Thursday, August 15, 2013. This post follows my previous post:
Certainly what I described from my experience with extreme anxiety today leaves me wondering if I AM actually fighting for my life at those times words have no meaning to me and I cannot think in words. Am I disappearing as a person as that state takes over me? Is this experience at the core of having the diagnosis the title to this post describes?
When I applied for my social security disability after my cancer and its treatment I was sent to one of the government’s “shrinks” for assessment. He and I discussed this, and I was assured unequivocably that it is possible to have DID without having separate identities. I actually joked with the woman whose help I received today and so desperately needed that I was not even lucky enough to get separate identities along with my dissociation! She complimented me on my sense of humor.
Only, truly — none of this is one bit funny.
Because of the intense and difficult work I have done to create the 10 book manuscripts that are currently awaiting edit I have come to understand my mother’s mental illness as it harmed me.
It was a unique aspect of her particular Borderline Pesonality Disorder (BPD) psychosis that not only was I the “all bad” child – a projective dysfunction not uncommon to BPD people who severely abuse one of their children and not the others – but in Mother’s case her psychosis did not even let her understand that I was a human being.
I was not “a human child” to her. I was the devil’s child (not human) sent to kill her while I was being born.
Mother’s special psychosis demanded that I remain entirely within her personal hell in place of herself.
I could not get out. I could not escape. This is why I could never play. This is why she forced me into severe and lengthy solitary confinements as she kept me as much as she could exactly where she knew not only where I was – but what I was doing – which was exactly NOTHING except suffering as her proxy self in hell.
I could not HAVE an identity. Any time some tiny bit of Linda escaped and became visible to her I was horrendously abused.
This all began when I was born.
Tiny newborn Linda could not BE a human baby. Neither could Linda be a human being with any identity during the 18 years I was so abused. I learned to exist and to continue to exist this way. The only other choice would have been death and I did not choose to die. I chose to live. And live. And live.
I have one horrendous history of abuse that is – I really believe – beyond the range of what “ordinary” people can begin to conceive of no matter how kind they are, no matter how much they try to understand or try to convince me they do understand.
That social security shrink did understand. But nobody helps me access the kind of quality therapy I could perhaps make some use of although I know perfectly well that the worst of the trauma I endured built itself and my physiological reactions to it permanently into my body.
I am going to a local doctor on Monday. Today’s anxiety experiences gave me more information I can use as I try to convey to this doctor my “condition” and what I want: some kind of anti-anxiety medication that will assist me with two critically important things I need to do ASAP: (1) stop smoking, and (2) get through this relocation and resettlement.
If I don’t feel this doctor comprehends what I tell him I will stop him mid-sentence (whether I am understanding his actual words or not) and request that he refer me to a shrink who will understand and help me. I cannot wait forever for that appointment. I need that help now.
I take no prescription medication for any of my difficulties. I know myself and I know that my trauma-altered physiological changes from those 18 years of horrendous abuse and torture from birth are too complicated for any medication to “fix.” I am very clear about what I need right now, want right now and am asking for. Once I am through this tunnel of changes I will stop taking whatever I am prescribed.
Will this tact work? Beta-blockers are sometimes used off-label to treat PTSD. I have PTSD. Will a regular doctor be able to admit if he does not know how to respond to my requests? If not, I will have to catch him in the act of doing what doctors often do not like to admit – admit their ignorance on a subject.
After all, I was not born yesterday even though there are certainly anxiety-filled days within which I feel that way.
I hate it when I disappear to myself and as I think back about my experiences today that is what happened to me. No language = no identity. I could not think and I could not respond – and it was hell.
Please click here to read or to Leave a Comment »