August Blog Carnival of Mental Health- Personal Journey

Hi! I am delighted to be hosting this month’s mental health blog carnival. I chose the theme Personal Journey, something that is rather important to me.

Amy at Borders of the Personality shares with us her story. It is both powerful and inspiring:

I used to think that my story was a tragedy. That’s bullshit. My story is about love and our centers and what it takes to find that love. What it takes. I certainly didn’t feel that way a year ago—or even ten years ago. I lived through child physical, sexual, and emotional abuse and I was left to my own devices from the age of five on. I was also born with Bipolar Disorder and ADHD. Before the Complex PTSD set in—around my early twenties—I was a numb, fractured, unattached, empty girl, destroying myself as often as I could. Let me start from there.

I was in another city, wasted, when my biological father fell on the barroom floor and died. He drank himself to death. I remember the phone call from my mother at two in the morning. I felt nothing, as was often the case in those days. I pretended to hurt. Even though he left us when we were young so he could have his drinking life, my earliest memories of him are the safest ones from my childhood. He wasn’t like my abusive stepdad. My real dad loved me as best as he could. He was shy and slow, driving us around the old farmhouse in a wagon behind his tractor. There were two wild apple trees in the yard and in the spring the slightest breeze created a snowfall of the soft, pink petals. That was my purest time. That was a time I vowed I’d return to as a woman (though I never thought I could).

My mother drove the three hours to pick my sister and I up that night. It was on that ride back home that I began to feel it—something cracking, something opening–deep, deep in my body. The next morning when we viewed his body in the basement of the funeral home, I remember one minute I was staring at his waxen, long eyelashes that used to sweep across those big, terrified eyes. I just remember those lashes, and the next thing I knew I was launched into a full-blown panic attack. That was the beginning of PTSD’s temperature starting to rise. I moved home and lived with my mother until I was well enough. I went to college to pursue writing. I made the Dean’s List. I had a baby girl named Emma Jane. I was on top of my game for several years, dedicated to psychotherapy and a guinea pig to different anti-depressants, trying to find the right one. My moods were out of whack (still not diagnosed with anything but depression and anxiety) and I was having flashbacks, but nothing that I felt was dangerous enough to mention. I wanted to be well. I had to be well. I was strong, wasn’t I? I was a fighter, wasn’t I? I fought against my abuser and my mother because of her abandonment. I was invincible. Then why this creeping sensation? Why these shadows? I think you know, or your body knows, when something is coming. Busy your life all you want, but when issues go unattended, they’ll come back.

It was in my late twenties, after being properly diagnosed as Bipolar and finally, finally medicated that my life collapsed. I lost my job, I was losing friends, my fiancé and I lost our house (and soon I’d lose him, too). Inside it started as this static that disrupted my thinking. I had fevers. I wasn’t sleeping. I was having body memories and disturbing thoughts and they grew and spread. I’d catch myself, laying in bed at night, crying, and suddenly there were voices—voices in my head. They didn’t talk to me or demand me to do anything, but rather it was like I was listening in on a conversation of a young boy and an old woman, and they gave me peace. Of course it freaked me out in the morning. It added to the fever I ran around in. I was physically sick as well and the doctors had no answers. I was hypervigilent. I saw death around every corner. My daughter was the age I had been when I was molested, and I couldn’t deal with her. She scared me, honestly. My control was slipping, and with that loss I feared suicide. I wasn’t strong enough to stop myself if I did it. I hid all this from everyone, until I found myself running around the empty house holding my head and crying and breathing hard, whispering to my dead grandmother to save me. My mind was out of my control. I was terrified. When I shut my eyes I was seeing things—black figures and red eyes. I threw my things together and ran for the car, and drove myself to the mental hospital. I was like a five year-old in a woman’s heels, banging on the heavy security door. “Help me help me help me.”

It took months and several more trips into “the bin” before I was diagnosed with Complex, Chronic PTSD, Dissociative Disorder, and Psychosis. I wasn’t put on new meds at first—only pumped with shots of Abilify (my Bipolar medication). In the hospital I died. The girl I was was dead. I couldn’t save her—I thought I had to, and I was too weak. I had flashbacks of blindfolds on my eyes, blood on my face, and sexual body memories. I lost all control and identity. My sisters came to see me on Visitor’s Day and they bawled right along with me as I told them I was gone; a caged animal, half-beating. I knew in my very bones that I wasn’t going to make it, and that I had lost. I had lost what was mine because my stepfather chose to take it from me. I knew I’d never get her back, and I was right—only I didn’t know that what I would gain would be so much more.

As time went on, I got worse. I began to have sporadic, psychotic break-throughs. All the world dissolves around you and no one can save you—it’s a delusional trip. Voices I heard appeared in strings coming from the phone receivers. The only thing that calmed me was having someone holding me while it happened, me shrieking in their arms, telling them I wasn’t going to make it. It always passed, but they came on more and more often. I was so terrified of the psychosis that it froze me. I wouldn’t go anywhere, fearing it would happen, and I wouldn’t be left alone, because I was sure that it was going to kill me—or I was going to do it myself. My sisters and I developed a support system that saved me, along with a five-point-scale to let them know how I was feeling or where I was with my psychosis and moods that day. This fabulous way of living continued on for over half a year. I was finally put on a new medication during my fourth or fifth stay at the psych ward, and it eased the flashbacks. I couldn’t stop the psychosis though, but it had slowed to about once a month. As the symptoms let up a little (aside from the dissociative states and hypervigilence) I was finding I had room to breathe. I began to write again. When I can’t find my way, I use my pen. My questions and obsessions about my illnesses were turning in a new direction. Each moment that I wasn’t freaking out in was a decided and much appreciated blessing. I began to meditate. I began to read Hinduism’s Upanishads, Alan Watts and his Eastern thinking, Buddhist scriptures, books on Christianity. I was this swirling eddy. I was awakening as if from a long, long dream. Each day brought me closer to myself, and I began exploring who that self was. Where were my fractured identities? Why wasn’t I feeling like all split lines and divides, half-thoughts and doubts? Who was this woman in the mirror? My eyes were back somehow, as if a veil had been lifted, or was lifting. I cried every day for a long time, relieved that the worst had passed. I was gaining control. But how?

The body has to enter into its own darkness in order to find the light. The light is in the darkness. I had to accept that I had lost, and I had to let myself fall. I died. But somehow, be it faith or God or some divine intervention, I was becoming whole. And I’d never been whole in my life. I realized I had curled up in my own wounds and shadows and I faced utter fear and terror, and because of that sacrifice to my soul, I was able to become from it. As I grew stronger in spirit, my symptoms began to vanish. Your mind is not your friend, it is your enemy. Go with your instincts, your soul, your spirit—that is where the truth is. I let go of the stigmas attached to my illnesses, as I decided that they were not who I was. Letting them go meant breath, I gave them to something else as vague as air and I was new. The mental illnesses were becoming to broken, too translucent, to damage me anymore. I was becoming, at last, enough.

Writing it all down in poetry, essays, memoir pieces, and stories played a major factor in my healing. Once you’ve put down on paper, you’ve given it away. It becomes a thing, instead of part of who you are. I also spent much of my time alone in silence, just being. I was learning to love myself—no matter how messed up that self could be. I accepted myself, I loved myself, I gave myself what I wanted. The ache of what happened will never leave me, but it’s a small scar to own. It’s not ever an emptiness but a numbed, sacred ache that will never know grace or relief but grief for all that was lost when I was young. Sometimes I think of the woman I could have been had it not all happened. Sometimes I ache for that lost little girl. Sometimes I think he stole my life from me. And maybe that’s so in a way, but the parts he took away from me died because I took it to the edge, fell, and came back different. I know that had it not all happened—the abuse, the PTSD, even the bipolar (which I’m still learning to live with)—I never would’ve found myself. I never would’ve had a reason to search and discover. I’m more of who I was meant to be because of it all. In a strange way, PTSD saved my life. What did it take? What does it take to make it? I think that maybe, aside from courage, it’s the will to go on—and that will is so deeply in us that we don’t know it until we’re stripped bare of everything else, and we choose. We choose to survive.

Lothlorien wrote a few posts detailing her personal journey. The first details how she came to the conclusion that she has DID:

* When I first entered therapy in 1991 at the age of 21, I had NO IDEA I might have DID. I knew there were problems. I was in an abusive relationship and desperately wanting out. But I really didn’t think there were problems beyond that.

* When I started therapy I noticed weird things happening.

• I was often asked by my therapist, “Where did you go?” What did she mean, “where did I go????” Hell if I know!
• I heard children’s voices come out of my mouth. Felt the presence of children. Now what the heck was that??? I’m “morphing!”
• Got asked by our therapist, “Do you hear voices?”…….uh………”No way!” That’s like psychotic freaks or something! No, no, no, no. At that time, I don’t think I understood the question. I didn’t hear voices coming “into” my head (like through my ears….like auditory hallucinations). I heard internal voices, coming from the inside out. I knew I was the only one that heard them.
• Went places……bought things…..what is that? where did that come from? Oh, God……that wasn’t there a minute ago. Thought I was losing my mind.
• Every year I always got Christmas cards from people I didn’t know. Not just the polite kind, but the really nice, well written out, personal kind. That was always scary, but now I really began to wonder about that.
• People would say I said and did things I know I didn’t do. Stuff that was way out of character for me. They are just trying to make me feel crazy!!!!!Trying to confuse me…..Right???? Maybe not…..

* In all honesty, this stuff had been going on in my life all along, but being in therapy has a way of making you notice things, and therapists have this “obnoxious” habit of pointing things out, publicizing their observations, and generally making you more aware of this kind of thing.

* I began to wonder if I had DID, which was still called MPD at the time.

* I saw that horrid movie Sybil. No…….I do not have MPD. Definitely not! But…..maybe we got little ones inside…..sort of, kind of, I could identify with that some……But we are not “nutso”! We are not going around mumbling about “the people”! We are not out standing in the middle of fountains. We do not have MPD. See, I work, I support myself, I’m a teacher……I actually teach children with emotional/behavioral disorders. I’m working on a Master’s Degree in Special Education. No way! I do not have MPD!

* Go back to therapy, hear more children, feel more “others”, come out of sessions sometimes having “missed” the whole thing. What is wrong with me??

* Read a book called Multiple Personality From the Inside Out and another one which we so totally identified with called The Flock……….oh, no! We do have MPD!

* Sat in a therapy group with other survivors. Began to wonder, “What’s the difference between this ‘inner child’ people keep talking about and the children within me? And how come I’m the only one who spontaneously gets ‘little’ from time to time?”

* Got brave and drew the children and the teenagers and others I felt inside. Gave it to my therapist. “Fished” for insight. She says, “I’m really glad you showed this to me. I think I really understand now.” That’s it….that’s all she said. I’m thinking, “exactly what do you understand?????”, wanting very much for some hint of professional feedback. But, I didn’t ask. Too embarassed to ask. Too shy…..Too scared to come right out and ask. No one…..no one, I don’t think, would ever in a million years just come right out and say, “I think I have DID.” At least not if they think they really might have it. That’s just too scary for words!

* Thought to myself, “Oh, well…I might, I might not. Doesn’t really matter I guess.”

* Got married and left therapy. I had been “at it” for almost 4 years….time for a break anyway. Had sort of done all I could at the time. Achieved much needed stabilzation from the therapy, and the Zoloft I eventually got on was a bonus. But I knew…someday…there would be more to do.

I recommend reading the rest of that insightful post. Her next posts speaks of being vulnerable:

Lately my posts here have been informational in nature (..the DBT Skills). Sometimes I find I present myself as someone who has it together. I feel like a fraud. Sometimes I do feel like I am doing well, and I am genuinely “holding my own,” but that is really a small portion of the time. Lots of times it’s just a front. Not for you. Not for other people. But for me. Because I have a really hard time facing my own vulnerabilities. I have a hard time being true to myself. Vulnerability is a hard thing.

I realize that I am not always “real” here. I don’t too often truly open myself up. It is very scary to do that. Lots of times when I am not ok, I carry on “as if” I am ok hoping that “as if” will turn into “really ok.” Other times I just dissociate from it all. I don’t go near the feelings. I intellectualize…..I become “other focused”……anything to avoid being present in this body and feeling the feelings.

The truth is….I really don’t know what I’m doing, and I hope that you guys know that. I am just like any of you. I am on the same journey. I research my own disorder because it’s the only way I know to deal with it. I write about it because I want others to know we (as a population) are not crazy, and it helps give me insight into my own stuff. I feel like if I understand it, if I can make sense of it, I can handle it/manage it better. I help others out of complete genuine care and concern. I share what has worked for me because I want to. Occasionally I hear the comforting words I can offer to others, and I think to myself, “I would be wise to listen to my own self.” I am a hypocrite, but it is not intentional.

I am afraid. I am afraid I will never be ok. I’m afraid things will always be this way. I’m afraid that therapy just makes it all worse. I find myself questioning why I would even want to “go back there” (to the memories). It’s not going to change anything. I’ve still been raped and torn apart…..”shat” upon and hurt. Why should I “dwell” on it. I’m frustrated because the more I see clearly, the worse I feel. I’m so afraid.

Her thirs post talks about validation and the things that other people say:

“You are obviously very confused,” said the father to the child. “I meant nothing by it. You are misunderstanding. It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, that was just a dream…..,” said the mother to the child. “You were asleep the whole time.”

“That didn’t just happen. You didn’t just see (????). Where? I don’t see it. Show me. Nope, I don’t see it.”

Again, “You’re obviously very confused.”

“Don’t tell your mother I took you out of school today. She would be mad,” said the father to the child. Nevermind that you just violated your 7 year old daughter in the woods……or whatever you call it……did that happen? Or is she confused again?Oh well, she won’t tell. Mom would be mad if Daddy took her out of school.

“You’re not scared. That’s silly. Go back to bed.”

“Oh, dry it up!!! You have no reason to cry! You think you have it bad??? Well you know (blank) down the street? Well, his parent &*^%#%. You want to know what bad is, you go live over there for awhile.”

And then the friend says, “You’re still having trouble getting over that? Didn’t you already have 4 years of therapy? Well, ok……whatever.”

And the sister says, “I can’t believe you are making Daddy drink milk!” (*I won’t be around my father if he’s drinking alcohol.) OK, I’m not making Daddy drink milk, but it is advantageous for him to do so, lest I leave and the others in the family ask why I am leaving and I per chance decide to tell them exactly what this man does to me when he drinks.

Sometimes the sister says, “What Daddy has done to us is sexually abusive,” and we love her for all times, validated or not, for she struggles with her own level of acceptance. We understand. We were “confused” too.

The father and his alcoholic friends say, “We’re having fun, aren’t we???”………Are we????

The 19 year old that raped the 14 year old girl in the back seat of the car says, “F’ing bitch! You are such a &^%$# tease!” as if she did this to him.

The boyfriend says, “Just relax………” (tears)

Of DID………

The sister says, “I’ve never seen you switch.”

The mother implies, “These screwy, mixed-up, quack-o therapists my daughter sees…….(eyes rolling)”

Society says, “You’re too functional. You’re not like that.”

Of Self Injury……..

One misguided therapist says, “I think you feel like you’re lacking in attention in some way. What is it you need from your husband that you’re not getting?” Huh???????We’ve been married 12 years and he just found out. I’m good at this attention seeking thing. NOT!

Another survivor in a treatment center said quite repulsed, “You still do that???!!!!!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As survivors we have all dealt with more than our share of invalidation. Invalidation comes from many sources: our family, friends, neighbors, peers, media, and society itself. Everyone, survivor of abuse or not, experiences some type of invalidation. Invalidation hurts us all. It particularly hurts when it concerns matters of the heart.

When the very people you turn to for support invalidate, it is painful…….When a parent invalidates and fails to protect a small child, it’s devastating. Over and over I have experienced invalidation, especially from my parents-the two people on this Earth who are supposed to love me unconditionally, care for me, and cherish my very existence. I have spent my whole life seeking the validation I have so needed. I have repeated my requests, I have tried and tried and failed repeatedly. Time after time I think, “This time they will understand. This time they will get it.” Time after time I am painfully reminded that they will not.

I am coming close to realizing, however that the validation that matters most doesn’t come from my parents. It doesn’t come from my family, or my friends, or my teachers, counselors, peers, etc. The validation that matters most comes from within.

Recently we spoke our truth to our therapist, and that truth finally permeated through the depths of our system. Now all inside know of what happened, and all believe and know of its truth even if the events didn’t happen on “their watch.” What happened to “one of us” happened to all of us. There is understanding and a unity inside that didn’t exist before. We have a common goal—to heal.

Now, I am finding that I care less whether I ever get the validation I seek from others. I have it within me. I believe me. And that’s what matters most.

Her final post speaks of questioning her diagnosis:

A young lady with Dissociative Identity Disorder walks into her therapist’s office. This is the same therapist she has been seeing for the past year. On this day she falls into her usual chair, looks down at her wriggling hands and tells her therapist, “I am so sorry. I am just so messed up. I really don’t mean it, but I’ve gotto stop telling these lies. These people inside of me…..the others that tell these horrid stories of abuse. They are just not real. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why I would make up such a thing, but I have to tell you it’s all a bunch of bullshit.”

The therapist listens. She’s heard this before. She knows this scenario all too well. Her client continues to talk.

“I don’t think I have DID. I just make all this stupid stuff up in my head. I don’t know where it comes from or why. Maybe I’m delusional……I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what causes these so-called switches that happen either, but I think maybe I’m just crazy. I think I could stop it. I just don’t think I’m DID. I think I must’ve made it all up for some freakish reason which I have no idea why, and….well…I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”

If you have been diagnosed with DID, chances are you have had this very conversation with yourself, your parts (oddly enough), and/or your therapist. If you are a therapist who works with clients that have DID, chances are you have heard this numerous times. I know I have been through this myself. I have written my therapist emails and told her the same thing. I have told myself I’m just crazy and there’s something seriously wrong with me, but it’s not DID only to switch moments later and think, “Damnit!”

For those of us that do have DID, let’s think about these very thoughts and concerns for a bit. Let us suppose, for just a moment, that we are subconsciously faking it for some reason for which we can’t imagine. I say “subconsciously” because most of us with DID that do say these things to ourself and our therapist don’t feel like it would be something we did on purpose. We just think we’ve gone crazy and this has just happened. But let’s just consider the subconsciously faking it possibility for a minute.

First of all, why?? There are reasons that people fake disorders. Many of them are more purposeful than subconscious in nature. People may fake a disorder to avoid legal prosecution. I don’t know about you, but that’s not an issue for me. Some people fake disorders and illness both subconsciously and consciously for attention or to fill some unmet emotional need. Ummm….this is not the kind of “attention” I want. Really…..I don’t think so, but I don’t know…maybe, just maybe I reap some nurturance and care from it and that can be rather nice. My therapist gives me her undivided attention and sits with me, supports me, cares for me unconditionally. That’s kind of nice.

Oh, that must be it. I’m seriously missing something from my life. I have lots of unmet needs, and I’m looking to my therapist to fill them, so this is why I act this way. I’m really more fucked up than I thought.(insert sad, sad face here)

Ok, suppose, again………that’s true. Why DID?? Why, of ALL the disorders in the entire DSM IV, would I choose DID? Why not just straight forward Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Why not Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder? Why not Depression, Aspergers, or Generalized Anxiety?? Even if we were to be unconsciously faking it, there would be a reason we unknowingly chose DID. There is some connection there. That would mean something. Chances are there is some kind of identification there. Something about it intrigues us, grasps and holds our interest. In some way we feel connected to it. Why??

And…..if I’m faking it, then that means I could probably fake other mental illnesses, right? So, could you fake an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder for any real length of time?? Like beyond minutes, hours, or days?? How about for over a year? Could you do that with Aspergers?? Could you feign Schizophrenia?? Agoraphobia?? Or Bipolar Disorder? You might could for awhile, but chances are you couldn’t keep it up 24/7. Would it feel like it fit? Or would it feel like you were wearing someone else’s clothes? If you think you could, go for it! I know I couldn’t. I would get tired. I would forget. I would let my guard down. It would feel very awkward. Funny thing about this DID, though…..it doesn’t feel awkward. In fact, since I was diagnosed, I feel like I’m finally in my right “clothes”. It’s been sort of like when people come out as homosexual. They feel like finally they are being true to themselves. There is that same sense for me with DID….that ahhhh…..I can finally be. And it’s ok. And I no longer have to hide it. I suppose I am not faking it.

But still, how do I know for sure? I could test it. I could just quit. I could just quit doing it. If I’m faking it, I can stop it, right? So we’ll see. I’ll just quit acknowledging these “other people” inside, and as far as all this stupid switching stuff goes….if I am faking, well, I’ll just stop that too.

Ever tried it?? How long does that work for you? Not very long, huh? Me neither. Can’t do it. Wish I could, but I can’t. Stupid shit still happens.

The reality is that for the most part, those of us who have been given the diagnosis by a qualified psychotherapist really do have this disorder. And honestly it is actually our questioning it that makes it most real. People who fake things either consciously or unconsciously don’t wonder if they are faking it. They don’t get distressed at the thought that they may just be full of shit and just plain crazy.

This leads me to another thought I had recently. Those of us with DID often criticize those who do not believe in DID. Think about this…..if at some point, we even doubt it……and we live with it….how can we expect that others wouldn’t also?

Dissociative Identity Disorder is a reality. People really do have this. People really do live with this. I live with this. Perhaps you do too. Perhaps you doubt. Perhaps you wonder. Perhaps you are just coming to realize you are not making this all up, and you are not crazy. Perhaps it just is…..and that’s ok.

I doubt that these posts begin to scratch the surface of who she is but they are powerful and make up part of her personal journey.

Sheila at her Prozac Withdrawal blog reflects upon her personal journey during a bout of insomnia:

I lay awake all last night, just could not switch my brain “off”, getting more and more wound up as the night dragged on, worrying. When you’re lying in the dark, unable to switch off, everything seems so much worse than in the cold light of day. For me insomnia is a very frightening experience because back in 2003 when I was “breaking down” a feature of that illness was not being able to sleep for literally nights on end, and feeling really so terrified and alone as I felt myself cracking up and mentally falling apart at the seams, adrenaline rushing round my body 24/7 keeping me awake against my will, caused by the prozac/lustral withdrawal, a very dark and frightening place to be. I feel scarred by 2003, one bad night now and I’m back in 2003 and thinking I’m falling apart once again. In the cold light of day I know this isn’t true. This too will pass, I love that quote.

My own entry details my personal journey and hopefully sheds light on how I got here:

I was a happy kid. I loved school. I had a lot of friends and did well. I looked after my brother in a way only an older sister can. Our Dad had left us but we didn’t seem to notice. Our Mum was depressed but we still seemed to be happy, just playing, amusing ourselves as only children know how. Our Dad kicked us out of our family home and moved his new girlfriend in. We went to live with one of our Mum’s friends. Everything was OK. We then moved into a series of government housing homes. We were happy because we stayed at the same school.

When I was six or seven, our step-dad came into the picture. Soon enough, our Mum started using drugs in front of us with him. They didn’t act differently, the house just smelled of pot. The smell got everywhere- in our clothes, our hair. Only now do I wonder if the teacher’s at our school new. They must have- the smell was everywhere. Then things started to go a bit downhill- our parents started sleeping all day, we were constantly late for school. One time, our parents forgot about us and a teacher drove us home. But we were still happy. Oblivious, I guess. Well, to an extent. We just knew our Mum was different.

I am am more than happy to add any last minute entries. Also, watch this space for details of the September Blog Carnival of Mental Health.