Dissociative Disorder & Me

I use a diary or journal to identify patterns or problems that might otherwise escape my attention. Concentrating or lack of same is an everyday problem. Writing down problems I encounter helps me resolve them in practical ways. I share here a few random observations.

JUNE
I saw the first oriental cockroach today and spent hours fighting the urge to scour my house and myself into oblivion. The exterminator swears these bugs are not the kind that propogate wildly and infest homes, but a bug that just occasionally finds its way into the house. I paced and muttered and gagged, searching for more until Ron took up the hunt so I would relax. Maybe I'll settle down for awhile if we don't see any more bugs. Dow Bathroom Cleaner (Scrubbing Bubbles) kills them so will make sure I have a new can on hand this summer.
JULY
We went to WalMart today and I had a particularly strong bout with anxiety. I learned long ago not to weep and wail like a lost child -- which is what I always feel like doing -- but can't seem to overcome the icy cold sweats in crowded places. The check out clerk kept asking me if I was OK and suggested I sit down. I told her to just ignore me. Hate to make such a public mess out of myself. Icy sweat poured off the ends of my hair and dripped onto my shoulders while paying for the groceries. Honestly? I'm not sure if the anxiety kicks in because of being in a crowded place or because food prices have gone sky high. I'll have to think about this one awhile.
AUGUST
I'm always so thankful to survive summer until August. I can see fall in the near future, then blesed winter. This morning was pleasant and breezy so I sat outside under the trees awhile. Nice, but the gnats, mosquitoes, and flies finally drove me into the house. And, of course, I have to check myself repeatedly for hours in case a tick fell on me from the trees. Just thinking the word "tick" can send me into a frenzy, imagining them crawling in my ears and hair. Still, there was a time I couldn't enjoy a pleasant morning at all so I'm thankful for the progress.
SEPTEMBER
42 degrees this morning. OH what JOY!!! I took a walk around the grassy acre today and visited Gray Mama's grave. She was so sweet and loving. Usually I cry so seldom visit her grave, but today I did OK. The air was crisp and breezy, nary a bug in sight, and walking felt good. A small glimmer of hope sparked with this change in seasons. Another month or so of this and I'll be almost normal again.

diary clipart from Clipart Guide

One early winter morning, my mother called and asked if I'd take her to a doctor appointment. When I arrived to pick her up, she said, "I want you to know before we leave why I'm seeing the doctor."

She pulled up her blouse, took my hand and laid it along the underside of her breast. A raw wound the size of an orange grew there. My eyes saw it, hand touched it, but my brain withdrew in disbelief. I felt my mind short out and shut down. The woman, daughter, Registered Nurse in me could not accept that my mother had advanced cancer.

She'd lived with this malignant tumor for months, allowing it to grow, waiting to see the doctor until she had Medicare.

I'd already been mildly dissociating from weariness and stress. This episode exacerbated what might have been a temporary mental condition.

This photo shows how I felt that day -- fragmented, confused, shattered into a thousand pieces.

I worked a full time job as the Education Coordinator at our local hospital, took Mom to and from radiation and chemotherapy treatments. I socialized with my friends, and maintained life as usual with my husband, co-workers and siblings, but still can't remember most of it.

My perceptions of everything around me were distorted. I felt totally detached from myself and my surroundings. By all appearances, according to those close to me, I functioned more or less normally, but I was physically ill much of the time.

I knew something was wrong but couldn't effectively verbalize my needs. Treating the physical illnesses didn't stop my mental symptoms.

Mentally, I continued to lose touch with reality. The picture here shows exactly how I felt -- like part of me was separated from the whole, missing.

Once amnesia set in, I was a blank slate, learning life all over again.

I couldn't remember how to make coffee or cook the simplest meal, didn't know where anything was located in my kitchen.

When friends came to visit, I pretended to know them. I learned to smile instead of sitting blankly so they wouldn't look at me with shock on their faces.

I didn't remember anyone in my family -- mother, grandmother, husband, or siblings. For several weeks I stayed in seclusion because my reactions in public were childlike and unpredictable.

I called my multiple personalities imaginary people. Although my mind was shattered, I still refused to let them tell me what to do.

After seeing no improvement in three weeks, my attending physician suggested admission to a psychiatric facility as an inpatient. My imaginary people went with me, all clamoring noisily for attention and dominance.

The Rorschach test was given within the first few days of my stay at the psych unit. None of the ink blots registered until I saw the one pictured here. My reaction was swift and scary because I cried for hours after seeing it. No one ever explained why I had that reaction. Maybe they didn't know.

I can't remember the type of music played during therapy. It had Gaelic qualities, haunting and soothing at the same time. This therapy occured at night in a dimly lit room with me lying quietly in bed. One night my mind went blank and I began to cry. I can't remember anything until the next morning when the psychiatrist said, "We've finally had a breakthrough. Now we know the root of your problem."

He explained that most cases of Dissociative Disorder stem from trauma or physical, mental, emotional, or sexual abuse and that music therapy often releases those memories.

My inpatient stay at the psych clinic was a godsend. It took me out of a chaotic world and provided a place of quiet introspection.

My imaginary people didn't like it there because one, the staff helped control them and two, I felt stronger and less bewildered in that quiet place.

The staff evaluated me through Rorschach testing and showing me pictures to see my response. They also questioned my husband and closest friends to learn about my work and interests. My treatment plan included psychotheray, music and art therapy, and physical activity.

The breakthrough came during music therapy. I wasn't cured, but my level of effective functioning improved greatly. A bit of light and hope began to penetrate.

I've lived with Dissociative Disorder for 28 years now and most of what I've learned came from trial and error.

Medications did not help me in the slightest so I had to learn coping techniques over time.

I can still be productive and creative, but have to monitor my stress levels and physical tiredness carefully. If I get too tired or stressed, I detach, depersonalize, or have a whale of an anxiety attack.

I voluntarily gave up nursing because it was the only practical thing to do under the circumstances.

I maintain a peaceful, uncluttered environment because that keeps me centered and focused.

If I'm feeling "off" at any time, I stay home where it's quiet.

I'm honest with family, friends, acquaintances about DD. I'm not ashamed of my condition. I broke down and can't do some of the things I used to do. But I'm still a productive, functioning human being. That's the crux of it.

Today I'm safe and smiling. Some days I muddle through. Most days I triumph.
Dissociative Disorder did not beat me and it does not have to define your life, either. You are stronger than you realize.

A purple star is the highest award a lens can earn.
Thank you for this honor. I'm thrilled.

Star graphic by Steve Thompson