All of my blog posts are vulnerable, but this one feels even moreso. You see, I have been writing, but I had no intention of continuing my blog. I was really hurting, and I didn’t want anyone to see that any more than was necessary (because that feels weak), and I didn’t want anyone to care. Of course, I want people to care, but ultimately, I was afraid that someone else might withdraw their care. I needed to create a feeling of safety by kicking everyone who cares out. Why? Because me doing it hurts a lot less than someone else walking away. I also want to be clear that I understand that Dr. C. cares (and cared) as much as a therapist does (or would). But past painful experiences with people giving up or walking away had me spiraling. I want to share my experience, but it’s going to be in a way that makes me sound as though I have DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). I don’t. I have had an incident or two that were diagnosed as Dissociative Fugue, which is different. Both come from trauma, though, and both affect memory, interactions, and the like.

“It’s okay to share what happened with her. She’s a safe person. We can trust her the same as you trust me.”

The slow, quiet growl boiling inside went unnoticed. But she was listening and whispering so everyone but me could hear. “If she lets Dr. C. hurt us, Becks will hurt too.” And I’m pretty sure she would also do her best to hurt others, including Dr. C., in the wake of any missteps.

That angry, protective part thinks I’ll never make it. I’ll never be what the 8-year-old needs, the 10-year-old, the 25-year-old. That part takes over when things fall apart. She gives the commands to all the other parts. She tells the self-harm part to cut until the blood flows steadily from the wounds. She tells the overachieving part to work harder, dive in with every ounce of energy until nothing is left. She tells the others to remember all the old beliefs: “Remember who everyone else says you are. That is who you are. You are weak. You are too much. You are an inconvenience. You don’t matter. No one cares about you.”

“And remember who everyone else is,” she chimes in. People aren’t to be trusted, according to her. In fact, they are so untrustworthy that I must disappear to avoid being hurt. That’s what she tells me anyway. Except I don’t want to disappear, so I keep fighting for my place. In the background, I scream to the other parts of me just to be heard over the roar of lies she tells. “Don’t listen, don’t run away from people, don’t push them away. I promise I am strong enough to handle this too.”

But still, she tucks me away. She must destroy everything I have built up for myself. If she can make me give up, she can take over. She can murder me for good. And so she goes to work. Text after text goes unacknowledged. Regular check-ins stop abruptly. Friends are ghosted. With support gone, she becomes the strong one to lean on. She calls me names. She is cruel but wants others to believe she is kind. She doesn’t know what kindness is. She only knows what she has experienced, and that certainly hasn’t been kindness.

She does her best to write like me. She does her best to sound like me. She does her best to make others think I have given up because I just wasn’t strong enough. But she doesn’t just accuse me of weakness. She is punishing everyone else around us. “I’m sorry…and also you will never know how this story ends.” It’s cruel. She uses my guilt and shame to apologize and then uses my pain to attack.

She lets parts of me out. Beat up, alone, believing they are all broken. She and those other parts try to meet with other therapists. They try to answer questions. But they can’t voice their needs. She won’t let them, and even if she did, they are too afraid. I watch from my cell while she whispers to me. “See, they can’t do this. You’ll never be who you want to be with all these broken pieces. You are all too broken. I have to take over for you.”

The problem with her pretending to be me is that some people know me and cannot be fooled. I convinced her to let me out. “You’re too angry. You’re cold and dismissive. You say things I wouldn’t say. Even your mannerisms are too cynical.”

Each time she lets me out, I fight a little harder to stay out. I sincerely apologized to my therapist, without yet knowing how to discuss my thoughts and emotions honestly without her taking over. I apologized to my friends for ghosting them. I apologized to my younger parts who were relying on me. This is an apology to my readers. I know most of you probably don’t know what it is like to feel like you aren’t in control of yourself. Most people don’t know what it is like to be so outside of yourself that you don’t remember months at a time. I do. It hasn’t happened often, but it has happened.

That scares me. I don’t want that to ever happen again. So, when I am feeling largely out of control, I beg myself to stay. I don’t let myself get tucked away completely. Sometimes, it just means I am watching and clawing my way back to the surface. It means I have to fight the shame and guilt more. It means I am held much more accountable for my actions. It means I must, as much as possible in the moment, be my strongest SELF that I can be. I don’t need to self-harm, work too hard, etc., to step in, no matter how loud those parts are. And sometimes, they’re all there at the same time, screaming and fighting over who will help most. All I can do is keep them in the room with me until my voice grows louder than theirs.

Right now, it’s like a loud, unruly conference in my head. I am mostly present, but staying in SELF remains a challenge. I look at the last 7.5 years with Dr. C. and can feel every painful stagger, jump, or wrong turn. I recall not just in memory what it was like to fight for my life and feel like someone was with me. I recall the battle to trust someone enough with each small thing until I became capable of trusting with the big things. I recall feeling hurt when Dr. C. told me I was one of her longest-seen clients and that she felt as though she barely knew me. I had pushed through gate after gate to give her what I had, and it was almost nothing compared to others she had seen for shorter periods of time. I just couldn’t rush being known when the danger of being known felt greater than the risk of staying where I was.

The sudden change from a therapist with whom I challenged every core belief, just to turn around and learn to trust a new person, feels devastating. I don’t have 7. 5 years to trust someone new. Dr. C. frequently told me that “slow is fast,” but that doesn’t apply to trusting a new therapist. I NEED to move forward…NOW.

The good news is that she let me, in SELF, meet with my new therapist. She had no choice. I have the strength to be present right now, and even if the conference room is still loud and chaotic, I am choosing to stay present. That is going to mean enduring a lot of discomfort and shame, both now and along the way. That is something I don’t historically handle well. Yet, I don’t have a choice because the only way out is through. And I am just not content with where I am yet.

I also wanted to thank a few people. To those who asked me to continue writing, even though I was struggling with the idea, you changed my mind. To the dear friend who sent me a care package, that meant more than you can know (and I absolutely love the shirt – it fit perfectly!). To Dr. C., if she reads this, thanks for being patient with me while I fell apart and took it out on you.