Tag Archives: dissociative identity disorder

I went and bought a suitcase today.  Actually, a three-piece luggage set, which at regular price was $199, but I got it for $70.  Pretty great deal.  It’s just weird to buy luggage.  It struck me as something real people do, and I’ve lapsed back into feeling like I’m not a real person.  Does the fact that I now own a matched luggage set make me a real person?

I’m not sure that will make any sense to anyone outside my head.  I’m not entirely sure I’m capable of making sense.

It’s all surreal, you know?  I’m really dysfunctional; I hardly leave my bed or get dressed or brush my hair or anything.  But at the same time, I’m planning for this big trip all on my own.  Going back to where I grew up, to most of the people I grew up with.  And I don’t know how I’m going to do with it.

I still sort of think of Birmingham as home.  It’s a little confusing–I never intend to live there again, I never really fit in anywhere there, but I’m still fond of it.  But I haven’t been back there in seven years, and there are a lot of bad memories there too.  And some bad people.

And then–Florida, with my mother, to help her after her neck surgery.  I volunteered for that: why?  I thought I was past trying to be good enough to make her love me, but is that why I’m doing it?  I’d prefer to think it’s mostly selfish, that I wanted to spend time at the beach and I volunteered because she’ll be at work most of the time, so I’ll get to do what I want.  I don’t know which is true; it’s probably a combination of both.  But it disgusts me that I’m weak enough to still go seeking her approval by playing the good daughter.

I think a lot of the confusion is because there are so many parts with conflicting feelings.  Cognitive dissonance, because it doesn’t make sense together.  Luckily I’ve gotten good at ambivalence.  I can hold multiple contradictory beliefs or wishes simultaneously, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or if it just means I’m extra crazy.  It probably doesn’t matter which.

I’m not making sense, am I?  I don’t think I’m making sense.  Part of me cares, but most of me doesn’t, anymore.  I don’t know what I’m talking about.  I don’t know what I’m writing.  It probably doesn’t matter.


Filed under Uncategorized

Happy Dance Time (or something)

Idiot Case Manager is leaving the program I’m in!  I won’t have to deal with her for a whole lot longer!

It was really hard not to act excited when she told me.  Really hard.  It was even harder because she seemed to think I’d be upset about it, and that made it hard not to start laughing.

Then she basically tried to push me out of the program, which is fucked up on a number of levels.  I know I seem high-functioning, but the last few weeks, my life has been falling apart more and more.  I really need support right now, not that I’ve been getting that from ICM.  She doesn’t even ask about my life, beyond, “Hi, how are you?”  She’s done nothing to gain my trust, so of course I just tell her I’m fine.

I really hope I get someone better when she leaves.  I need someone who actually knows what they’re doing and is actually going to try to help.  I really, really need someone right now.


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Gotta Love Memory Loss

Someone friended me on Facebook tonight.  I couldn’t for the life of me remember who she was, but we had three mutual friends, all people I knew from the 2 years I spent at a treatment center.  So I approved her friend request even though I had no memory of her.

Then she posted on my timeline–along the lines of, “Hey, how are?”  I gave a nondescript answer at first and then went to scour her page to see if I could figure out who on earth she was.  Her pictures didn’t even look familiar.

Finally I texted B and asked him who the hell this person was.  (B and I met at this program.)  Apparently, she was my first nursing care coordinator (NCC).  I met with her every day for months and saw her several times a week once she wasn’t my NCC anymore.  This was only five years ago–it’s not like it’s been decades or anything.

I suspect most of this is caused by the ECT, although some of it might also be dissociation.  I had 29 ECT’s the year after I left that program, and I lost most of my memories of the five years before the ECT, including the time I spent at this treatment program.  But usually I’ve been able to at least recognize people and remember how I felt about them, even if I couldn’t remember why.  For instance, B and I ran into another former patient.  I remembered I didn’t like him but couldn’t remember why.  I had to ask B why.  Once he filled me in, I vaguely remembered the incident, and it made sense why I didn’t like him.

But this woman, I couldn’t remember at all.  Once B told me she’d been my NCC, the first name clicked.  Her picture is still totally foreign to me, though.  It’s really weird when somebody knows you but you don’t know them.  Luckily, my lifelong history of dissociation has made me really good at knowing how to act like I know what’s going on when I really have no idea.


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I think part of the reason I’m feeling so crappy–a BIG part of the reason–is my relationship with B.  Or my apparent lack of a relationship.

He won’t pick up the phone.  Won’t call me back.  Won’t answer my texts.  I don’t know why.  Nothing happened, as far as I know–we didn’t fight or anything.  He’s just not talking to me.

We’re supposed to go to my sister’s wedding together.  We planned to do a big road trip.  B loves road trips, so I thought it would be fun.  Two summers ago, he and a buddy from college rented an RV and did a cross-country road trip.  He wanted me to come, but I just wasn’t in a place where I could.  So I thought a smaller road trip would be a good way to make up for it.

We need to, you know, plan this trip, seeing as how the wedding’s in less than a month.  I’ve been trying for three weeks to get him to plan this with me, but he won’t respond.  I don’t know what to do; I don’t think I can afford a plane ticket now.  I don’t want to seem pushy or bitchy or whatever, but I need to know if he’s coming or not.  I mean, what else am I supposed to do?  I guess I’ll email him and say, “Look, I don’t know what the deal is, but are we doing this trip or not?  If you want me to leave you alone, just tell me, but it’s not fair to leave me hanging.”  It sounds passive-aggressive, but I don’t know what else to do.

Since he moved to New York at the beginning of the year, he’s been more distant.  I thought it was just that we were adjusting to the long-distance relationship thing.  He never reached out–but to be fair, neither did I.  (I never do with anyone because I always feel like they don’t really want to be bothered by having to deal with me.)  I did call him when I found out my grandmother had died, and he couldn’t even be there for me.  I gave him the benefit of the doubt because it was late and he was about to have finals, but he never called back to see if I was okay or anything.  He did call on my birthday, but I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t call him back.

It really hurts, but I feel like I have no right to be hurt.  See, a few years ago, I broke up with him.  I felt like he deserved someone better, someone without all my issues, someone who could give him sex and kids and everything he wanted.  I didn’t talk to him for months.  I honestly thought it was better for him, that it would hurt him less that way.  I was really messed up then, and I was wrong.  I hurt him so badly, and I’ve never gotten over the guilt.  Part of me feels like I don’t deserve to complain about how he’s treating me because I did it to him first.

But another part of me says that doesn’t make it okay for him to hurt me back.  I would never intentionally hurt him.  I learned from my massive mistake, and it’s not one I’ll repeat.  I still deserve to have feelings, and I deserve a partner who cares about my feelings.

I don’t know.  I feel like I should just walk away, but part of me can’t.  I don’t get attached to people, not usually.  I’ve walked away from so many people in my life, whether intentionally or because I stopped tending to the relationship, and I’ve never missed anyone before.  That probably makes me sound like a cold sociopath or something, but it’s true.  I’ve never really missed anyone before, not like this.  They might pop up in my thoughts every so often, and I might wish I could see them or talk to them, but it never hurt before.  This hurts.  And I’m angry at myself for letting it go this far.  I hate myself for being so weak and stupid, for letting myself love him.  I’m just not meant for that.

God, I don’t know.  Maybe if I hadn’t been so detached for my entire life, I’d be used to this by now.  Maybe if I hadn’t been such a robot…

The more I think about it, the more messy things get in my head.  I know a lot of this is coming from other parts, but I can’t sort it all out.  I don’t want to sort it out.  I want to go back in time and never let myself have feelings for him.  I want to call him and beg him to not stop loving me.  I want to erase him from my head entirely so I don’t keep feeling like this.  I don’t want to deal with any of this.  I can’t deal with anything right now.


Filed under psych, relationships


I’m realizing that I spend a lot of time these days feeling disconnected.

I interact with people a lot, primary through my political work.  It’s great; I love it.  But I only get to be part of me in that context.  It’s a part of me that I like–capable, confident, smart, quick learner, good with people.  I feel valuable and wanted.  I even feel like people like me.  I’d like to be that person all the time–it feels good.

But it’s not all of who I am, and neglecting the other parts of me isn’t going to do us any good in the long run.

There’s also part of me who’s sick and scared.  My hair is falling out.  I can’t stand up for more than a minute before my legs start to shake and give out on me.  Half of my right big toe is numb, and the last two days, I’ve had tingling and numbness from my left elbow down to my pinkie and ring fingers.  I get headaches I can’t shake for days.  I have bruises all over my body even though I haven’t bumped into anything.  My belly hurts almost constantly.  I’m still waiting to hear back from my gastroenterologist about the recent labs, but I’m starting to think this is something more than just the ulcerative colitis.  It scares the shit out of me.

And there’s the depression that’s always there, niggling at me.  I can only push it away for so long.  Anxiety, too.  I just keep worrying that something is going to blow up in my face that I can’t handle, and everything will fall apart.  I can push away the fear and depression for a while, but it never really disappears.

And I can feel young parts close to the surface.  I always know when they’re nearby because I start to crave care, someone to take care of me because I’m scared and alone and I can’t do it myself.  But I have to.  I’m an adult, and there’s no one to take care of me now.  I don’t even have a community anymore, not since I had to leave the treatment program I was in.  I still see my team leader twice a month, but most of the time, I’m on my own.  Idiot Case Manager thinks I’m doing great, not that I believe I’d get any substantial help from her even if she didn’t think I was doing great.  I get the sense that aside from drugs and hospitals, they don’t have much to offer.

And what is it I really want people to offer, anyway?  What is it that you think would actually help?

I want to feel not alone.  I want a community where I can be all of me.  I keep thinking about going back to the trauma unit just to be surrounded by people who get it, but that doesn’t really fit.  I’m not in crisis; I don’t need to be monitored and locked up; I need to have my freedom and ability to do my work.  But I also need to feel held, and I don’t, here.  There’s no one around me who understands what I’ve been through.  I don’t even have a therapist anymore.  Partly that’s my own fault, I know.  I could look for another one, but I don’t.  I probably won’t.  Or, well, I’ll search and search, I’ll find them online and read their profiles, but I’ll never pick up the phone and call.  I’m too afraid.

I’ve built up my own walls, and I have no idea how to get out of them.  I’m alone and afraid, and it hurts so much right now.


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Feeling Crappy

Feeling crappy tonight.

I saw C today, and she said she’d spoken again with A.  (If you recall, I was told that to keep C as my clinical mentor, I have to have a therapist, so I’d agreed to meet with C and A together on the 29th.)  Apparently A reconsidered, and now she doesn’t think she can work with me because she doesn’t understand DID well enough.  I don’t know why she decided that now instead of back when I first started seeing her.  I told her I had DID and wanted to work on those issues.

I don’t understand why it hurts so much.  I haven’t even seen her in 2 months or so, maybe even longer, but I’m sitting here fighting back tears.  I didn’t even want to go to the meeting with her!  I was dreading it.  So why does it hurt so much now?

So now I have to find a new therapist.  I don’t know how–I have literally been through every therapist within range of public transit.  I don’t even want to try anymore, but if I don’t have a therapist, then I lose C, too.  Then I’d be stuck with no one except Idiot Case Manager, who’s worse than useless.

I also found out my insurance won’t approve my progesterone because the prescription came from my psychiatrist.  WTF?  I’m using it for PMDD, and without it, I go crazy every month.  I don’t know why they’d suddenly deny it now; I’ve been on it for months, and they’ve never objected before.

S, the nurse who was on my team back when I had a team, said she knows an OB/GYN who’s trauma-sensitive and won’t insist on doing an exam, so they’re going to make me an appointment.  I’m still terrified.  I mean, how do I know they won’t suddenly insist on an exam once I’m there?  I don’t have anyone who could go with me anymore, and I don’t know that I’d be able to say no.  I have a tendency to shut down and let people do whatever they want with my body.  I’m debating whether I should omit certain medical information–like the fact that the first 2-3 days of my period are so painful I can’t function and the fact that one of the scans they did when I first got sick with UC accidentally found an ovarian cyst–to decrease the likelihood of them deciding to do an exam.  I know I shouldn’t leave out information, but…I’m scared.  I don’t know what to do.

I’m trying to tell myself that I can handle it and that I have the ability to say no.  And there are things that I probably should’ve talked to an OB/GYN about a long time ago, like the unmanageable cramps.  I’m also interested in discussing actual birth control (I’ve just been taking the progesterone for the two weeks before my period), potentially one of the ones where you get to skip periods most months.  First for the PMDD but also because my UC always gets much worse around the time of my period.  So maybe it’ll be productive to see this doctor?  That’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.


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Alone and Hurting

Warning: there’s some talk of sex and rape down the page a bit, after I start talking about BF.  Feel free to skip it if it might trigger you.

I’m hurting today.  I feel sad and alone, and I just want a hug.  I think it’s the combination of being sick, the aftermath of Mother’s Day, and some triggers I accidentally ran into the past few days.

I talked to my mother yesterday.  I’m ashamed to admit that–for the past couple months, I’ve been in touch with her sporadically.  I think I’m afraid people will see me as weak for going back on the no contact.  But to be fair to myself, I’ve gone into this with no illusions.  I think the years of no contact let me get the distance I needed and grow up enough that I no longer think she can be a mother to me, no matter how sweet she acts.  I see her for what she is now.  When I told her I was sick again and my liver might be in trouble, she said, “Oh, that’s too bad” and then went on and on about her upcoming neck surgery and her troubles with her and her husband’s insurance companies.  A small part of me wanted her to be concerned about me, but I wasn’t crushed when she wasn’t.  I didn’t give her personal information about my life that she could use to hurt me later.  I mean, she knows I’m working for the Democrats, which used to terrify me, but I’m done looking for my family’s approval.  (The way I described it to A, in talking about going to my sister’s wedding and talking to the adults in my family was, “I GET DEMOCRATS ELECTED SO FUCK ALL Y’ALL!”)  She may be my mother biologically, but I know now that she’ll never really be a mother to me.  I’ve come to terms with that as much as anyone can, I think.

But it still hurts.  There’s this hole inside me that will never be filled.  Therapists and self-help books talk about how you have to reparent yourself, but I think that’s probably bullshit.  It’s not going to fill that yawning empty hole or all the pieces broken by my parents’ years of abuse.  I think maybe that’s something that’s supposed to hurt so you know, without a doubt, that what they did was wrong.

I don’t want it to hurt, though.  I don’t want to be alone.  I don’t want to be sick.  It’s beautiful outside, sunny and warm and summery.  The birds are all singing.  And I’m stuck in bed because I don’t have the stamina to do any more than that.  Last night, I couldn’t stand up long enough to boil pasta–I collapsed on my kitchen floor, occasionally pulling myself up on the counter to see if the noodles were soft yet.  I can’t afford to buy enough frozen dinners to last me the whole week, but cooking doesn’t go well when I’m this sick.  And not eating makes me weaker, but eating hurts.  Fuck ulcerative colitis.

And last night, I went to bed exhausted, but then I started thinking about BF and how much I miss him, and then I couldn’t sleep.  It’s been four months since I’ve seen him, even though New York isn’t that far away.  He was doing the play, and I’ve been busy with the campaign.  But we don’t even talk that much anymore.  When I was in the hospital in Baltimore, he called every night, even though he couldn’t always get through.  (22 patients, 3 phones: you do the math.)  When I was in the hospital in Texas, he called every night, and we talked for at least an hour every night.  (We had our own phones there.)  He was my lifeline in that hellhole, the only thing that kept me sane.  He even flew down to Houston for the weekend to see me.  And now it’s been 4 months.  We text and Facebook message.  He hasn’t called me.  Of course, I haven’t called him either.  I’m too afraid of rejection, even from him.

I want to spend the rest of my life with him.  He wants to spend the rest of his life with me.  I even want to have kids with him.  I never thought I’d want that with anyone, but I do.  I just don’t know if it can work.  I’m asexual and sex-averse.  I’d be willing to try to overcome that for him, for us, but I’m not sure it’s even possible.  I don’t think my asexuality can be changed, but I’m okay with that.  It’s the aversion to sex I’m worried about.  I honestly can’t imagine having sex without it feeling like rape.  Hell, it even feels like rape when he kisses me and pushes his tongue in my mouth.  Even though I say it’s okay, anything even vaguely sexual feels like rape to me.  Is it even possible to overcome that?

But I don’t want him to just have to bend to my needs.  He has already for all this time.  I want it to be a partnership, so he shouldn’t have to be the one who sacrifices all the time.  That’s not fair to him.  I want him to get what he needs, and for him sex is a need in a marriage.  Plus, I actually want to have at least a couple of kids with him, and that kinda makes sex necessary.  I think I could just lie there and let him do it, but that’s not what either of us wants–I want to be able to participate, you know?  Because I love him.  I don’t want to feel like he’s raping me.  I don’t even know for sure that it wouldn’t make me flip out or dissociate.  I’ve never had consensual sex, so I don’t know for sure how I’d react.  (I know, I’m 27, but please don’t judge.)

I know there’s therapy that can help with this.  BF and I have discussed doing couples therapy before, and whenever we finally move in together, we will do that.  But a lot of this stuff belongs in individual therapy.  It would crush BF to find out that anything remotely sexual we’ve done has felt like rape, and I don’t think he necessarily needs to know that.  And dealing with this would have to involve details of my abuse that I don’t particularly want to discuss with him–I want him to see me as I am now, not as that broken, abused little girl.  I discussed some of this with A before I fired her, but even discussing it with another person triggered some dissociation and severe anxiety.  Will I ever be able to get past this?  I don’t want to be alone forever.  I want to spend my life with him.  There has to be a way, right?


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I don’t really know where I am lately, psychologically speaking.  I’m out of touch with myself/selves.  The voices aren’t very present most of the time since the suicide attempt, except when I debate what to do about therapy/treatment.  Most of the time I just feel dull.  Not the dissociative numbness I’m used to where I know I’m feeling things, just from a very long way away.  This is just…flat, empty.

I’m not motivated to do anything.  I haven’t been writing or making art or listening to music.  I haven’t even been knitting, which is very unusual for me.  I lie in bed with Law & Order playing on Netflix, but I don’t think I could tell you the plot of any of the episodes.  For some reason, it helps to have the picture and the noise to occupy my brain, even though I’m not really paying attention.  (Don’t ask me how that makes any sense.  I’m as lost as you are.)  I play solitaire on my phone just to have something to do with my hands.  You’d think I’d want to knit so at least I’d be producing something, but I don’t.  I’m not opposed to it; I just don’t care.

If I could, I’d just sleep all the time.  I’m not even talking the suicidal “I want to sleep forever” stuff.  I just feel safest in bed with the covers wrapped around my shoulders and tucked up to my chin.  It’s like I almost don’t exist under there, nothing but my face.  It’s soft and warm, and nothing else in my world is right now.

But I can’t even sleep.  Not very well, anyway.  I think I’m almost asleep, but then I turn over and I’m awake again.  Then I wake up several times during the night.  Then I’m up early in the morning because my colon is screaming at me, and then I can’t get back to sleep.  My sleep meds aren’t helping.  Even Benadryl isn’t helping, and that almost always knocks me out.  I just want to sleep.

I haven’t even been terribly motivated to do political stuff.  I have to drag myself.  I went to a phone bank this week, and I spent 5 hours canvassing today.  And I do well at those things, and I enjoy being trusted with authority and responsibility.  But I’m just tired and unmotivated and unexcited.  I’d rather be curled up in bed.

I don’t understand what’s going on.  I have this intuitive sense that something’s going on with my parts just outside my awareness, but I don’t know what.  I should probably be worried, but I’m not, really.  I should be trying to communicate with them and find out what’s going on, but I just don’t have the motivation.  I can’t make me care enough.  I mean, everything is flat–at least I’m not anxious, at least I’m not depressed, at least nothing hurts.  I’m worried if I start digging, there could be another suicide attempt.  And being here isn’t really so terrible.

But it isn’t where I want to be, either.


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“You set up these impossible situations…”

The best therapist I ever had once said, “You set up these impossible situations where no one can win, especially you.”  She wasn’t accusing me or being judgmental, and her observation was accurate.  Her idea about it was that I unconsciously reenact the dynamics of my childhood, where my life was an impossible situation with no way to win.  That explanation resonated with me.  Still does.

Her explanation of why I set up these impossible situations was laced with compassion for me.  All of her explanations of my behavior were.  I can’t find that kind of compassion for myself.  I just get frustrated and angry.  I berate myself for knowing the pattern but not changing it, even though it feels impossible to change it.

Like my therapy situation.  I am so ANGRY at myself for it.  Instead of summarily firing A, why didn’t I just tell her what had been going on, how I’d been feeling about the work we were doing, or not doing?  Why didn’t I at least give her a chance to fix it?  Why do I whine about not having anyone to talk to but refuse to fix the situation, either by going back to A or by finding a new therapist?  Why do I whine about not being able to trust anyone to help me figure out the recent suicide attempt when I’m unwilling to do the work and go through the process of learning to trust someone?

It makes me hate myself.  I want to slap myself across the face and say, “Either do something about it or shut the fuck up!  Everyone is sick of hearing you whine about it when you’re obviously not willing to DO anything about it.”  And by everyone, I mean me.  I mean I’m sick of hearing it, of hearing myself.  I’m sick of hearing and seeing and feeling the pain.  I’m sick of feeling pulled in two opposite directions.  I’m sick of feeling stuck and immobilized.  My anger at myself then becomes, in my mind, the entire world hating me.  I start feeling like I shouldn’t post or reply to comments because all I do is shoot down people’s suggestions.

“They’re all sick of you, Hope.  You know that.  You’re so negative all the time, and nobody wants to hear that.  Nobody wants to listen to someone who’s always so negative.  You push everybody away.”  It’s my mother’s voice, an introject, repeating her reasons for why I was unlovable.  I know it’s the things my mother told me, but this introject, she’s also me, and I believe those words because as much as they once came from my mother, now they come from me.

I can never quite manage to find compassion for myself.

I think what I need from a therapist right now is what that therapist could give me.  She could see me almost completely: all the fucked up things I felt and thought and did, all the fucked up things that had happened to me, all the fucked up things I had done.  She had this incredible ability to cut right to the painful, ugly heart of an issue, with scalpel-like insight.  But there was so much compassion and kindness, too.  I never thought someone could see me that clearly and completely but still be kind and compassionate toward me.  That changed me, in some fundamental way I’ve never been able to articulate.

The memory that comes up right now, the closest I can come to articulating the way the relationship changed me, was the end of a family session.  We’d been on the phone with my grandparents, and my grandfather had taken me apart with a saw.  I can’t remember what he’d said, but it was brutal, and I didn’t feel like I could survive it.  I was curled up on the couch, crying.  My therapist said something to try to comfort and encourage me–I think something about how I was doing good work there.

“It doesn’t matter!” I said.  It didn’t matter what she said or thought about me because my own family, the people who were supposed to know me and love me best, thought I was bad, evil, worthless.  “None of it matters!”

“It matters,” she said.  She had this way of talking sometimes that was quiet but fierce.  “And you matter.”

That kindness felt unbearable because it was coming from her instead of from my family, the people I most needed to hear it from.  I all but ran out of there, back up to my room.  I felt like I was going to explode from all the pain built up.  I needed to cut to let it out.  Before I even really knew what I was doing, I had locked my door, and I was sitting on the floor of my room with my scissors in my hand.

But something made me hesitate.  What if she’s right?  What if I do matter?  I wasn’t convinced it was true, not by a long shot, but she’d given me reasonable doubt.  I didn’t cut.

Nobody has given me reasonable doubt about my self-hatred in a long time.  They tell me I’m not bad, don’t deserve to be hated or hurt, but they don’t create that glimmer of doubt of my abusers’ version of me.  I think it’s because I haven’t found anyone with that therapist’s level of incisive insight into me.  If they don’t really see me, then their belief that I’m not a terrible person is flawed.  I need a therapist who can see me like that, but I don’t know how in god’s name to find one.  I wish I could have my old therapist back.


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I’m SO FRUSTRATED with this new case manager, S.  She’s nice, but…completely useless.

Every time we meet, she basically tells me I’m fine.  Apparently, as long as I get out of bed, then my mental health is A-OK.  I feel like she’s basically saying, “So, like, why are you even getting services?  You don’t seem crazy to me.”

I guess some of that is her fault.  I mean, I haven’t told her I tried to kill myself a week ago.  But why would I?  I’ve only just met her.  I don’t know her yet, and I certainly don’t trust her.  She doesn’t seem to get that.  She just takes everything at a surface level, and that doesn’t make me feel like she’s someone I even could trust with below-the-surface stuff.

Never mind that I know about 500 times more about mental illness than she does.  She didn’t know what “treatment resistant” meant, for god’s sake.  I mean, doesn’t the term pretty much define itself?  She’s like, “What, you mean like you won’t take your meds?”  She didn’t know what DBT was, either.  I had to explain it to her.  How does anyone who’s worked in psych for more than 5 minutes not know what DBT is?

And clearly she hasn’t read my history at all.  I’ve told her that my diagnoses are major depression, complex PTSD, and DID, but she insists on saying my diagnosis is borderline.  Nope, lady, and it hasn’t been for at least 4 years.  She keeps asking all these questions about my family that I know for a fact are explained in the files my last program sent them.  ZERO sensitivity around the fact that my family is the source of most of my trauma–she just expects me to discuss it offhand.  Today, sitting out in public, she starts asking me what it was like to grow up with a cop for a father.

I mean, what the hell was I gonna say?  “Well, I thought I was hot shit when he took me to school in his patrol car because it impressed all the other kids.  But then at night he’d rape me, threaten to kill me, threaten to kill my sister, make me watch him rape my sister, make me watch him shoot animals, make me participate in animal abuse, and sell me to other men for sex”?

So I just changed the subject, started talking about use of force complaints dropping drastically when one California town made all its officers wear video recorders.  It wasn’t even a skillful deflection, but she did not notice at all.  ‘Cause, you know, I’m totally fine because  I got out of bed, got dressed, and put my hair up.

So now I’m left feeling tense and raw, with memories right at the surface that I didn’t want to have to deal with.  I’ve been having nightmares since the suicide attempt, and I’ve got a feeling tonight’s are going to be even worse.

This just really sucks.


April 24, 2014 · 11:47 pm