Why was I born?

I never mattered. My family ensured I understand this. I figured this out early. My brain became dizzy and lost and alone. Early on I didn’t know suicide was an option. I thought I had to stay on this very horrific planet where life didn’t make any sense to me.

I was the 3rd child in my family, the first two being older brothers. My parents tell the story that they wanted a girl, which is why they had a 3rd child, and I naively thought for years they wanted a girl for the “normal” reasons families typically want a certain gender. I was wrong.

What I could never understand is why if my mom wanted a girl, then why did she hate me so much? And why did everyone in my life treat me so poorly, and it seemed to be ok, and my role in the family.

From as far back as I can remember, my mom was always upset with who I was and how I looked. She would yell at me in her bathroom making me look in the mirror and tell me all the things wrong with me. One thing that especially infuriated her was that I didn’t hold in my stomach all the time like a proper young lady. Otherwise, I was showing the world I was fat. The fact that I was malnourished and skin and bones didn’t enter into this repeated criticism.

I was born into this family, never to understand it. I never understood why my older brothers who were constantly in trouble were treated special and as if they were loved, but I hardly existed as a wanted child in my family. Well, at least not the right kind of wants.

I don’t ever remember being loved or cared for by this family as a child. No one cared where I was, what was happening to me, or whether I had appropriate food or medical care. I was always more of a burden expected to keep my mouth shut under every circumstance. No one wanted to hear or cared what I had to say.

Love in any kind of normal way did not exist for me. As close as I have to love in some kind of caring way was once in a while my middle brother would pull off my older brother for things he was doing to me.

I didn’t have any caring neighbors, relatives, people at school, or anywhere else. It was as if I was a ghost, and didn’t matter to anyone.

No matter how many times my therapist explains it to me, I can’t seem to comprehend that my parents would intentionally have a baby to harm it for their sick, personal gain. I know we all see stories of this kind of stuff on the news from time-to-time, but this can’t be my story, despite all the evidence that says it is.

I guess it seems incomprehensible to me partially because I am a mother of two, and I just can’t imagine harming them in any way. I would step in front of a train for either of my children, whereas my family of origin was the train coming right for me all the time.

I suppose I have to explain I was born to two active alcoholic parents , and my two brothers became alcoholics/drug addicts at a rather early age, and later drug dealers. This alone brought in lots of violence to our home, but it also brought in lots of other strange and sick people, amongst other things.

When I tell people this story, which I actually never do outside my therapist’s office, people assume I grew up in poverty. I guess to be correct, my family lived in an upper middle class neighborhood, but I did live in poverty in my own little world.

My mom was President of the Junior Women’s Club and pack leader for my brothers’ Cub Scout pack. She entertained lots of hot shot business men at fancy parties and over cocktails at our house. From time-to-time, she would be in the newspaper for her fancy parties and philanthropy work.

My brothers were in the newspaper twice as children, once for taking an overdose of my aunt’s “diet pills,” and the second time because they intentionally lit our house on fire in the middle of the night. The fire story leaves out that they left the family for dead, and many fire fighters endangered their lives looking for them in the fire. The story also leaves out that my drunk, passed-out parents were more annoyed with me than anything for waking them to tell them the house was on fire.

My father was missing a lot from the house. He just wasn’t there. I believe this was part of the dark life he was living. When he was home, he was drunk and my parents fought a lot after their drinking buddies left.

My mom grew up during the depression, and has several siblings who I would describe as all mentally unstable in a religious kind of way (like psychotic). All of my cousins on my mom’s side were drug addicts and some were mentally ill in scary ways, all except two, and those two cousins were adopted, but still describe their childhood as something they had to escape from.

My mom was by far a very attractive woman, and she used this to her advantage her entire life, and wasn’t afraid to tell you so. To this day she looks about 20 years younger than she is. She also says she was sexually abused as a child.

She is a classic narcissist. Everything is about her. No matter what is happening, she manages to turn the story back around to her. She requires constant attention, and has no respect for anyone’s wishes but her own. Just tonight my mom called and I told her I had neck surgery this week, and there were some complications with the anesthesia. Without a beat, her reply was to tell me she has red dots on her leg and wants me to come up with some type of solution for her problem, and my issues never exist unless she is blaming me for a problem.

But here’s the key, to everyone on the outside we were this upstanding family mostly respected in the community. No one would ever guess what went on behind closed doors unless they were participating in it.

My mom has been called a sadist, too. I grew up in a fairly large beach town, so there were always a lot of transient or seedy people around. I wandered among them and received my share of abuse from them. But my mom liked to do a special thing to me. When I was about 5-6 years old, she would drive me about 5-10 miles from my home and leave me there. At that age, I didn’t have the wherewithal to know what to do, so I would just sit and wait for many, many hours. Usually by nightfall my father would find me and bring me home. We never spoke of this, but I was always terrified to be left somewhere. My sick mother thought this little joke was funny. I don’t know what my father thought, but I know at the end of the day he always picked her over me.

My life growing up from a very young age was nonstop physically, sexually, and religiously abusive, neglectful, and psychologically torturing. As a result, my mind decided to survive by creating Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), which was formerly called Multiple Personality Disorder. I developed “parts” or other inside people to break up my life and handle things I couldn’t. I didn’t do this consciously, it just happened. It is what allowed me to survive.

As an adult now, my mind is filled with “parts” or other people. Some have more expansive identities than others. Though it helped me survive my childhood, it is by no means an easy life, and many days I have thoughts of suicide. My memory is severely impaired due to the DID. It is something I try to hide everyday. I have to negotiate between the parts of me who will be “out” on any given day or moment. As a result, this body has no clear sense of who it is. Not having a cohesive sense of yourself is a depressing predicament to be in for your entire life.

Loneliness is the prevailing feeling when things are good. Because if you don’t have this disorder, it is not something the rest of the minions on this planet understand, or even believe in.

Ghost Child

 

Imagine growing up in an environment where you don’t really exist. Most of the time no one sees you, hears you, or even thinks of you and your basic needs. You don’t exist, but you do.

You know you exist because you can see them. Sometimes they sound muffled, sometimes you are drifting away, but you know you are there. You can feel some things like hunger, pain, and fear. You have to be real to feel those things. But most of the time the world acts as if you don’t exist, unless it is one of those times when the people want something from you.

As an adult, I am always fearful when someone asks me a basic question about my childhood. I am afraid my secret will be exposed. My secret that the things I could discuss with a regular inquiring human don’t exist for me. I don’t remember the normal happenings of any given day from my childhood, though I am sure I must have had some. I only have memories of the bad, or the quiet moments when it seemed like the world stopped and I was just walking around in it alone.

I don’t tell people that I can only remember 3 memories of Kindergarten, and have no memory of 1st through 6th grade, except for a few traumatic memories that involved school.

Now that I know I have DID, I suppose the logical explanation is that those memories are stored somewhere in my brain as experiences of another part of me. I try and try to remember, but I can’t. It is hard to make sense of things when you don’t have complete memories.

There is this really shitty group out there called the False Memory Foundation. They would dismiss all my memories because of the significant gaps in memory I do have. They like to say people with DID are faking it because they are trying to avoid responsibility for a crime, or perhaps the fake DID person just wants attention. We won’t go into their motives for saying that here.

I am not avoiding responsibility for a crime, and I certainly don’t need attention, especially of this nature. There were times when I denied it was real, but there is just too much that meets the criteria for Dissociative Identity Disorder that I experience.

I have distinctly different parts who have distinct personalities, cognitive functioning, and beliefs about the world. They have different names, genders, sexual orientations, ages, bodies, and so much more. Though we experience ourselves as separate people, we do know there is only one body that we all share. We just don’t all agree on what the body looks like. Younger parts actually see small bodies when they look at our body.

Almost all of us experience terrible amnesia that affects us just about every day. We have learned techniques to hide it, but anyone who has any insight into this disorder would easily spot it with a few questions. I tried to write it off as dementia at one point, but then that doesn’t explain the parts who have very good memories and can recall all sorts of details I would never be able to recall.

My DID helped me survive horrific abuse, neglect, constant exposure to violence and alcohol/drugs, and mind control. By the time I reached 7th grade, my DID seemed to settle down some and I remembered more of my life from that point on, but definitely still experiencing periods of amnesia.

My parents decided for reasons I will probably never know to move to another state and start the family over in 7th grade. We became this new fake family that just tried to blend in with the rest. For the most part we did, considering so much was still going on.

I was still being raped by a family member during that period, but that seemed tolerable compared to my younger years.

Though I never mattered much to my family of origin, my life did become a little more normalized despite the ongoing abuse, violence, police interventions, drug dealing, suicide attempts and prostitution that still went on in our family.

Though I had friends my entire life, I have always felt alone because of the disconnect between my fake world and real world. I was taught early on that the real world I lived in was never to be discussed with anyone. And it wasn’t until recently.

So, I have always sort of felt like this ghost person, one who was there and at times interacting quite normally in the world, but one who had no real identity and no connection to anyone, except maybe my pets. It is hard to explain. Some of my friends would describe me as quite social, but that is because I have parts of me who can do that without being our authentic selves. When you can’t be authentic, it is like you are not really there, but just playing a part of what we think a “normal” person would do in those situations.

Sadly, I have been disconnected from other people my entire life. My children are probably my closest connections, but even then it doesn’t feel 100% connected or authentic.

I have always known I was abused and neglected, but I used all my energy to push that away from my everyday thinking. The memories stayed everyday, but the feelings and thoughts about them stayed far away until my Senior year of college.

And that began the official deconstruction of my life.

Being Bad

Today I went to see a guest therapist as my therapist is recovering from surgery. I trust the guest therapist–a combination of my instinct and the fact that she works a lot in the church. I can tell by her actions and words she is a good person. Not perfect, but one I can trust. It is ironic that her interwoven religious work with her therapist background makes me trust her when I have so little experience on trusting church or religious people. My history should tell me to fear them, but I trust my instinct more. Hopefully it won’t backfire on me.

I was nervous and confused about why I decided to go there. Maybe because we had unfinished business, or maybe I thought I could trust her to give me some support and insight on some issues floating around in my head. Either way, I am glad I went as she was very nice even though I was so scattered.

I tried to stay on one topic, but the voices in my head tried to distract me whenever she said something that could be meaningful to my system. For me, when I am trying to talk with someone on the outside and start hearing voices in my head at the same time,  it is very hard to follow what either of them are saying. I just try to get the jist of what each is saying. Today was especially frustrating because both the voice outside and the voices inside were unlocking a year long mystery problem and I couldn’t catch it all in my brain.

My mystery problem for the past year plus is that I can’t get out of bed to do anything except go to appointments, and only then can do it if the day isn’t too overwhelming.

I went from being totally normal looking—social and very successful at work and other areas of my life, to not wanting to leave my bed. It is not that I sleep all the time, I just have a feeling of safety when I am here. I really can’t explain it, and I call it a mystery because I have been desperately trying to solve and correct this problem for over a year now. I haven’t had much luck. Mostly theories, with no real solutions.

Today, the guest therapist asked me some questions about it and approached the subject just slightly differently than others in the past had, and low and behold I heard new voices talking about “the why” inside my head.

From what I could take and didn’t lose in trying to follow two conversations at once is that the parts inside said I did not deserve to be successful and working, and that I was “bad.”

I am very familiar with the I am bad belief. When you go through what I have been through, there is just no other logical explanation other than I must be so bad that I deserved all of it to happen to me. Especially if you believe in God, how else do you rationalize it. What kind of God would allow this to happen to a child?

I know some good adult explanations on why this happened that are probably the truth, but the way my mind works is that I share it with other parts who are literally stuck in time, so their minds may work like 4 or 5 or 8 year olds in trying to understand life.

In my recovery process, I have what I call other parts bleeding into my space and thinking. On this issue, this happens, so even know I accept and understand as an adult the truth of my life, my younger parts influence my thinking and I walk away with the conclusion and feeling that I am bad, and always will be know matter how hard I try to be good.

So, to relate it back to today, my core belief is that I am bad. A little over a year ago something really bad (at least in my world) happened to me that was earth shattering and heart breaking to me. The only explanation is that this happened because I am bad.

I don’t want to keep getting hurt, so I have learned that if I stay home in bed, it is less likely that will happen. Because remember, no matter how hard I try to be good, I always end up getting hurt, which means I am being bad again.

I think I am a good person, but the universe or God or whatever keeps sending me a different message. Yet, I keep trying to be good enough to not get hurt….

Just a Normal Childhood

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To be honest, as I sit here thinking about my childhood, I can’t think of a single happy moment that didn’t also involve some kind of abuse or neglect. However, had you asked me about my childhood when I was growing up, I would have said it was a fairly normal childhood.

I think the attachment issues I have kept me from connecting to other kids enough to realize what went on in our family and community circle was not normal. I didn’t connect the dots.

To be fair, there are some photographs that I don’t remember that make it look like a few happy moments, but unfortunately those memories are not stored in my memory bank, and I am guessing someone else inside my mind holds those memories, if they were indeed happy or normal. For me, they are just snapshot memories with no stories to go with them.

When I think back on my childhood like this, I think it is impossible I do not have better memories. If my life was truly so trauma filled, how or why did I survive?

The “trauma experts” will tell you that I used this ingenious way to survive by creating alternate personalities/identities to handle trauma and other parts of my life, which resulted in me developing Dissociative Identity Disorder.

However, since there was no textbook, no discussion with anyone about what this looks like, and no promise that my life would be better off by surviving, I question whether it was ingenious or even good. Please note that this is only my opinion. The majority of the world disagrees with me, and hopefully they are right.

Being a child developing DID to deal with horrific abuse in your life seems like a good thing to do. I believe most humans are have programmed in our DNA to survive, so this is my only explanation for why it happened to me. And I say “happened to me” because I did not plan or intend for it myself. I am just one of the “lucky” ones who survived.

Here’s the thing the cheerleaders (the ones who think it is ingenious) of DID tend to leave out: if you have a moderate to severe case of DID (it is on a spectrum), your adult life can be a living hell that you may or may not get some level of recovery from.

In 2017, we have “DID experts” who will say you can be completely cured (meaning your personalities integrated into one), and others who will work with their clients to improve their quality of life as the goal, and don’t believe integration is possible. I don’t know who is right or wrong in this opinion, but I do also know there are so many factors that play into how an adult who gets adequate treatment fares in their adult life that no one can say for certain what the outcome will be. And adequate treatment is extremely hard to come by.

I call this blog “Mistaken Survival” because my life as an adult with what some would call a “complicated” or “severe case” of DID has been it’s own version of hell. Had I known this would be my life, I am not sure I would have picked survival at this cost if I was given the choice. Of course, no one asked me to begin with, so I suppose it is a moot point. And, I do try to keep in mind my life is not over with yet, so to be like a human, I do try to hold onto some hope.

My clock is ticking. I have some wonderful people who are trying to help me. I want so badly for a better life, mainly because I have children I would like to see grow up into healthy adults. I am also curious to know what it is like to be happy. I have never known happiness the way most people do. That would be cool.

I also don’t want to leave this world worse off for people with DID who get treated so poorly. Education, resources, and compassion are just a few of the needs not currently available to those with DID. We are the secret mental illness, and the reasons for that secrecy are wide and will be discussed in other blog posts. But, those of us with DID are the victims of horrific abuse. Stop treating us like monsters or circus acts, or portraying us as the villains in movies.

I may not be able to save myself with my ticking clock, but I do hope to help others who come behind me. I hope I can convince you to join the ride.

Attachment issues, oh how I hate you

I am blown away that I am just now learning what a huge affect attachment problems have on my everyday adult life. I had no idea what played out for me as a child is totally being re-enacted by me as an adult in many of my relationships.

Fortunately, by some miracle, I don’t think my attachment problems play out too negatively with my children, which begs the question of how I learned how to be a good parent when I had no experience or role models for it? Kind of a mystery for me.

Anyway, I hate my attachment problems. It turns me into a 2 or 3 year old, which is not so cool, and people, even the most well-intentioned therapists, don’t get how difficult this problem is for me.

It is such a primal wound for me, it is probably the leading cause of my suicidal or self-harming thoughts.

Despite the horrific child abuse I experienced, I grew up unloved and uncared for. The message was loud and clear: I did not matter in this world.

Even though I was clearly unkempt, emaciated from lack of food, and often wandering  around a beach town on my own at a very young age, no one intervened to even ask me if I was ok or considered whether such a small child should be wandering around alone in a town full of transient people from many bad walks of life.

I do enough reading to know this is not an uncommon phenomenon. People know someone is being abused or have strong suspicions, but decide to stay out of it for their own reasons. Maybe because we don’t scream from the rooftops that if you see a child you think is being abused or needs help, you need to do something. At least make a phone call to DFACS. We all need to do better.

But too many of us have been treated like we don’t matter. No one helped us. No one picked up the phone or asked the questions. That is such a horrible message to have branded on to your brain. It is not a message I have been able to get rid of. I will always put myself second and take the bullet for someone else, even if that someone is a stranger. I guess I am like that because no one did it for me. On some days that makes me the good guy. Other days it leaves me broken, hurting, and almost dead.

When I was a child, I can’t ever think of a time when someone told me they loved me. I don’t remember any affection. I was treated less-than my two older siblings. I hardly received any attention unless it was the wrong kind of attention. I had no one.

When I was about 4 or 5, I begged for months for a stuffed animal. That is all I asked for. I didn’t need or want for anything else. Every day, nothing. I was so alone.

Finally, after someone in my life used me for sexual purposes, that person threw a used cheap carnival stuffed dog at me. That was one of the happiest days of my childhood. I finally had someone to hold, someone to talk to, someone who belonged to me. That grungy stuffed dog probably saved my life. I had it all the way through High School. I didn’t think much about its meaning as I got older, but I knew to hang onto it.

Interestingly, at this point in my life, my younger parts have a stuffed dog that we bought off Amazon. At the time, I didn’t see the connection. I just knew they knew with certainty that is what they wanted. Now it makes sense to me.

Today, I am a grown woman who owns a stuffed animal that resides in bed with me and my spouse. Not exactly what my spouse signed up for 20 years ago, but it is what it is at this point. Because of the way my attachment problems manifested for me, it is easier for me to say love me or leave me, I don’t really care. But, not all parts of me agree with that attitude, which is something I try to keep in mind.

In my therapy today, we talked a lot about attachment issues because my therapist is leaving us next week for surgery. It is something that gives me an instant panic attack when I think about it. Most of the parts in me who hold painful emotions are devastated by this event. I don’t expect others to understand, but it is like I am going to die without her for the week, and god forbid, what if she dies from the surgery.

I am absolutely clear this is not a normal response to what is happening, but I would be lying if I didn’t tell you this is our emotional truth and predicament. It is as if the mom is leaving us in the crib with nothing to eat and may or may not come back if we were to survive that excruciatingly painful week.

You see, in therapy world, there is this belief that if you create an attachment bond with your therapist, you can have a corrective emotional experience and heal the attachment wound that doesn’t feel the least bit fixable. But yet I am willing to try because I still hold out hope.

I know for those of you who may have had secure attachments with your parents or some other caregiver, you can’t possibly conceive an adult having these feelings. Feeling like a baby or small child. But for those who have any of the dysfunctional attachment scenarios, I can imagine you know a little of what I speak.

Yet, another unacceptable feeling that we cannot express in the real world, so once again alone, or at least with each other through this blog.

K

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.