Living or dying in the safety of my bed

For a little over 17 months I have stayed most of my days in the safety of my bed. I don’t know how this happened. It was not a conscious decision on my part, but it has served to protect me from a sometimes scary world and dangerous people.

I didn’t always think this way. I am guessing the calamity of traumatic and stressful events in my life led me here. My brain was no longer the brain I was used to.

I was like the newly paralyzed person telling my legs and body to move, and it would refuse. Or, I was bargaining with myself that I would get up and walk for 15 minutes tomorrow if I didn’t have to do it today. Those tomorrows never met their end of the deal.

This starring at the wall or into nothingness is going to kill me if I do not figure out how to live out of my bed.

My body is wasting away literally. I am out of breath with the slightest movement. My body hurts when it is used now.

I pray I can get my mental health and health back before my life is taken from me. I want to live and see my children grow up. I worry I have taken it too far this time, though I still don’t know how to get myself out of bed.

Hoping for answers and solutions soon.

Peace

This is what PTSD can look like 


Mommy has her PTSD this morning. Ever since a surgical procedure involving anesthesia last month, mommy has been getting PTSD symptoms a lot.

My PTSD has changed over the years for the worse, or maybe I am just more aware of what it does to my body when it comes around.

Noises tend to be my biggest everyday trigger to get it going. I don’t know why this is, but it is. This is not the best combination lately with my 5 year old son.

My son is loud. A lot. Just as you would expect him to be, meaning nothing out of the ordinary.

Today I was really tired and wanted to sleep in, but my son gets up early everyday. His older sister was hanging out with him in our play room. Of course today he chose to get on a video game.

I feel guilty, but my son’s sounds of acting out the game and loudly announcing his wins had me terrified. I know it is just my son playing a video game, and I am home safe in my bed, but some part of me processes it differently.

I feel terrified, like someone is about to kill me. My stomach and entire body begins to feel sickly as hormones are being released to deal with the “danger” of the noise. Except, there is no work or response for the body to use the hormones, so they just build in my body.

I wish I could stop this reaction. I think of taking a pill, but quickly realize there is no pill that is going to make me numb to the noise– short of taking a pill that will knock me out for the day. That’s not an option.

My spouse comes home from her walk with a friend. I tell her the truth that our son is triggering my PTSD. She knows I seem scared and wants to do something. She finally decides to take him out to play.

I feel better now, but I know my spouse is tiring of my various symptoms of mental illness. I worry she will come back from one of her walks and tell me she just can’t do it any more. 

I understand. I can only imagine the burden I have become. Sometimes love is not enough. And sometimes I imagine I have become too much.

silent agony

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I am at such a wtf am I going to do moment. I can’t get out of bed, except sometimes to take care of my kids in my house and to go to therapy appointments. This has been going on for bloody 17 months.

I am not getting better. Sometimes I desperately want to get better, other times I hear inside that staying in bed is better and I shouldn’t try to change it.

I hate that my wife is so confused about what to do. Sometimes I think she wants to leave me, and I don’t blame her. Sometimes I want her to leave me so I do not have to be judged and can just stay in bed with no one trying to change me or feel bad for me.

But then I remember my kids. Shit, I just can’t abandon them. They need me. I wish they didn’t so I could leave this planet. I love them so much, but I lay in pain so much too.

It is a cruel joke that I have survived in life. I am definitely not living. I am holding on to parenting my kids mostly from inside my bedroom or the house.

No one understands how hard it is for me to get up and shower and eat dinner with them.

I know this is some kind of anxiety. I M probably terrified people are going to hurt me outside the house. I have a lot of recent experience with that.

My mind tells my body to get up and take a shower and do something normal. My body just ignores me and lays in my bed.

I am literally wasting away in this bed. I am getting older and don’t have much life yet, so I don’t understand why I am doing this. Oh, an insider says I am punishing  myself for the therapist who abandoned me.

So many reasons. Not sure it even matters anymore now. I hate for my children to see me in bed, and wonder what they think of me.

My pain is raw. Yet I am also numb. This is why my suicide switch keeps flickering. The answer is there, but the insiders won’t agree so we languish in silent agony.

A Decade Lost


I never had a true suicidal thought until I was 21. Sure, in my teens I did plenty of things that looked like they were unconscious, wreck less suicidal behaviors, butnit really wasn’t conscious.

I’ll never forget when I first started having true suicidal thoughts and feelings. My life up to then was always extremely busy, and I was not the type of person who stopped to smell the roses. Then one day, it was Spring of my Senior year in college and my life came to a screeching halt. 

I suddenly found myself sitting on the benches of my beautiful undergraduate college and just staring at the trees and watching all the happy people walk by.

I had no idea what was happening, but I turned into someone else overnight, and my first response was to hide it from my closest friends. None of them knew I was circling the drain moreso as each day went by.

I was so confused. I had everything going for me and I was overwhelmed with sadness, depression, anxiety, and a desire to die. Where was this coming from? What was happening?

I went to college prior to the internet, so I had nowhere to turn to to learn I was having a Major Depressive episode. 

Though I don’t remember how, I did manage to find help through a wonderful therapist and psychiatrist who provided me with great care and concern.

The irony was I was living next to a private psychiatric hospital, and used to watch the patienrs down the hill as I walked my dog on the path of my apartment complex. Maybe I knew I would be one of them one day.

I was thrust from never having a suicidal thought to having them everyday. It’s a big change in your brain to make that switch.

Fortunately for me, I found help, and this was pre-managed care, so the hospital kept me for about six months until I was kind of better.

True to my frequent Identity shifts, I left that hospital and went back to the major city I was supposed to live in post college, and moved into my condominium I had purchased just before things went South for me. Oddly, I walked right over to the private psychiatric hospital in town with the best reputation and got a job there much to everyone’s puzzlement. I already had a contract signed with a major corporation for a job I accepted pre-breakdown.

It turned out what I had learned for my myself in the hospital all that time turned me into a great mental health clinician, who could truly empathize with the patients I worked with.

I was good at that job, and loved working with the patients and co-workers. It felt like home to me. 

Unfortunately, as time went by and I continued in therapy, my life slowly started to unravel in the most curious way. I started realizing I lost time, couldn’t remember my childhood, had a fake relationship with my family, and had voices in my head frequently talking to me, and eventually taking control of my body.

I was privileged to be in the right place at the right time, so I didn’t have to wait the typical 7 years to get correctly diagnosed. I went to a reputable DID specialist who worked at the same hospital to find out what I suspected, I had DID.

The revelation of the DID seemed to cause my life to unravel even quicker. Sadly, I eventually became a patient at the dissociative disorder unit at the hospital I was working at. And from there, a decade of my life was lost to the mental health system. A decade I can never get back, and is mostly lost to dissociative amnesia.

The indifferent therapist who ruined me


There is a woman who lives just about a mile from my house who I have so far allowed to ruin my life.
She is not a lover, or anything so exciting as that. She was my first therapist after my 13 year hiatus from the mental health community.

From the first moment I spoke to her on the phone about a possible appointment with her, she touched my mommy transference button. Not because she was so nice, but because she was indifferent as to whether I came for help or not.

I came in to meet this woman for a ridiculous fee, and she told me I wouldn’t succeed with the first therapist I picked because my DID was too much of a problem. When we talked about me possibly seeing her, she was again indifferent. My mommy transference was triggered again.

I ended up coming to see this woman as my therapist, and it was the craziest, most emotionally dysregulating relationship in my adult life. She saw her indifference as empowering me. It destroyed me instead.

I had always been a person who didn’t need anyone. I can go to the movies or dinner alone and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I love being alone. But she was different.

Her indifference throughout our relationship of whether I was dead or alive propelled me so far into transference land that I couldn’t let go. I needed to do this “mom do-over” correctly, so that she would care about me, or at the very least care whether I lived or died.

As each day passed on, our relationship became more destabilizing to the both of us, though she probably wouldn’t admit that.

She has a need to be the perfect, expert DID therapist in town, so she would never want anyone to think she was less than perfect. Neat, orderly, perfect, and sometimes cold as ice.

I was still obsessed with making this relationship work, even though I started going to an anonymous bar after every therapy appointment with her. I felt suicidal most days over feelings I had toward her, or perceived feelings she had toward me.

I became obsessed with her abandoning me. Sometimes paralyzed by it. We spent endless hours talking about the subject, so I became very clear about her rules of when she would abandon me. She said she would have to abandon me if I ever tried to kill myself, which is kind of a ridiculous rule to have for someone who is DID, but I agreed to it.  She promised that she would never abruptly abandon me, and that if it ever needed to happen, I would know far in advance and it would be a slow, gradual transition to a new therapist.

My protector parts had much more insight than me and my younger parts because we were so attached to her. They listened to exactly what she revealed about herself as her weaknesses, and acted on them.

We were suicidal and we told her we needed to go inpatient. She told us she would help, and she didn’t. The next session we told her again, and begged her to call the admissions coordinator, and she didn’t. This was interpreted by us that she wanted us to kill herself, and we couldn’t bare the callousness of her not caring. What other rational explanation could there be.

That evening when we had given up all hope that she was going to help us, we went to a bar and had two beers. We spoke to her on the phone and refused to tell her where we were because we didn’t want the police to show up in our small town. I offered to walk home since I wasn’t far from it and live in a fairly safe area. She wouldn’t allow it. I ended up driving because I was really ok to do so, and couldn’t leave my car in the parking lot.

She had told us before that she had no tolerance for people who were drinking, and people who were seriously suicidal. The therapist became triggered.

I flew out that night on my own, from my own decision, to a treatment center for people with DID, and spoke with her the next morning. I asked her if she was going to leave me over this, and she promised she wasn’t and that “it is nowhere on my radar screen.”

After entering the treatment center and more and more time was going by and I hadn’t heard from her, I knew she had lied. I knew she wanted out. She didn’t have the courage to tell me this herself. She finally came up with this long list of nonsense that were new requirements to continue treatment with her. She knew my protectors would never go for the list as it was just too ridiculous.

At first my protectors rightfully said no thank you. Then I panicked in a huge way and begged her to stay, and agreed to all her conditions, and she wouldn’t allow it. She told me I needed to listen to my protectors. She gave us three referrals and that was it. Only one of the referrals agreed to see me when I got back into to town, but after she spoke with this previous therapist, she literally backed out of agreeing to see me.

I must have interviewed 20 therapists who said they treated DID. At least half were nut jobs, and the other half were either not good fits or nice people who were extremely inexperienced.

I received in the mail a certified letter from the therapist containing all the SuperBills from the year before that I had requested the year before, and the 3 useless referrals. In other words, she was trying to cover her ass.

I called her and wrote her and begged her to either talk to me or help me find a therapist. She never talked to me again. She left me for dead, which is actually meant to be literal. She is no different than my biological mom.

In my entire life, I never begged someone to act like a human being and just help me by doing something as simple as calling me so I could understand what happened.

That was 17 months ago. And even though I did find a good therapist, and realized my relationship with the first was extremely bad for me for various reasons (primarily because we were triggering each other nonstop, though she would never admit that), I haven’t been able to leave my bed other than to go to an appointment for 17 months now, and there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight. I have also developed several health problems over this 17 months.

Today, we do see her across a parking lot from time to time. Depending on the day, sometimes I think of running her down, other days I realize she is just another imperfect human being and care nothing about her. My little ones inside still want her to be their mother, even though we try to explain why she wouldn’t be a good mother for us.

Some days we still cry over the loss of her, and more often, for what she did to us. In the end, we didn’t mean anything to her, and she didn’t care if we lived or died as long as she was clear of any potential law suits. She truly had become my mother in many ways, but when you are mental health provider you have all the power to ruin someone by simply saying they are borderline and extremely difficult. Doesn’t matter if that has any basis in reality. It enables her to protect her do-gooder image, no matter if it destroys me.

I don’t know when, if ever, we will be functional enough to get out of bed and live our lives again.

We know we shouldn’t let this severely less than perfect person wreck our lives, but we truly feel ruined and have no insight on how to move out of this condition. It is so hard to forgive someone who betrays your trust on this level, and then makes it your fault. Narcissism.

I am all for therapists taking care of themselves, and if she needed out, she needed to get out. But, this should have been balanced with my welfare, my chance at survival, and maybe an explanation for what was happening. I am actually a fairly reasonable and forgiving person to those who know me. I don’t know that I will ever forgive her, not that she cares.

So, this has left me bedridden and missing out on my life. I am sad about this tonight, but I haven’t been able to figure out what to do to make it any better. I guess my horrible luck in life continues on.

There are days when I want to kill her, but those are rare and I choose to think of killing myself instead. Either way, without a doubt, she has killed an important part of me already with no remorse. Yet, another very difficult fact to accept into my life.

It is scary to think sometimes the helpers are sicker than the patients. Ah, but to admit so would be bad for the profession, so no one will be admitting that here. The helper is always right, no matter how much baggage she secretly carries.

Please pray that one day I will find my way out of what has become a very imperfect life for me. I deeply appreciate the stranger therapists, who were in the business for the right reason, and tried their best to help me because they cared about human life.

Failing my children


I don’t care that I am failing myself, but I am so utterly disappointed in myself that I am failing my children as much as I am.

I have mostly been living in bed for the past 16 months (another, longer story on how that happened). This is my safe place. The place I never want to leave. 

Even when I want to get up and be “normal” and do something in life, the others inside me hold me in place so we don’t leave the bed so we can stay safe.

My children are young, and they see me in bed everyday. Even when I am having a good day and get out, it is exhausting but I use every ounce of energy I have to try to be normal for my kids.

I hate myself when I miss their events because I know I won’t get these moments back to do over. Yet, I stay in bed as if chains hold me here.

“Singletons” the name given to those without Dissociative Identity Disorder, don’t have any concept of why I can’t get out of bed. They don’t understand how the fears or hurts of other parts inside me can greatly influence my behavior and thinking, and sometimes leave me paralyzed. 

Tonight my kids said goodbye to me, their mother who doesn’t get out of bed for unknown reasons, as they joyfully headed off for swim team practice. Another moment missed.

Sadness prevails.

Figuring out the puzzle

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When I was a child, my mind was specifically made to not think. I wasn’t to understand what was happening. People around me did things to my mind to ensure that. I was simply worthy of being kept alive for the purposes of a lot of sick people.

The first time I remember something substantially unusual about my life was when I was around 10 and the first Star Wars movie came out. Back in those days, we didn’t have movies like that, so it was a big deal to be going. I remember waiting outside the theater with my friends (another family took me), all of us filled with excitement. The next thing I remembered was walking out of the theater with my friends as they were excitedly re-enacting the movie scenes. But, for me, I had no memory of the movie at all. I was terrified someone would find out that there was something terribly wrong with me, so I didn’t say anything to anyone, and pretended to know what the movie was about for months. It was so disturbing for me, I still have not watched that movie.

Then, throughout my life there were voices in my head commenting on various things and criticizing me. Even though I heard multiple voices and sometimes we talked back and forth with each other, I talked myself into believing that everyone had voices in their head. It was especially easy to do that when the whole “inner child” concept took off.

In high school, I didn’t put much thought into it, but I changed identities frequently and maintained opposite identities at the same time depending on who I was around or what I was doing. This was not your normal finding your identity experience. This was bizarre, and I knew it, but chose not to think about it.

Some of my identities in high school were band geek, druggie, political activist, ROTC rising star, non-drinker, heavy drinker, business entrepreneur, school skipper, slut, good girl, athlete wannabe, advanced student, special ed student, and of course the lost child who wanted help but never asked.

By some miracle, I got into the state college. It was a miracle because I hadn’t remembered or paid attention to about 90% of what I think they taught in school. I got in because I had such an interesting list of activities and successes (minus the not so good ones I left out). I was let in under a provisional status that gave me a couple of quarters to prove that I could do college level work.

I started college and was driven to succeed. I did extremely well in most subjects. I spent my first ten weeks learning everything important for college. I didn’t even know how to write an essay when I got there, but I worked hard and caught up with my peers. I became extremely good at debating both sides of the issues. I believe this was probably because I was able to switch into different parts to argue each side. This got me heavily involved in politics on campus and in the state. I became a rising star in the political successes I experienced. I was also really good at accounting, which was weird because numbers tended to bore me, especially as a career. But, I was good at it.

I fell in love with a guy the first quarter I was there. I lived in a co-ed dorm, so we had some wild parties and it wasn’t unusual for boyfriends and girlfriends to live together. In our one dorm room, we had 5 people living there, and it wasn’t much bigger than a regular secondary bedroom in a house without a bathroom.

Sex, alcohol, pot, and pizza were everywhere. Though I was in no way a virgin when I entered college, many of my dorm mates were, and were losing their virginity quickly and stupidly. I had one really stupid sexual experience with a guy I didn’t even like because I was trying to fit in. Dumb mistake. That experience started something that stayed with me in a negative way, even to this day.

The man I loved, and did want to have sex with started out ok. But then I quickly started to have problems having sex. I would just freeze,  have a flashback, or just not want to have sex for reasons I didn’t understand. I mean, I loved this man, I was attracted to him, I felt safe with him, but as each day crept along it seemed to get worse, except every once in a while I would change in a way I couldn’t explain and have a good sexual experience with him. It was good sometimes, and bad most of the time. I truly had no clue what was wrong with me. He loved me and wanted to stick it out with me, but when we hit the 3 year mark I let him go. I couldn’t do it to him anymore. I knew something was really wrong with me because my sexual problems kept getting worse, and I didn’t think it was fair to do that to him.

I was able to keep succeeding at some important roles and clubs at school, and my grades were very good, which landed me a top job with a highly competitive corporation. They expected me to be somebody based on my resume, but none of us had any idea what was brewing inside for me.

After achieving success after success my Senior year, I found myself feeling depressed, crying a lot, and thinking of suicide. I had no idea what was wrong with me, so I kept it a secret and went to the elaborate student mental health center at the University. At the student mental health center, the psychiatrist literally yelled at me and told me to stop crying, and gave me a prescription for Xanax. At first it was helpful to get me through the days and the tough academic demands, but then I started reaching a point where I needed to keep taking more and more to feel ok. Finally, I started feeling suicidal again, and fortunately I found a good therapist and psychiatrist off campus who helped me get inpatient at a local private psychiatric hospital. I have no memory of how I found those two people who helped and cared about me a great deal.

I spent the next 6 months at the hospital, kind of a psychiatric mystery on why I wasn’t getting better. At the time, I was put on every anti-depressant available, and none of them worked. At the same time, I started to realize these strange conflicting feelings going on inside me. I was attached to my therapist, and I remember one time she was going to be out for a couple of days. During those couple of days, I was feeling ok, but then I also started having suicidal thoughts and other conflicting thoughts. I remember the voices in my head increased and were talking to each other. I also remember my body not always feeling in my control.

I tried to discuss this with my therapist and psychiatrist, and unfortunately, they did not believe in dissociative disorders, or at least thought they were very rare (not true). So, they continued to believe I was only suffering from Major Depression, which I was, but I also had other complicating factors going on, which explained why I wasn’t getting better. They finally put me on lithium, the drug mainly used for people with Bipolar illness, and it seemed to help my depression, or it was completely a coincidence.

I was finally well enough to leave the hospital. I still had serious mental health issues going on, but I finally was able to go home. Going home eventually made it so I could see an expert in what I suspected was going on with me, and she diagnosed me with Multiple Personality Disorder, which is now called Dissociative Identity Disorder. I hadn’t read up on it really because there was no internet back then, and books hadn’t really been published on the subject, or at least available to the public. I just knew it felt like other people were living inside my body, and I learned about therapists who were treating this condition. I knew I was not experiencing life like the “Three Faces of Eve” or “Sybil,” but a less dramatic form of that was taking place in my life.

So, essentially, I self-diagnosed myself. I do not say this to brag, but to let you know the frustration I feel for myself and others who are in a mental health system that refuses to wholeheartedly believe in this diagnosis, or believe it is so rare that they don’t expect to see it in their professional career. The truth is it is extremely common, and somehow, we need to wake up mental health providers. I can’t tell you the number of mental health professionals in my current city who call themselves “trauma experts,” but refuse to learn about or work with people who have a diagnosis of DID. As a result, people with DID spend years and years getting the wrong kind of treatment, and essentially lose a significant part of their lives to the illness because the mental health professionals diagnosed them incorrectly because of their own bias or ignorance. This must change.

A few things about me

It is April 2017. I do not know the exact date because as a person with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), I am particularly bad with remembering dates. On good days, I get the month and year correct. This is a good day.

It is challenging to begin a blog about your life when you struggle with amnesia to the degree I do. I would like to start with my childhood, so you know how I got to where I am, but I truly don’t know if I know enough to start from that place. Maybe I should talk more about today— how I am today. Who I am today. What my days are like, or something in that neighborhood.

I think I am what is called the host in this female body. Since I can’t remember much of my childhood, it is hard to know that with certainty. But, if it is true, it means I am the one who was originally born into this body. The one who was born into a horrific existence and needed saving by the creation of other insiders in multiple systems in my brain. I realize that statement is probably confusing to those who aren’t DID. I will try to explain things the best I can as we go.

I am not sure how many other “insiders” live within me—-for me, that refers to the other people who live inside me. Therapist hate when I say that because they say of course you can’t have all those people living in you. I know we only have one body, but I want you to know my experience. As of now, I feel like these other parts/alters/insiders are like other people living within me. I am not psychotic and believe they are actual people in my body, but then again maybe it is psychotic to believe in feeling the experience of having other people live in your body. I realize that sounds fairly confusing, so let’s leave that alone for now.

My life is not so great now. I am currently sitting in a closet hoping to have privacy and peace so I can write this blog. This blog has a threefold purpose: 1. to educate people about what it is like to live with DID. 2. to provide information and support to those who might be struggling with DID. 3. and selfishly, a way to work on my own recovery. Yes, I do still believe in recovery. I read somewhere recently if you have no hope, there is no point to living. Today, even with all the struggles and setbacks I have, I still have hope. That may change tomorrow.

My life is not very dramatic by appearances, so you wouldn’t know I had DID if we just casually met. In fact, almost everyone in my life from neighbors and friends to coworkers I have known for years have no idea. It is lonely leading this secret and inauthentic life, but the stigma that goes with DID is so severe that it is too much of a risk to my family in many ways that I am sure I will talk about often on this blog.

Lots of insiders pass themselves off as me (meaning people think they are talking to me, and that I am just in a different mood), and that works well for my life. My therapist, one friend, and my spouse are the only ones who truly know much about me. Sadly, my therapist knows me better than anyone. I think it is sad. I don’t mean to be this way, but it is what it is for now. One day I hope to be able to tell the world who I am.

When I am doing ok, I am intelligent, passionate, resourceful, funny, and a good person. By some miracle, my childhood and the resulting mental health problems, didn’t take away my ability to be a good parent. This much I know and it keeps me alive on many bad days. My children do not know about the DID or the child abuse because they are still young.

One thing you may read from me on this blog is contradictory thoughts. This is something I deal with on a regular basis, and it doesn’t make things easy for me on most days. As I always try to inform people no 2 people with DID will be identical. We all created this condition somehow with only a child’s mind. Some people with DID have nice orderly DID systems where everyone has a name, age, role, and decisions are clearly made by certain insiders. That is not my system. Mine is more confusing. Sometimes it is higher functioning than those with nice and neat systems, but I have a system of insiders who operate from confusion and chaos on a daily basis which makes life that much harder. For example, sometimes we may get in the car and change directions of where we are going several times because different insiders have different ideas about where we should be going. And sometimes we just pull into a parking lot and sit there for hours doing nothing because we don’t know where we are going.

Oh yeah, you will here me or others in my system refer to us as “we” a lot in our writings. Just know we are talking about the whole system when we use the term “we.”

I realize this first entry is scattered, but I think scattered is ok because it is getting me started on this new journey.

I want you to know a few things:

DID is real. It is probably the most under-diagnosed disorder despite its official status in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM V). Most medical and mental health practitioners either don’t believe in the diagnosis or they have not been properly trained to recognize it when it is right in front of them.

DID will typically not be the only diagnosis the person has. You can expect Post Traumatic Stress Disorder to go along with it, and also conditions related to depression, anxiety, personality disorders, and definitely attachment disorders. It is fairly common for a person with DID to have issues with substance abuse, especially if they are trying to medicate the symptoms they are experiencing. I have also found that Bipolar is now often diagnosed with DID, but if you ask me, Bipolar has become the new ADHD as far as being incorrectly way over-diagnosed. Just my 2 cents. A lot of these disorders overlap, and hopefully the next DSM will better categorize these diagnoses.

I hate the organization calling itself the False Memory Foundation. As far as I am concerned, many of them are perpetrators or no better than perpetrators for the damage they have done to many people who both suffer from dissociative disorders and for those who used to treat those with this very difficult disorder. Though they are weak today, I blame them for the huge lack of resources available to people with dissociative disorders. I blame them for the majority of mental health practitioners who were not taught anything about DID, or only had a paragraph in their textbook about DID.

DID is not what you see in the movies or television because as fascinating as some things are about this disorder, it is just not entertaining enough to keep you interested so that you can make someone a bunch of money in the entertainment industry. The recent movie “Split” which I have not seen out of principal, but know enough about it to say that is a completely unrealistic portrayal of someone with DID. I have met somewhere between hundreds to thousands of people with DID, and I have never once met one who was violent in some sort of criminal way. I am sure it is possible, but it is just not something I have seen, and I have seen a lot. In fact, it is commonly known that people with DID will often sacrifice themselves to help others. We were not raised to put ourselves first.

I will only tell the truth, but it is my truth. Whether you believe me or not is not important to me. I know many would not believe the story of my life, and the results I have been living with, but that’s ok. I really don’t care.

A person can only develop DID if they experience horrific trauma as a child. This could mean children who are living in countries where bombs are going off on a regular basis, but I have never seen that in person, but it makes sense to me that it is possible. The most common cause of DID I am familiar with is a result of horrific child abuse, usually starting much earlier than the age of 9. As far as I know, there has never been a case of DID as a result of adult abuse.