DID: Where Did the Time Go?
Foreword: I am delighted to welcome Marsha Camp as guest blogger. Marsha is a Special Education Consultant, Accessibility Specialist, Academic Coach and Writer as well as an active participant in our Dissociative Writers Workshops. Please see her bio below. This post was originally entitled “Shucking Corn.” ~ Lyn
Guest Blog Post by Marsha Camp
The International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation (ISSTD) suggests 2% of the US is diagnosed with a Dissociative Disorders and an additional 7% remain unidentified. The result of repeated childhood sexual torture and trauma, dissociative identity disorder ((DID), previously called Multiple Personality Disorder—MPD) doesn’t choose its victims by class or gender. It presents in all ethnicities, ages, religions, socio-economic classes, education and abilities.
The fracturing of one’s psyche during torture is a ”gift,” a skill if you will, that keeps victims alive. “Parts” or “alters” that endure trauma are cordoned off and encapsulated with little or no knowledge of other alters, allowing a functioning person to go about the activities of daily living. Each part takes on a survival task that works to keep the body alive. The collection of alters is referred to as one’s “system.”
Later tragedies in life can create dissociative events. I have parts. Diagnosed in my fifties, I finally began to understand my poor memory for my early life and the fears and anxieties that plagued me. The birth of my son after 35 hours of complicated labor, an emergency C-section and a psychotic episode was when I learned of my childhood abuse by a family “friend.”
We Rarely Tell
We rarely tell others about this diagnosis. The stigma and misinformation is pervasive. I know of no friends, relatives or colleagues with DID. We go to great lengths to hide it. Only a few of my best friends, my partner, my adult children and therapist know about it. Today, PTSD, depression, and anxiety are normalized, but some providers in the psychiatric community deny DID’s existence.
We Survive
We survive by spending a lot of time in therapy. I have been working with a therapist for nearly 35 years, the last 15 specifically on my DID with a trauma specialist. The upside is, even through all this we also live full lives—professional careers, care for kids and aging parents, we stack firewood, blow up balloons, write poems, sew, and scoop cat poop from the kid’s sandbox. We are runners, we listen to music, go camping, attend church and when we get home we watch John Oliver on HBO. Our multiplicity makes it so we accomplish a great deal, and at times we are envied for that.
We Try Self-Care
We try to maintain a self-care routine, because our therapists suggest it. My attempts at consistently having a practice that soothes me, is not successful because DID gets in the way. It isn’t being absent-minded like many people experience. It’s more like having six calendars and no one coordinating them. My executive functioning (my inner secretary) takes a vacation. I plan to regularly attend the mindfulness meditation group over the noon-hour, but on Wednesday an alter who loves puzzles decides they want to do WORDLE and at 12:23 pm, I realize I am still sitting on the bench where 20 minutes before, I put on sneakers for a brisk walk to class.
We Lose Time
What is dissociation? For me it’s “losing time.” I will be aware that time has moved on, but I have no memory of where I’ve been. Usually this is a reaction to a trigger…something unconscious that reminds me of a traumatic episode. A young part gets triggered out and I, Marsha, who presents us in the world, disappears. Sometimes a trigger is predictable, say, when a rotund man with a dark beard walks by me in the grocery store. Oh God, it’s him! How did he find me?
Sometimes a younger part of me gets afraid, worrying about something that happened long ago, and they think it is happening again…a flashback. And because they are stuck in time and not living in the present as I do, they come out. I’m not sure where I go, but when it happens I have an eight-year-old out in the world unable to do the adult tasks my life requires.
I get lost driving, I can’t find my silver Jetta at the mall, my phone seems foreign and I don’t know how to drive a stick. Other times I can’t find my home or my street. On occasion, I’ve made it home but the alter who was out had not been in the house before. Often, it happens going home after a day as the director of a department at the University. I call Bob to say I’m leaving, is there anything I should pickup. I walk in the door feeling happy to be home and I face three angry faces and I don’t know why. Apparently, it is 9pm and everyone in the house is pissed at me because I didn’t answer my phone. My husband and kids make it clear I am irresponsible. I lie, and think only of myself.
When I go to bed, long after everyone is asleep, I notice a glint of polish on my toes and see that I have a perfect pedicure. I lie awake wondering how could I have forgotten a pedi. At 4:00am I sit up and peek under the blanket, checking again to see if they are normal…they aren’t. They are fire-truck red.
We Shuck Corn
Sometimes we have neighborhood cookouts and bonfires. Heading home on party day, I’m not myself, but don’t know it. I drive and drive. At some point I’m aware that I don’t know where I am. I don’t recognize landmarks. I pull over and check Google Maps. I am somewhere south of Waterbury, about 30 miles from home. Did I get the corn at Conant’s Farm? They are holding three-dozen ears. I peek in the back seat and thank God, they are there!
Now I’m late. I run into the house, the bag of corn rips and I am picking the ears off the floor as Sadie our blind chocolate lab tries to get one.
Bob says, “Marsha, I cooked potatoes. Can you make potato salad?”
I think, I am 7 years old. Mom hasn’t taught me that. I look at all the busy people getting ready for the party and I know I can’t tell them I don’t know how to make potato salad and that it is disgusting because mayonnaise is white and gooey and disgusting like sex stuff.
Then I think to call my best friend, “Hi Mary Ann, this is Angel, Bob wants me to make potato salad for a cookout but I don’t know how. It’s gross and disgusting!”
She says, “Angel Don’t you worry, I’m on my way! You sit tight.”
I love her.
Livvy walks by and sees me doing nothing. She snarls, “Mom, people are coming. You can’t just sit there!”
I spy the corn on the counter and grab the torn bag. I can shuck corn.
Yes, 7-year-old girls named Angel can shuck corn. My mom taught me how.
About Marsha
Marsha Camp is a Special Education Consultant, Accessibility Specialist, Academic Coach and Writer. She lives in Burlington, VT with her family, a flock of chickens, Finn the big black dog, and Sadie the blind chocolate lab. When she is not tending to her animals, she can be found singing Sacred Harp, riding her bike and trying to practice Mindfulness on the shore of beautiful Lake Champlain.
Self-Care
It is scary and disorienting to experience time loss like Marsha describes in her blog post. Who am I? Where did I go? What did I do?
It helps to know that this is a part of the process. Our job is to foster communication so our insiders keep us in the loop. Some people hold “family meetings” to set ground rules so no one is left high and dry. Some have communication journals so parts will talk to each other and to the host. The more you provide an environment that fosters communication, the safer your insiders will feel. As they share more, your time loss episodes gradually will decrease.
Respecting your parts and their unique needs (and gifts) will help you manage your time loss gracefully and with love.
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For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
~ Ecclesiastes 3: 1
Lyn