day three

Today I feel a lot better.  Mood is definitely rising, in spite of the fact that I overslept and my kids barely made it to school on time.  But at least I feel well rested.  Today I need to go grocery shopping, there is absolutely no food in my house.  Well, there is some, but nothing for me to eat, other than tuna.  And I'm kinda developing a moral issue with tuna.  And that makes me feel guilty every time I eat it.

Anyway, maybe now is the time to disclose that some years ago, 12 to be exact, I was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder.  Most people know this as Multiple Personality Disorder.  I fought the diagnosis for about 7 years.  My life was utter chaos.  I was losing time, my memory of daily activities was so foggy.  I couldn't really discern what I was really doing from what I thought about doing or what I had dreamed about doing.  All I knew for sure was that I was supposed to kill myself.  And it wasn't supposed to be pleasant.  I was supposed to die a painful, gruesome death.  I didn't know why, but I knew it with absolute certainty.  I knew that some bad things had happened to me when I was a kid, I knew that I was innately bad, and as a result I had to die.

For so many years, when I was asked about the abuse I experienced as a child (I was going to use the word "suffered," but that just makes me sound pathetic), I really only acknowledged the experiences of my step brother molesting me after school.  In my mind, and what I told others, that was really the extent of it.  I minimized it, rationalized it as, "well, doesn't everybody go through something like that as a kid?"  I had no real basis for complaining, and the excessive self-pity I felt had something to do with my urge to jump off bridges and overdose on massive amounts of pills.

So, as I talk about this stuff, my head gets foggy.  Maybe I shouldn't be talking about it.  There are definite rules, established by my internal system, that make this off limits.  But maybe talking about it will help.  Maybe putting it out there will help me, internally, know that I'm writing about the past, not the present.  That those people cannot hurt me anymore and that I don't necessarily have to die.  Honestly, I haven't wanted to kill myself for some time now.  Actually, it's been about five years.  It's been about five years since I got the help I actually needed.  Not the "hospitalize her when she makes and attempt, drug her up and let her go three days later" kind of help, but the "let's retrain your brain to help you recover from your trauma" kind of help.  The kind that actually does some good.

So, I'm gonna go.  I feel like I've said a lot today.  I'm gonna go get some breakfast and some groceries so my kids can actually have a meal instead of soup and top ramen for dinner tonight.  I'm sure they'll appreciate that.  Maybe I'll write some more later today.