Written in June, 2025.

Sometimes, I reflect on my life as if it were a movie – replaying particular scenes, and pondering their impact on where I am now. There are these pivotal forks in the road, with enormous ripple effects lapping at the shores of this present moment. Have you experienced something similar?

I’d like to begin by telling you about one such scene in my life. I was seventeen years old, and my mother had just parked the car near a major psychiatric hospital in Melbourne. I was about to have my first appointment with a new psychiatrist, a highly regarded trauma specialist. I still remember the exact spot where we parked, a small laneway-type road bordering along the hospital’s staff car park. I even remember what I wore – a short, aztec-printed skirt with a grey tank top. Knowing me, I probably wore a cardigan too, but I don’t remember that specifically. Nor do I remember the shoes. Faux-leather sandals? Maybe. I’m not really a fashion-orientated person, which is perhaps what you’re thinking, and I don’t tend to recall my outfits with this level of detail. That day though, that scene – sitting in the car, with my Mum, waiting to go in…I remember it well. It is as if I knew, on some level, that this was a pivotal moment.

I didn’t know in what way, but I recognised the significance – the beginning of an adventure, in a way. Funnily enough, I don’t remember much about our first encounter – Dr. Smith and me. I remember what I wore, and on some level, I think that I wore that because I had already seen his profile picture on the hospital’s website. I had chosen him, not my parents. He was an older man, in his early seventies, and I had a thing about older men. I wasn’t conscious of this, as I am now. I wasn’t a very self-aware teenager. Looking back, though, I can see it. I can see the early warning signs in my obsession with Carlisle Cullen at the age of fourteen or so, and in my obsessive crushes in general. Well, they weren’t ‘crushes’ – no, they were full-blown obsessions, fantasies which consumed me. Life would pass by in a daydream.

Anyway, back to the car. I could have changed my mind, said I didn’t need to be here. I’d come for a second opinion. Before this, I’d been hospitalised in a public sector psychiatric HDU and diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder – but, my parents had also taken me to a private psychiatrist who had diagnosed me with Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s a pretty serious diagnosis to give somebody without much evidence, but nonetheless, I’d been given it after a few sessions. Why? Because I seemed “different” every time she saw me. Pretty weak reasoning, but that’s what she said. I had never heard of DID before this. In my heart, I think I knew it didn’t fit, yet I still remember getting a piece of paper and trying to understand myself through that lens. It made me feel special. I was a creative teen with a passion for writing, and for fantasy, so it was kind of fun to create characters to express different aspects of my personality. It wasn’t fleshed out though, and to be honest, I still knew almost nothing about this. Dr. Smith was a DID specialist, so I suppose it made sense after what had already happened that I’d see him next. This was a mistake.

I don’t regret it, as it has contributed to who I am now. However – while I don’t have kids and expect that I never will, if I were in exactly the same situation with my own daughter (knowing what I do now) – I’d turn the damn car around and drive home. I would find my daughter a generalist Child and Adolescent Psychiatrist or Psychologist, preferably female (if my daughter were attracted to men) and with no special interest in DID mentioned.

I don’t blame my mother for not doing so. She had no way of knowing.

To be honest, it is amazing that I’ve survived – that I’m here to tell you this.

I’m not here to make any judgments as to whether Dissociative Identity Disorder is ‘real’ or not. I don’t know the answer to that question. I don’t know if it’s a question which has one answer. I don’t even know about the question itself…I mean, how do you define real? I don’t know everything here. I just know about my own experiences.

I don’t know how to write this story – there are so many complex, interwoven variables that contributed to it (from birth onwards). However, I would like to focus on my experiences surrounding DID, as I feel that I have some unique insights to contribute from my own personal experience. I’ll also write about my life in general, too – I don’t know how this will pan out.

It feels as though any approach I take in the telling of my story is somehow flawed, as though the truth itself is somehow elusive, fluid, dependent on perspective more than fact in some respects (although, there are also facts).

There are many ways to tell a story – many lenses through which to see it, and which lens is most accurate? I don’t know. You might be thinking that whichever lens is transparent is most accurate, but here there are no transparent lenses. I can only try to give you the most accurate portrayal of the truth that I can, while knowing that no language can express what I have been through. I’ll give it my best shot, but even now, I know that this version of my story is being told from my current level of understanding – and my understanding of myself and my own mind, my own history, is constantly evolving.

I have debated with myself as to whether or not I should even write this. If my identity were revealed…that could be difficult. It is incredibly stigmatising to be associated with mental illness in such a profound way – especially with DID. It could damage any future career I might have. Yet, just now, I was watching a Doctor Who fan video – where he talks about pain, and that you must grab it tight, hold it, and try to make sure that nobody else will ever have to endure such pain again. I think that the Doctor, if he were me, would write this – no matter the risk to himself. No matter the pain it caused him.

This isn’t going to look great – for me, for him. However, it is a story that must be told.