*Content warning for mention of abuse without detail and mention of a weapon. Please always prioritize taking care of yourselves*
Sitting watching particles of dust dancing in pillars of filtered sunlight, I feel like I could stay in this spot forever and never move. While the week behind me remains lost in the clutter splashed throughout my tangled thoughts, and the rest of the week stretches dauntingly ahead of me, I realize it’s rarely if ever quiet. And when it is quiet, it’s wholly disorienting.
There’s a steady stream of comments, conversations, static, noise, music or any combination thereof filling my head at any given moment. I can be removed from the proverbial driver’s seat of my body, relegated to the passenger or back seat in an instant, without warning. From those passive seats, I watch words I’d never choose tumble out of my mouth inevitably creating the need for some sort of awkward repair. Other times, an invigorating presence steps to the forefront, navigating complex situations with ease, grace and a sprinkle of humor. Life with DID is reminiscent of Forrest Gump’s infamous words, “… like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.”
The internal dialogue from and between parts can be as captivating as it can be frustrating. Sometimes the intrusive comments are endearing, creating a swell of compassion that would rival the tide in any major storm. Other times, the comments are so hilarious I have to bite the inside of my cheek to ensure I don’t burst out in fits of laughter at some inopportune moment. Still other times, they distract from critical tasks necessitating a Herculean effort to refocus and fly under the radar undetected. I’ve had times where I’ve wondered where strings of smart sounding words woven together in a brilliant tapestry of prose have come from. Other times I’ve longed for a word, any word at all, to appear from my vacant lips that long to communicate but are locked in silence. I’ve been embarrassed, confused, humiliated, frustrated, impressed as fuck and utterly exhausted by the flurry of activity and unpredictability that is life with dissociative identities.
There was a time it all worked seamlessly. Clutching my lunch bag and books as I bounded up the black ridged steps into the flashing yellow school bus, I never worried much about what would happen when. I accepted that when I got on that school bus and sat down, who I was changed dramatically. Friends plopped down next to me and suddenly words flowed like water cascading down a mountain stream in springtime. Ghost stories were all the rage in elementary school. While locked inside, I was mesmerized by the words that streamed out of our mouth crafting the most entertaining stories that kept friends on the edge of their seats. I didn’t know where the stories came from, or who was telling them, but I liked it when she showed up and took over on the bus each day.
Maneuvering through the tight rows of tiny desks, I’d stop to perch precariously on the hard pink plastic seat, oblivious to the pain that filled my body. Impressed by the words that spilled from my lips, flawlessly answering the teacher’s questions that peppered the room. I didn’t know where those words came from either. Later in the day, sitting on my bedroom floor, writing essays for homework, I was awestruck by how perfectly words I’d never heard before positioned themselves in sentences. I’d check their meaning in the dictionary. How does an 8-year-old know words like engendered? I didn’t know. I accepted gifts of words that fell from the universe and the girl that arrived to write them for me. I would often reread what she wrote, admiring her skill while hoping to engrave her words in my memory.
I never understood how it all worked. I just knew I was different. Who I was at home was not who I was at my cousins was not who I was at school was not who I was with friends. None allowed to mingle with another. As I got older, the iterations grew. The fiery, fast running warrior who fought back, could be suddenly replaced by the calculating gladiator who worked tirelessly to outsmart her predators. Neither of them ever won, of course, but they were steadfast in their resolve to survive. Whether staring down barrels of guns, cold metal pressed against lips, ropes burning wrists in the blur of multiple daily assaults, parts always stepped forward to figure it out. The secrets all guarded tighter than armored Brinks cars. No one was allowed in. At times, not even me.
Life grew more complicated. It’s odd how violence lurks in the most unexpected places. The 4.0 GPA belied the unbridled violence that occurred in barns, bedrooms, kitchens, fields, woods, cars, sheds and seemingly everywhere. Survival was an Olympic event. The 5-year-old who taught herself not to cry after years of terror and pain never once mingled with the 17-year-old who walked stoically despite immobilizing agony. They didn’t know each other existed, let alone that they played on the same team. Together, with the others, they got us through. Time became more nebulous, our memory blurrier. Each part operating beautifully within the confines of the box it was relegated to.
Throughout life, we regularly got in trouble for things we swore we didn’t do, which in turn only compounded the consequences. Lying was a sin after all. The problem was that I wasn’t lying. Transitory consolation came in fleeting thoughts that the truth would be revealed in the afterlife when the accuser would see I was honest.
One evening, after some devastating circumstance led to a rare show of tears at 13 years old, the phone rang. Answering it, I found my best friend on the other end. In an instant, something viscerally clicked into place. Tears dissolved into laughter and stories of middle school lunch table mischief. The schoolgirl arrived in my kitchen, seemingly beamed in through some Star Trek variety portal. Jarred back into the kitchen when our mother yanked the phone from our hands, slamming it onto the cradle screaming accusations and insults as the noise in my head grew ever louder. Crying inconsolably one moment and laughing the next didn’t make sense to her. Therefore, we must an Academy Award caliber actress.
I quite literally lived to turn 18 years old. I decided when I was 6 and could no longer manage all the physical, sexual and emotional abuse, that 18 years old was when I would go to college and finally be free. “She has the brightest future ahead of her with limitless potential for success.” “Easily the most talented student I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching,” teacher recommendations were stunningly positive, raving about our academic performance and boundless potential. They weren’t talking about me, the girl so dirty a vat of boiling water couldn’t sterilize all the filth. They referenced someone else entirely.
When 18 finally arrived, we fell head over heels in love with a boy whose chocolate brown eyes twinkled brighter than Sirius. His thick sinewy biceps caught us in the safest embrace that felt like the only home we’d ever known. In February, just four months after turning 18, fueled by alcohol induced rage and insatiable desire, he helped himself to everything he wanted. Something broke in us that night. After waiting our whole entire life to be free, as we lay pinned and torn, we realized we were anything but. As his violence grew, he joined the ranks of our other predators. Yet he was different: his arms could still feel like home.
The inevitable descent into unsalvageable self-destruction and utter chaos began as the well-oiled machine that kept everything on track began to break down. Starvation, medical crises, lost time, self-injury, risky behavior, and wild adventures countered and distracted from the continued assaults. We still hear stories of things we did back then. They are things that, quite frankly, I would never do. Like a three-ring circus dropping acid gone mad, it all spun wildly out of control. For many years. Harrowing hospital stays provided welcome shelter from the daily abuse, but inflicted its own breed of abuse and subsequent trauma. The hospital days solidified for me the fact that no human should ever have full control over another human being. Especially a vulnerable one. Removing agency from and abusing someone, while dismissing their protests and reports as invalid due to mental illness birthed a whole new kind of mistrust and helplessness.
Slowly, the machine began to repair and mobilize itself again. Between the sanctioned abuse cloaked behind hospital walls, a familial abuser reemerged, and resumed his relentless stalking and assaults. The fact that we were married to someone by then failed to deter him. Appearing on highways, back entrances, and in our home. He was everywhere. Eight more years devoted to sheer survival that eventually culminated in the anticlimactic plea bargain that followed the lead prosecutor’s heart attack that left no one able to try the case that had dragged on for so long. A convicted felon of the wrong class, sex offender counseling without registry and a 20 year no contact order of protection as a consolation prize for turning my life upside down. Again.
An internal door slammed shut. Like closing up a summer home, windows sealed, blinds drawn, shutters fastened, doors triple locked…like some catastrophic power outage, everything went dark and silent. A savvy, hyper-focused part with a penchant for overworking emerged from the darkness. For 15 years, she maintained unyielding control. A shell of my selves, while the walls remained so thick and high there was little hope of ever knowing what lay behind them… until a pandemic issued the first crack in the walls. Then, peering through the crack, like a child who lost their baseball behind the neighbor’s fence, we began to see…
By sharing pieces of our experiences, we hope that others can feel less alone. Perhaps there is something that sounds familiar that offers a glimpse of clarity. By risking opening up we can begin to shine a light that dissolves shame and begins to help us all appreciate the brain’s brilliantly creative way of ensuring survival through inconceivable atrocities. We can show that this mechanism of survival does not preclude anyone from making meaningful contributions in our profession or society. Bringing back compassion and tolerance for differences while pouring love back into the world catalyzes healing.
I am so deeply and lovingly impacted by this and the other earlier blog posts (I am bing reading!) that I struggle to bring out adequate words to express myself. Your sharing is helping. Thank you.
🙏