie which has been sliced but not removed from the pie plate; it's still recognizable as a pie. But in fragmented, or dissociated, personalities, not only is the pie sliced, it has been put on plates and served.
Using this same analogy, the "ego" would be the pie plate that holds the pie; the "personality" (or "I") the different slices.
Although I am "integrated" now -- nearly all my slices are in the pie plate -- that wasn't the case for most of my life. I was frequently watching the parts of me doing "its thing" almost as though I didn't have control over my own actions, like some stranger had taken over my body and was using it. I called this "shifting". If I needed to write something I would "shift" into the part of myself who knew how, but surprisingly the part of me that could express what I wanted to write didn't always know how to type and would have to use longhand (which may or may not have looked like the longhand I'd used that morning) or would produce a page so full of typos as to be practically unreadable. If I needed to organize my work, I would shift into my "organizer self" who could put it in order but couldn't do the work. There was a definite transition from one shift to another. "Organizer" didn't know how to cross stitch, but would organize the thread and materials very efficiently. But when I started to stitch, "Organizer" would pick up the needle and thread and, literally, not know what to do with them, not even that she was supposed to thread the needle. I would have to shift to a part of myself that did know how to proceed. All of this shifting was done without conscious effort -- I would look at the needle and thread and not know what they were; the next second I would.
During my therapy I wrote an analogy for how I saw myself. It went like this:
"I am sitting in front of a machine with lots of levers. Over the machine is a movie screen, or window, showing the outside world. My job is to pull the right lever for the appropriate response. I have to remember to push the active lever to "off" before I pull another one. Sometimes, though, things are happening too fast and I leave too many levers "on" and things get really confusing."
My therapist asked me the names of my "selves", but they didn't have names like "Jackie", "Rose", or "John". Their names were descriptive. There was "Organizer" who only organized things, she made lists or labeled file folders, then "went away". "Censor" listened to everything I was about to say and put it in a tactful manner and deleted "dirty" words. "Censor" was present for just about as long as I can remember and led to my first seeking psychiatric help way back in my 20's (unsuccessful). It produced a process I called "double-think": it felt as though my words were pushed through a filter and I had two thoughts at the same time, one thinking "Say this" and the other thinking "Good God no! Say this". "Smoker" and "Non-Smoker" were also parts -- to stop smoking, all I had to do was shift from "Smoker" to "Non-Smoker" and could quit on a dime. Now that I'm integrated, it's not so easy anymore. Ah, well, win some, lose some.
There were lots of other "parts of me", and the eerie thing was, if I listened I could "overhear" them talking to each other in my head. It wasn't like "hearing voices" is commonly perceived to be, but more like the radio being on in another room; I could choose to listen or not. I could also choose to carry on a conversation with these parts, either individually or collectively. These "conversations" didn't take place until quite late in my therapy and were a major tool in my recovery and integration.
The most influential "person in my head" was someone I called "Goddess". She was very wise, very nurturing, witty, and aware of everything. She seldom gave me a direct answer, but she would give me hints and/or the tools to find the answer myself. I sort of miss her now that she's "gone" and when I'm stressed will sometimes try to reopen our dialog. I can hear her voice at those times, but she isn't "real" anymore. I know that she is an integral part of myself and not a separate "person". But do you know what the really great thing about this is? I now realize that this wise, nurturing, witty, and aware person is "Me". Just as "Organizer" and "Censor" and "Naughty Little Girl" et al., are "Me".
Today
Every once in a while I still find a little lost slice of pie which I pick up and put back in the pie plate. There are one or two still "out there" I am aware of but can't find. It took me 50 years to even realize that my ego was split into parts, I can't expect to find ALL the pieces in just 14. I can live with that; it's just part of the adventure that is my life.
I still suffer from depression, which is chemical mostly and aggravated by stress and diet. However, I don't take an antidepressant anymore and I seem to be handling my life pretty well without one. I get impatient and downright angry sometimes, but that is part of the human condition.
I play a lot. I indulge myself. I have found an untapped well of creativity. And the Internet, which has been a Godsend.
I don't worry about being "different" anymore. We are ALL of us different in our own individual ways. I am not ashamed. I have found an openness and honesty in myself I never knew existed.
I am also lucky. When the time was right and I was ready for it, I was able to find both the internal and external resources to grow, to integrate, and to get to know myself. I was ready for the work -- and pain -- to begin to understand who and what I am, and most importantly, to find the road I traveled to get here.
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