Who Am I? part 1

Who am I?  A fellow blogger asked that recently and I haven’t been able to get the question out of my mind.

Who am I?  I thought I had that all figured out.  Not that I always liked the answer but I did have an answer.  I am a woman with DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder), a recovering alcoholic, mom, wife, beloved of Christ.  But day to day, that’s not my answer.  Most days, I have no idea who I am.

Living with DID prevents me from knowing who I am day to day.  My mind seems to get stuck between the different identities and creates this mish-mash of 4 year old, 14 year old, adult, and young adult (and maybe others that I don’t know about right now.)    I end up covered in shame like the teen, sounding like the 4 year old, but trying to make an adult decision.

So, who am I then?

It’s frustrating at best.  I was trying to have a conversation with my husband the other night and a mixture of all of us kept coming out.  There was no way to continue the conversation.  Then there are times when mentally my mind becomes completely jumbled because of all the switching and I am not able to function at all.

I can’t drive, be a mom, fix dinner, go to bed.

I can’t even think.

That is when it gets scary.  My emotions are swirling in my chest as I try to grab hold of a thought, any thought. And when I do find a thought I have no idea where it came from, who is having it or why.

Unspoken Anger Towards My Therapist

I am angry.  At you.  I know that as a therapist you will call it transference.  I know you’re thinking that I am really angry at my father but am expressing it somewhere safer.  I know that but I don’t care.  I am angry at you because at our last session you insisted on saying that I was raped by my father.
How could you use those words out loud?  How could you?

Not only that, you insisted that I realize my father not only doesn’t love me but also doesn’t like me.

And, in addition, you have stripped me of all means of escape.

I am very angry at you.

You say that the only way to get rid of all this shame I am carrying is to walk through the pain.  Maybe I know that I can’t live if I continue on this journey without some means of escape.  You’ve called my use of music as like a heroin high.  My obsession with suicidal thoughts as harmful.  I agreed with you, but I wasn’t in pain that day.

What the hell are you doing to me?  You called what happened two weekends ago as a suicide attempt.

So why push me the way you did last Tuesday?

My dad didn’t rape me.  He molested me.  Surely there is some small part of him that still loves me.  Yes, it is so small that no one can see it but it must be there somewhere.  Why can’t I hold on to the idea that he cares?  Why must you strip everything from me?

Music?  Gone.

Pills?  Gone.

Denial? Gone.

You win.  You completely broke me.  I have nothing and no one left.  If my own parents have never loved or cared for me how could anyone?  I want to go back to Egypt.

I am done.