I sit here, welcomed in a friend’s home, waiting to hear from a court to find out if I may appear telephonically at my divorce hearing.
The last six months have been eye-opening. Crazymaking it is called, when a person sets out to abuse another by causing them to believe they are “crazy.” This can be complicated when one partner has a mental illness. According to very reputable and supportive friends and professionals around me, I have been made a victim by a fraud who wanted everyone to disbelieve me, due to my “craziness.”
I long to be free of every bit of that relationship. The end was punctuated by me being confronted with the fact my husband had taken upon himself to begin another relationship with a single woman, calling her his wife to members of the community that didn’t attend our church after declaring himself “single” when I went on a preplanned trip to visit grandchildren.
I am thankful that Heavenly Father showed me the person who was beside me before I had invested any longer in the relationship. The fraud he perpetrated was punctuated when it became apparent he attended therapy with me for the sole purpose of learning my triggers for his own use. That felt like the ultimate betrayal.
I sit here, waiting for the divorce hearing. Then, perhaps I can get on with the rest of my life. I look forward to that day. I want my last name back.
Then, I need to find a partner therapist. Soon. Very soon.
Breaking up is NEVER easy. When one spouse has been diagnosed with a mental illness, it becomes extremely easy to use that illness as an excuse to treat that spouse with disrespect and humiliation. Unfortunately, that is what my soon-to-be ex-husband has now stooped to.
When I reacted to him not understanding that I meant “no” when I said it, with him on top of me… even though it took FOUR iterations of that word… the NO word… for him to get off of me, my husband left me. As a multiple rape survivor, that incident and the actions he took (or rather failed to take) set me off emotionally when I awoke the next morning. The “attack” I alluded to in the post I made while we were attempting a reconciliation, was an alter of mine standing up for me (verbally) and getting off the eggshells we had been walking on for the majority of this ill-fated marriage.
In January 2013, when Keith proposed to me, it was after he had his hands on my head in church to perform a Priesthood blessing. I didn’t know at the time that he had NEVER been ordained, and he did NOT have the authority to do so; he lied to me and the elders in The Church.
Upon learning about his deception about the Priesthood, I attempted forgiveness. It was difficult. Since Keith had lied about being ordained to both the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthood, it also meant that he was not eligible, nor would he be for many years, to go to the Temple. That broke my heart. But I persevered.
We have been married for almost three years. Every month I lived with my husband, he went through both of our medicine supplies by the 10th of the month. The rest of the month he spent digging out the hidden stashes I had and complaining and begging his mother to send him money. Which she did on several occasions.
This last spring, I was fed-up with not having plants growing when he had promised me that we would. So, I soaked some seeds and planted them. Mr. Floyd’s Farm Assist followed a month later with a few seeds of his own. I asked him to do the favor of tending my plants while I was gone, and he accepted. Apparently his yields aren’t as good as mine usually are, the entire yield for the plants in his care was 5 measly buds. I have never witnessed any plants my husband has grown that haven’t been covered in bugs or mold or both, so frankly I wasn’t surprised. I was very disappointed.
Disappointed and sad is how I feel about this entire relationship. The fact that he has stooped as low as he has, and I as low as I have, tells me that we are not paired well together. I only hope and pray that we are able to finalize this divorce and go our separate ways without hurting too many people in our wake.
May your life be full of Love and Lighte: That is what I seek.
The trip to return to my home state of Washington was full of setbacks, until I actually hit the Arizona border. From there on out, it was smooth sailing.
That’s not to say that I didn’t experience my share of anxiety; I always do when driving. However, the drive was also full of time for me to constantly conference with my MEs. We had a long talk. Actually, several of them.
I arrived on the afternoon of my twin granddaughter’s birthday. My mother (who I’ve been having a rough time with) was just leaving and was shocked to see me. I was glad I wouldn’t have to share my time with the girls, with her, considering the current rough state of our relationship.
Our visit carried on into the evening with me promising to return the next day. I attempted to get photos of the girls with me, but there was a bit of contention in the air between the twins, and the photo idea was scrapped when they wouldn’t stop pinching and hitting each other behind my back.
When I returned the next day, I gave my extra wi-fi only camera phone to each one of the girls to capture pics or videos of themselves or each other. The girls LOVE to look in the mirror, so I figured having them make selfie-videos might be right up their alley.
Unfortunately, not all the adults were on the same page. Their Poppa thought that one of the girls had taken his camera without his permission and responded with angry words and grabbed it out of her hand. He realized his mistake before only a few moments had passed, and returned it to the upset twin.
Her tears and big gulps of air as she tried to stop crying were all captured for perpetuity in digital. Yes, this Grandma saved it. However, we had to move it to an archive due to the empathetic triggers that it caused.
Just watching the video that my dear precious granddaughter recorded brought back so many memories of my own tears that I can’t bare to watch it. But it seems important to keep.
He didn’t hit her. He just barely raised his voice and grabbed it out of her hand. A quick jump to the wrong impression. Easy to do. It happens every day.
But her big tears on her little face and a tiny voice that kept whispering, “mama” when I know her mama isn’t one, but she is being raised by her other grandma, broke my heart. And the littles inside cried with her.
The little people inside my head are screaming. Uncontrollably. They don’t like change. I am not sure how many there are, but there seem to be at least 4 under the age of 6.
Personalities that are still little. That don’t understand why the body is so huge and clumsy. They tend to walk the body into corners of door openings. They don’t allow for the whole body as it is now.
The littles don’t like change. Not one bit. They weren’t sure about having a husband here, but now that he isn’t here usually, they don’t like the change.
We are getting ready for a trip. There are a lot of uncertainties included within such an adventure. Many of my personalities not only enjoy, but CRAVE such travels. Not the littles.
My littles have to make sure their needs are met on a trip. Are there going to be enough stops to pee? We don’t want to get a belly ache about peeing, because that will mean bad triggers.
We are taking our service companion, Athena. She will help keep me/us centered. She is good at that.
But the littles are still screaming. How do I comfort pieces of my brain?
So, more and more triggers. Then, an absolute horrific result: my husband left. Adding to all the triggers. Or did it?
When it became apparent that his absence was not a trigger, but a relief, there were many realizations.
One of the most profound was the fact that in order to get to a better place psychologically, I must be alone to do it.
A few of my “alters” are “protective.” They only come out when some weird primal part of me decides I need protecting. That happened this time. Two of them came out and attacked both my husband and my male therapist. My husband and I are working on a formal legal separation while we both work on personal matters now, and my therapist quit. Doing a lot of praying for a female specialist in DID who’s practice is nearby. I hope I can start again with a female.
Reacting to males is normal for me. Or it used to be. It is difficult to have relationships of any form with a gender that has been deemed as “attackers” from my psychi. I was victimized by males for most of the first 45 years of my life. As I go forward, I am hoping that I can learn how to develop relationships that won’t be the subject of attack by parts of me that remain scared, but to do this I can’t be helped by a male.
In the “debriefing” process of the break many things became apparent. One of the most important parts of the debriefing process was to align myself back with the will of Heavenly Father. To this end, I received a Priesthood Blessing, then I went to my normal Friday shift working in the Temple. My supervisor and I spoke, and he suggested I take in a session instead of working right away. It was just what I needed. I prayed to Heavenly Father, and listened intently for His answer. It was more than I could have hoped for. I was reminded of His gift to us, The Holy Spirit. The comforter. My peace.
Life is much different today than two weeks ago. It’s much different than one week ago when I was in the middle of a break, crying out to a therapist who couldn’t help. But life feel right. It feels peaceful and full of Heavenly Father’s love. I am at peace with it all.
If you have ever told anyone you have a mental illness, you probably know “the look.”
It happened to me yesterday, where I volunteer. The lady who gave it is a sweet and kind soul and probably had no clue it was even on her face. But it was. She gave me “the look.”
I’m not a quiet person. Lies and secrets complicate life, so I try to avoid them. Unfortunately, that usually means I tend to tell many people things they couldn’t care to know. For some reason, stuff just falls out of my face (and off of my fingertips).
Yesterday a sensitive subject came up in the office. I wasn’t feeling very steady, so rather than allow myself to be triggered, I took a short walk. I had the opportunity to look at portraits of Christ. I steadied myself and returned after just a couple of minutes. By the time I had done so, the sensitive conversation was over.
I did take the opportunity to explain myself and my actions to the person who is my supervisor in the office and who was engaging in the conversation. Unfortunately, I also disclosed my own abuse background as well as the fact I have been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (D.I.D.).
The moment the words came out of my mouth, I wanted to pull them back in. I don’t know what made me say it, but I wanted to unsay it immediately. “The look” was all I could see. It was on her face. I wanted to unsee it. I wanted to unsay it, but I couldn’t.
She overwhelmed me with apologies that were neither needed or wanted. I just wanted the topic to be over, and for it to have never happened. Since we have a week between seeing each other, I now have several days to contemplate the questions she is considering.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so open. The more genteel parts of my brain cringe when someone looks at me with the combination pity/entrancement that can come with people learning about my history of abuse and my brain.
It’s not that I don’t welcome questions, I do. I am even writing a blog about it (HERE!), but it’s the pity/entrancement look that feels past uncomfortable, but disturbing. Like all of a sudden you’ve been transported back into a carnival side-show of the 1800s, and YOU are on the stage with everyone staring.
These are the times I want to retreat. But I can’t. I have a talk to give in church tomorrow. So, no “mental health days” here. But I really want to take one. “The system,” My MEs, needs a day off. I need a cell away from everyone and everything where I can just take a day away and process all of it.
Do I have ANY control of this “system” as my therapist calls my MEs? Can I control who comes out?
I have been pondering on this idea for a few weeks.
How to control which one of ME is in control.
How do I do that?
Can I “trigger” myself?
Can I, myself, trigger a different personality to come out at will? I don’t know.
I get mixed signals back when I put it to the system. Apparently, that is one of the “benefits” or “side-effects” of my medication of choice. According to “the system,” cannabis enables me to compel the more “rational” and less angry and “affected” personalities to come forward. I have wondered about the possibility of experimenting with this theory by perhap abstaining from my medication just previous to therapist visits, so that he may be able to communicate with some of the “angrier” and “more affected” personalities.
On second thought, perhaps that should wait until I don’t have impending plans that could be catastrophically effected by the wrong personality having control over my body. (Those times when all forms of electronic communication should be hidden, if you know what I mean.)
There are times when I can’t access medicine that I need. Just that fact, is enough for anxiety to build. When I can’t control whether or not I have medication; I am even more anxious about controlling what goes on inside of my brain.
Then, what goes on inside my brain, effects how the personality in charge (depending on what age that person is, and how rationally or irrationally that person views the world; through what tint of abuse-colored glasses) reacts to each and every situation I am in. Those situations can be a replay of a memory in my brain, spurned on by a simple otherwise innocuous word on the radio… and then all of a sudden I am reacting as if my life was the hell that it was as a child.
These are some of the reasons I do my best to control the outside. I absolutely DETEST being in the same area as random-input devices: radios and televisions that play broadcasted material. Topics can come up a radio show that just by the drop of ONE word… my day is ruined: a trigger has happened.
What are “triggers?” They are those situations, internal or external that cause a reaction. Usually a swift one.
Internal triggers can be feelings: Physical pain, fatigue, hunger or even the urge to urinate.
External triggers can come from movies, radio, social media or live social situations. The more a person interacts with the world; the more potential triggers they are exposed to.
This is probably one of the reasons being alone is comforting to me.
Most of my MEs get along with each other. Sure, we have arguments & some of them do and say things I don’t agree with…. But they are safer to be around than the rest of the world.
There are times, especially since I have started trauma-recovery therapy, that my husband would rather walk out than trigger me once more. These are times when it seems that every word or action of his seem to trigger a memory or a feeling…. These are the rough times.
But can I trigger myself, on purpose, to bring out a personality to handle working on school work? Why hasn’t my system decided that there is one that can do it? Why do others still keep coming out and messing up my work?
Frustrating questions. And I am only six months into therapy. This is all new to me. I have much to learn. As I learn, I will share; that’s just who I am!
Being a “multiple,” that is, a person with more than one personality, is less boring than being a “mono” (normal person, or at least a person who only developed one personality) according to my therapist. Sometimes I wonder if he admires those of us with many voices in our heads.
Laughing. Seriously, it’s not like their talking TO me… but they ARE me, and also are talking WITH me. That is the best I can explain it.
Integration. That’s the goal with therapy and multiples. Becoming “one.” I wonder if I will end up feeling lonely. I wonder if I’ll have more or less difficulty dealing with the world.
Crowds are difficult for me. I prefer to be alone. At least with one person. And it has taken me a while to get used to not being completely alone. Being married to a great friend is helpful.
Alone. I didn’t realize until 2010 that I was afraid to be alone. But I craved it. I needed it.
I wrote a poem about solitude during a very difficult time in my life. Only a few days after the poem below was written, the boyfriend I had moved in with, pushed me down for the first time.
While I’m alone, I’m not lonely. It took me a few years after my divorce from my first husband to learn this. I had lived with my mother, as a mother to my first two children, until I could afford a place of my own. Then I lived with my children, before my first husband moved in with us. I hadn’t had the opportunity to live by myself until I was actually homeless after leaving my husband, in 2010. I was 46.
I hit the road. From a fantastic little BMW Alpine 525 to a van I could write in, and travel each day, I had finally found my “alone space.” As my current husband and I plan out our new house, I am adamant about building me a space I can be alone within the first structures that are built. I believe that all of my “MEs” need that space and time to process the world.
The world outside is LOUD, my world INSIDE is also loud. The more quiet I can get the outside world, the better I can understand the world inside. As I get closer to integration, I think I’m going to need a lot more time alone.
Back in 2010, I started a blog called “The Me’s” intending to take everyone with me as I explored the many personalities that I was being told by my then boyfriend, that I was displaying. That boyfriend and one after him are gone. The one after him attempted to use my diagnosis as a weapon against me and that fact (as well as the fact that he was otherwise abusive) added an additional few years on before I would seek help, and a diagnosis.
I waited to seek help until I had been married to a husband for a little over two years. He pretended to be supportive. However he spent the time with me at the therapist’s learning my triggers, then would use them constantly against me. When his choice of therapist supported him when the husband attempted to rape me, it was time for a divorce and a female therapist.
Now that the diagnosis has been made, I am trying again to start a place for me to keep the insights I am making. For me. And for anyone who chooses to join me.
Dissociative Identity Disorder. Multiple Personality Disorder. Disorder. Am I a Disorder? I don’t think so. I do believe that my life has been made a challenge by the method my brain chose at a very young age, to deal with trauma.
My therapist, and I, together have identified over 20 different identities. Twenty. More than twenty. And a few days ago I remembered a new name. Another.
Why am I writing about it? Because that’s how I deal with things. By writing about them. The harder the subject is for me to deal with, the more I write. This is something I know I am not alone in, so I decided to share it with others.
I have named this blog, My MEs. When I was a child, I had the initials “M.E.S.”, and I was constantly told that meant “mess.” As the many personalities that I have are coming forward, I came to the conclusion that they were just mispronouncing it all my life: It should have been pronounced MEEEz!
Laugh. All joking aside, lost time & absent memories are not cool.
Now I embark on my journey to discovering just how many “MEs” exist, and how they came into existence. This will involve uncovering all the abuse and trauma that I have survived. From the level of PTSD I exhibit, from incest and multiple rapes, I have a tendency to believe this will be a long road.
You are welcome to join me on this journey. For now, this blog is semi-private. How it will be in the future, is anyone’s business.