Writing this also poses an ethical dilemma – I remember watching a YouTube short from Dr. Jordan Peterson where he is asked if he believes he has been a net force for good – and that idea, being a net force for good – that’s important to me. I know that there are potential risks in writing this – and while I do not wish to invalidate anyone’s experience or to provide people with information that they might use to harm others…I also know that harm is already happening.

If my story is out there – then perhaps people will be more aware of the dangers, rather than stumbling into them, blind, as I did. I cannot be alone in what I have been through. I am betting that I’m not the first, and won’t be the last. However, there’s almost nothing – no personal accounts, no healing guides…there is nothing for people like me. So, hopefully, what I write here will help someone to feel less alone. Anyone who is in my shoes, or, my past shoes, will need to go on a very individual, introspective journey of healing. It is a lonely quest of returning to one’s self – a quest for seeking one’s deepest personal truth. I can’t walk that path for anyone, but I can tell you that you’re not alone (if you’re already on it, if you have already come to that realisation on your own) and that it is possible to emerge from that struggle as a person with an incredibly intricate understanding of the human mind.

I have felt so alone in this experience, and if anyone had to be, then I suppose I was well-equipped for that. I am an only child who has spent a lot of time alone throughout her life.

As a young child, I remember being lonely and longing for siblings or friends to play with. So, I was excited beyond belief when our new neighbours’ family included twin girls who were a year younger than me. We became friends, sharing our love of horses and silliness – spending endless hours together amidst the beautiful surrounding scenery. These are some of my happiest memories, and I will always treasure them. So, despite my father’s unpredictable bouts of horrible anger (and that I lived in fear of these much of the time), I have many fond memories of my childhood. It was a childhood of darkness and light, happiness and fear, loneliness and friendship.

When not with my friends, I’d often spend time alone down at the creek, off in my own little world. It was a small, muddy creek surrounded by overgrown weeds and rainforest-bushland. I suppose that if I were to see it now, for the first time, as an adult, it would seem like nothing special. Yet, then, it was my own secret thinking place – somehow magical. It was somewhere I wanted to be, especially when things went wrong. That muddy creek provided me with an oasis of emotional safety.

I also loved swimming alone in our pool, lost in wonderful fantasies of being a mermaid. Or, I’d ride my bike up the street, thinking about what was going on in my life. Being alone was a coping mechanism for me – it made me feel safe, and allowed me to escape into my own world of thought. So, I was perhaps better prepared for the lonely journey required to recover from my experiences with DID therapy – I am not a stranger to solitude.

Although, perhaps, these things also made me more vulnerable to this whole DID thing in the first place – being alone a lot, living out fantasies, becoming obsessed with them, obsessed with my therapist, escaping myself through fantasy – through DID therapy. It wasn’t a simple matter of me faking DID, or that it was entirely my Psychiatrist’s fault for causing it. It was far more complicated than that.

Yes, given that he was in his seventies when we met (and I was seventeen) – he should have known better. He should have seen what was happening. Unfortunately, he didn’t. I don’t know whether he intended to encourage me or not, but he did (without seeing what was really going on). I received far more attention when I indulged him – when I became more interesting, a more intricate puzzle, a more fascinating case, when my fantasies became more elaborate. I’d imagine them in my mind, like characters. I’d flesh them out more and more, reading as much as I could about DID to ensure that my portrayal was realistic. I couldn’t help myself – I craved his attention more than anything.

I longed for his concern, for his warmth, for his guidance. He never got angry. He was always gentle with me. I could annoy him as much as I liked, and he would respond with faint exasperation, fondly affectionate of me as though I were his child (or grandchild). He had a dry, withering sense of humour – I loved that about him. I loved that I could be myself without worrying about him exploding with rage. I would get tattoos and piercings on leave from the hospital, and relish the look on his face – I loved his fond disapproval, perhaps mixed with a little bit of faint amusement. I would obsessively replay his reactions in my mind, over and over and over and over. Drunk on them. I loved how he carried himself – gentle, yet with an air of absolute authority. An old-fashioned Psychiatrist…love, love, love, love…I was obsessed. I wanted him to take care of me, to have complete control over me, to save me, and that – that intoxicated me more than any drug ever has, or ever will. It was more powerful than opiates or cocaine, more addictive – more dangerous.

It felt wonderful to be his patient – so freeing. It had me running along the windowsills of a psychiatric Intensive Care Unit. It had me taking countless medications. It had me agreeing to Electroconvulsive Therapy. It had me dropping out of high school before my final year. It had me cutting and burning myself. It had me pretending to hallucinate. It had me diagnosed (by a Psychiatrist giving a second opinion) with ‘Hebephrenic’ Schizophrenia. It had me delving deeper into my ‘DID’ fantasies in order to secure his continued attention, and to deepen this feeling of freedom. It had me writing, and writing, and writing, and drawing. It had me so drugged on antipsychotics that I could barely walk. It had me driving away my treasured childhood friends. It had me destroying my entire life. Yet, it was irresistible.