disillusionment

i am a coward. maybe. 

in my room i have a wooden box full of things i do not want to have to look at but cannot let go of, for various reasons. things that scare me. a cubic foot of terror. 

inside the box there are things that remind me of the one intrinsic truth about myself: i am afraid to be alone. i am not uncomfortable with loneliness; i accept that i must be lonely sometimes in order to really know how to be connected with others. no, i am afraid of being alone because, for me, to be alone is to be myself, and i do not understand what that means yet.

if i knew then maybe, just maybe, i would understand.

i'm sick of being a coward simply because i say i am. so i reach into the box. i push my hand past various pictures and a pair of white sunglasses and couple of armbands from mesa vista and several loose pieces of paper, and i stop at a composition book. clutched in my hand, it feels alright, so i take it out and close the box. for now.

my name is scrawled on the front of the notebook. it was given to me upon an admission to the mesa vista intensive care unit. i decide to open it up; i run my thumb along the edge, landing on a page somewhere in the middle. i let the book fall open in my hands and look down. inside is a message from another inpatient:

"without joy or misery i give you hope"

i gladly accept this gift. i close the notebook and place it back in the terrible box and leave my room and live.

in a world of my own

This morning I woke up and told myself I am a normal person. There is nothing wrong with me, I said firmly,  and out loud. In fact, I reasoned to the room, my affliction is that I am cursed with some sort of super-sanity.  Unrecognized by those who surround me, the ones who are actually painfully unstable, I am often made out to be the crazy one. Which is just untrue.

I probably would have believed myself, too, if I hadn't spent the entire day tucked into the ceiling watching my every move from above.

Depersonalization is one of my favorite symptoms. If taken in the right mindset, it can be fairly amusing, like playing a third-person video game, only with less control of the avatar. It's healthy to remove oneself from one's self occasionally. The important thing is to not get confused.

Because look:

I am watching myself look into a mirror. I am not looking at my reflection; I am looking at myself look at my reflection. So basically I am operating through an external frame of reference. Which leads me to the question, which "me" is really me, the observer or the physical body? And is there even a difference? Certainly there must be some distinction, because the body I know to be me is right there, living as if nothing is any different than when I was in there. And then there's me, disengaged from my physical tie to life, wondering what the hell is going on.

I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't really matter, either way. An overactive sense of self-awareness is   not so bad, right? And pondering these things is what makes people crazy, after all.   So I figure as long as I keep my separate selves in close proximity I can hold on to the delusion that I have some sort of control.

In my world I'm such a star I get to watch the movie of my own life. In real time.

Actually, I'm not a star; I am a fucking constellation.

my future's so bright...

Progress.

It has been a week of self-exploration. Honestly, I do not know what the result of all this will be, what the end looks like. I hate trying to stop and figure things out; I am too impatient for that. Anyway, maybe to know would be too limiting. And I have been on kind of a roll lately.

Things are feeling less like a mescaline trip gone wrong. I am reaching a level of clarity that surpasses anything I have previously known. That is not to say that the problem has ceased; I still dissociate. I have a feeling it will be a long time until I can stay in my own head completely. But what has been helping me is recognizing the advancements I make every day no matter how trivial, and not letting regressions discourage me. Sometimes we all slip, and that is okay.

Maybe my new found optimism is due to all the support I have been receiving from my family and friends. Maybe my confidence and self-assurance has increased as I have been actively applying the skills I have been taught in "real" situations now. Maybe something just finally clicked, and I can see that there really are infinite possibilities. 

I used to find it hard to accept the reality of my situation. I thought that if I wanted something badly enough it would be so, and thus wasted a lot of time thinking fantastically. But this is true, in some sense; things are what you make them. While I cannot will myself simply to be different, I can choose how I approach life. And if I choose to act with fierce hopefulness, not even I can stand in my own way. My future's so bright....

truth.

Wednesday. Yes, it's Wednesday, and yes, it will be for several more lifetimes. For several more Top 40 Hits reverberating through my neighbor's open window, at least. I can never escape the trappings of pop culture. 

I am exhausted. Throughout the past year I have had to explain myself so much it makes me sick. I do not want to think anymore. I just want to be able to feel, and I want that to be enough. At this point I can't tell if there are a million thoughts screaming at me, or none. I'm not sure if I am achingly miserable or blissfully content; either one could make sense right now. I just am, I suppose.

The problem is that there has been too much noise in my head lately. I have grown so tired of it that I've somehow managed to dissociate myself from it all. While this makes some sense, I still feel a bit confused and somewhat frustrated. I try to remember to live "in the moment", but recently every moment feels like an eternity. 

I am too awake to sleep. Too tired to dream.

When I was 10 one of my neighbors was growing habanero peppers in his window sill. They looked so beautiful. I knew they must be special, sitting in the sun, slowly turning  a brilliant orange. They looked so alive. Vibrant. I wanted one desperately, and begged my neighbor to let me taste one, just one bite. He eventually obliged, no doubt happily anticipating the moment it touched my lips and decimated my taste buds for a week. I still remember that bite, everything about it. I remember exactly how the piquancy felt, the shock and pain and heat, and I remember how grounded I was right then. I was thrust into simply feeling, being. Sensations.

I could attend cognitive therapy today and every day for the rest of my life until I am no more, spending countless hours analyzing my thoughts and trying to retrain patterns, but the fact is, no therapist can teach me how to feel something. Real, honest experiences are the only thing that will save me.

requiem for what was

I sit outside and gaze at a spectacular tree in the front yard of my oldest friend's former house. It is a grand sight, an enormous old thing with great, expansive branches. I sit and I watch cascading beams of sunlight fall through its many leaves. I sit and I think back to when I would climb the long branches, sometimes spending an entire day held in its arms. There I would pass the time with my friend, feeling like I belonged, feeling happy.

I sit and I think back to when my imagination was not used for the sinister purpose of blocking memories from my mind, but to make everything magical. And when magical thinking meant innocent fantasies and dreams instead of desperate scenes of do-overs that I wantwantwant! with all my heart. I sit and I remember when everything I felt was genuine and nothing I did needed a purpose and the only thing that mattered was having fun. And it was so easy to be me because there was only me.

I sit and remember, and also I realize that I will never climb that tree again. I will never sit, supported by the aged branches, talking or not talking to my friend and feeling so complete. While I am not strictly okay with that, I accept it for what it is. Probably I have forgotten how to, anyway. Things will never be as easy as they were.

will you level with me? lovelovelove, anna

"Tra la! It's May!

The lusty month of May

That lovely month when ev'ryone goes

blissfully astray."

It happens. I live my life everyday going through the motions, doing the things I normally do, and then suddenly I realize how dysfunctional I have become. Sometimes I will have thought I was doing so well;  I do not notice when this happens until things reach a desperate level, usually. Like, say, when the entire month of May is lost to me. Maybe I just need a little more attention to detail.

Sometimes it is funny. I will find that "I've" done or said things that, while wildly uncharacteristic of the self I identify with, are simply fantastic. Other times I will find evidence recounting horrific or embarrassing occurrences. I suppose that as long as I don't wind up in a 5150 things are okay.   

Multiples aside, I am just like the average absent-minded schmuck. Or maybe a blackout drunk. But really though, we all lose things, and everyone dissociates to some degree sometimes (day dreaming, for instance, is a mild form). The truth is that anyone can relate to my symptoms. I, along with anyone else with DID, just take things to an alarming extreme. 

Really, the problem lies in the time loss. It isn't exactly safe to dissociate while behind the wheel, now, is it? Although, does anyone honestly remember every moment of his or her morning commute? Things that are so routinely familiar, so simplistic and trivial are often faded out of our minds, replaced by more pleasant thoughts, or maybe anxieties about approaching events, or maybe just blankness. This is normal. Losing an afternoon to an alternate with self-harm tendencies is not.

I will bypass the heavier issues for now. The thing is, each time I dissociate, I lose a little bit of my life. And if I am not living my life, what is the point? Every day I get a little stronger, I learn something.

where was i, again?

This past week I have heard dissociative identity disorder (referred to, of course, as 'multiple personalities') being explained as everything from symptoms of schizophrenia to demon possession to a flat out make-believe condition. Apart from providing me with a much needed laugh, these misconceptions of the disorder I struggle with on an everyday basis reminded me of how important it is for the people who are affected by this condition to share our stories, to show our perspectives. The stigma of mental illness only grows stronger as these blindly misinformed, ignorant speculations circulate without correction. At least hear my side.

I was not born like this. No one is born with DID. I was, however, born with a propensity to dissociate, being both an avoider and a highly creative individual. DID, unlike conditions such as schizophrenia or depression, which can be linked to genetics or chemical imbalances and treated with various medications, is most often trauma-induced, a direct reaction to an incident or incidents, and is primarily a method of coping with unwanted memories. No, I was not born like this, but from as early as I can remember dissociation has been the answer to many issues in my life.

I do not believe that anyone who personally knows someone with DID can endorse the idea that it is a fake condition. Alters, apart from leaving their mark via journaling, purchases, speeding tickets, scars, and a slew of tangible evidence, also have somatic proof of existence. From varying gaits, facial expressions, hand gestures, voice intonation, even blood pressures, scientific research has proven that it is indeed possible to share one's body. I personally have an alter with better eyesight than I possess, as far-fetched (and unfair) as it seems. When I call Linda I can tell in approximately four seconds if I am talking to her or an alter based solely on her voice inflection. Once it is properly addressed, dissociative identity disorder is much easier to pick up on.

The thing to remember is that the condition really changes nothing. I am still me, and chances are, as long as you have known me, I have been affected. I choose now to come forward and confront this in the hope that others will do the same, and together we can help to efface the much outdated view of what it means to live with DID. We can all be of tremendous support for one another; no longer should we have to feel isolated by our struggles. I do, indeed, get by with a little help from my friends.

on integration

It is a sad thing, to lose a friend.

I am the kind of person who just absolutely hates when things come to an end. Finishing a book can throw me into a depression. The finale of a television series I've enjoyed for its duration can destroy my world. Even the last drag of a cigarette incites an almost unbearable discomfort (ok, this one probably has more to do with my addiction than the loss). The end of something can provoke in me indignation to rival a two year old's tantrum. 

If I am to be honest with myself, I fear integration- the point in which all of the multiples join together with the host to form one whole, fully decompartmentalized person. This, in part, is due to an apprehension to say goodbye to the people who have been more closely involved in my life than anyone else ever could. Such a concept, additionally, implies a level of stability I have never known. 

The more I learn about my personalities, and about myself, I can see that at some point we will have nothing further to say to each other. Survival is becoming less difficult for me now than it was in the past, and it will, eventually, be time to fully accept and embrace the different aspects of myself. Dissociation is for me, in many ways, very convenient. I am by nature an avoider, and a spectacular one at that. Integration includes changing deeply ingrained behaviors and cognitions. It means feeling things I perhaps have never fully felt, accepting a higher level of responsibility and control of my life, being accountable for every single thing I do and say. This is scary stuff.

The ultimate goal of integration is, truthfully, still far off; after all, I am still discovering fragments of myself. One day everything will be different. My relationship to myself, to the world, to people around me, these things will be more real, more fulfilling when I am no longer just half-formed people having half-formed thoughts.

rose tints my world

The clock reads 7:45. My eyes snap open and I jump out of bed with a sharp gasp. Sometimes it can be difficult to remember that the monsters in my dreams cannot follow me into the waking world. Panic. I try to take deep, calming  breaths. I blink. The clock now says it is past noon. I think, that can't be right. I blink. The clock still says it is past noon. I think, which is broken, me or the clock?

I have lost my morning to the autonomonster. She refuses to distinguish herself from me; ask her to tell you her name, and you will be berated for inquiring at all, before she spits out an irate "Anna". She lives by a set of self-governed rules, independent of societal norms and morals. She conducts herself with the air of a defiant teen, and has no regard for consequences. With a proclivity for visceral experiences, the autonomonster is a spectacular liability, and her excursions into my mind almost always have calamitous results.

Today the autonomonster spent my morning destroying possessions of mine. Journals dating from years back, letters from old friends, various paintings and sketches lay scattered across the floor, torn and destroyed. As I stare at the detritus at my feet, the sad remains of my deepest secrets and thoughts and emotions, I wonder why. At first I curse her for this roguery, as tears of dejection well up in my eyes and my throat constricts. As I begin to sift through the relics with a slouching resignation, however, I have to wonder about the value I hold in these items, these raw glimpses of particular moments in my history. How much does my identity depend on them? And with an epiphanic jolt I realize that she has freed me from the erroneous belief that I am not anyone except who I am in this moment.


I pop on my rose tinted glasses and accept that spring cleaning has, apparently, begun.

more humbling than a bummed cigarette

Sometimes I feel as if I'm forever waiting until the next time I won't be myself. Projections of fear, anxiety, frustration litter my head, the way my matchsticks litter the ground around me. I'm waiting for my cigarette to end so I can light up another one. Another drag, what a drag. With the cigarette on my lips, I think: this is the most action I'll get all day.

But also...

Right now I can feel Her thoughts, I can hear Her voice, softer than mine, more apprehensive. My vision changes; I see the surrounding environment the way She sees it. It's happening in flashes. Right now gently, almost lovingly, she is sidling into my mind. She is helping me forget, She is pushing me away, and I'm ok with that. Right now I feel the tensing of my muscles, the quickening of my heart beat, secretions from the sudoriferous glands on my hands.  These are Her preparations for the distress She will endure for me. 

I try to formulate the last complete thoughts I will have as myself, as Anna, but it might be too late. At this point it's just a matter of time before I disengage entirely. Right now She has a strong hold on me.

She doesn't know much about anything really real. She looks through a snow globe, through plastic. And god, She hates plastic. But it's everywhere, and She's enclosed in it. I'm engrossed in Her little world because we share it, and I've grown somewhat fond of the little thing.

Two different clocks tick at two different seconds- ticktick ticktick titick titick ttick

they call me 'ms. creativity'

My name is Anna. I am twenty one years old, and I share my body, my life, with other people.  Some people talk to hear their own voice; I talk to find out whose voice I hear. I have dissociative identity disorder, one of the most misunderstood conditions in the field of mental health. In the hopes of raising awareness, of lessening the sense of isolation, I will share my experience with anyone willing to know more.

My life is full of confusion, uncertainty. Time lapses and contradictions and the occasional fit. Very few people are willing to understand and accept all facets of ME, and those who do are inexpressibly special to me. While not everyone will or should be subjected to the nastier parts of my selves, I think it's time to come forward with the basics.

DID is portrayed as a very black-and-white condition, a Jekyll and Hyde (or Tyler Durden and Jack, for that matter) case of good versus evil fighting in one body. In reality, dissociation is complex, a truly remarkable means of coping, or perhaps more accurately, avoidance. They call me 'Ms. Creativity', presumably to credit the highly imaginative degree of elusion I have crafted. My alters are each unique and voluminous, and have comprehensive personalities complete with a full range of emotions and individual needs and desires.

I am still struggling to better understand all the aspects of living with dissociative identity disorder, and refuse to do so in solitude. DID is very real, and it's more common than one would assume. Its impact reaches more than just the individuals affected. I hope this endeavor will help bring truth to what it really means to live with DID.