This is unfinished, and was written in June, 2025 (with a few minor edits and de-identifying people on 10th December, 2025 – I forgot on the initial upload). As for the epilepsy thing – I’m not %100 certain that I don’t have it. For some reason my computer didn’t want me writing that.

I hope this helps.

How to read this:

I intend my story to be read with the literal meanings of words in mind – I am often not referring to the elephant in the room (if you know, you know).

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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. 

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. 

Immediately prior to this period, I experienced a confusing chapter in life – and a confusing event which resulted in much shame for me. I’d rather not delve into that, as it’s not something I’m comfortable talking about – but it was a formative and difficult time in my life. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have felt so ashamed. I wish I could go back and explain certain things to myself, give myself a hug. I wish I could go even further back and educate myself about matters relating to sex and men. I wish that someone had educated me more about men – really sat down and had an in-depth, deeply honest, vulnerable conversation. I wasn’t prepared at all. 

Unfortunately, my parents were very lacking in their ability to talk about certain things. When it was about emotions, dealing with emotions, relationships, sex, intimacy, vulnerability…there was a certain distance, and a certain lack of warmth. These were, in many ways, taboo subjects which were not talked about openly. I will say that I felt a distinct lack of guidance on dealing with being a human being, and that my parents had their own reasons for this (and were impacted by their own pasts). I felt ashamed of my humanity from a young age, and was mortified about anything to do with my body, periods or sex. I didn’t feel comfortable talking about any of it. I had no idea how to navigate any of it.

When I began to develop feelings for boys, I was blown away – utterly blindsided. I think my first crush was on Twilight’s Carlisle Cullen. Fictional characters aside, my first crush was extremely intense. At the age of perhaps sixteen, my father wanted me to move to a new school – I suppose because Haileybury was perceived as more ‘exclusive’, and also as my father wanted me to do rowing (as he once had). I had been happy at St. Margaret’s (an all-girls’ school) – I’d loved my friends, and had no desire to move schools. Yet, it was not my choice.

Haileybury was a (mostly) parallel education school – there were boys. It wasn’t long before I developed an interest – first (I think, anyway), in a rowing boy I’d only seen a few times at a distance. He was older, and very handsome…but I don’t think I ever spoke to him. I mainly remember him from his Facebook profile picture. Secondly, and overwhelmingly, I developed a crush on a boy on my campus. He was handsome, nerdy and kind. He was from a good family – he had been raised well, conducting himself with a maturity which I admired. I still have a lot of respect for him, and for his family (even though I met his parents only once). It wasn’t long before everyone knew that I was obsessed with him. Intensely so. I wouldn’t shut up about it. We were never in a relationship. Although, we were both a year ahead in Literature and shared a class (which was at times awkward for me, and undoubtedly uncomfortable for him). He handled my craziness with a sensitivity far beyond his years.

I was struggling at that time – I didn’t fit in at Haileybury as I had at St. Margaret’s. I’d made friends, but I didn’t feel at home or that I truly belonged there. In a way, that was a good thing because it pushed me to escape into my studies (and truly focus on them for the first time in my life. I especially discovered a talent for writing). I’d also just moved houses and was adjusting to life in the suburbs. Suburban life was far more difficult for me than country-ish life, as I lost my coping mechanisms. I lost my thinking spot at the creek. I lost living in close proximity to my best friends, and former neighbours (who eventually moved to another property, but still close by). These transitions – moving house, moving school – shook me. They also occurred around the same time as my first crushes (at least on real people). I wasn’t aware of these things contributing to my growing sense of pain. I wasn’t aware that my childhood had been that abnormal (I will elaborate on that more soon). I couldn’t have told you in what ways it was difficult, or how it had affected me. I didn’t think I had much of a valid reason to be struggling – I was totally lacking in any kind of self-awareness, I just knew that I hurt. I didn’t know how to express it. 

Not understanding it, not being able to express it – these things contributed to me beginning to self-harm. See! I’m in pain. It’s real, I’m in pain. Please help me. Please save me. I can’t explain this. I don’t know how…but see! It’s real, because you can see it. Maybe you need to be able to see my pain in order to know that it is real. Look! It hurts. I even lacked the self-awareness to vocalise what I just put in italics. Yet, that is what was truly happening.

Self-harm led to a chaotic series of events which I can’t recall in any linear, detailed way. I saw a school Psychologist. I was hospitalised in a public sector psychiatric High Dependency Unit. I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. I was hospitalised again. I don’t know how many times, perhaps two or three at that point. I was suspended from school. School became an afterthought in my life. I had boyfriends. I had good experiences with boyfriends and bad ones. Everything began to change. I was taken to see a private Psychiatrist for the first time. I was misdiagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. I went to get a second opinion – I ended up outside that psychiatric hospital with my Mum, where I began in telling this story. I met Dr. Smith. I went into private sector psychiatric hospitals. Soon, my school connections began to fade. I made hospital friends. I dropped out of Haileybury. I went insane. I ran along the windowsills of the ICU. I could have gone back to St. Margaret’s – I got the Year 12 uniform, I went along one day to some kind of pre-Year 12 ceremony. They were going to Sydney to climb the harbour bridge. Dr. Smith did not think that was a good idea. Somehow, it passed me by – my childhood school peers were doing Year 12, and I was in ICU. Time passed. I went further, and further, and deeper, and deeper. I was left behind. I turned eighteen – and nothing was as I expected, although I’d never really envisaged a future for myself, a future career. Why? Partly because whatever interested me was usually rejected by my father. It didn’t make enough money, or wasn’t a high-status job. Yet, I don’t think I envisaged this future for myself (despite not really envisaging one) – living on-and-off in a psychiatric hospital. I met a new boyfriend in hospital – another of Dr. Smith’s patients. We had so much fun. I would begin Year 12 at a new school – a year older than everyone else, heavily drugged on antipsychotics, and having gained a lot of weight from said antipsychotics. That year broke me. I made one close friend – and unfortunately she dropped out due to difficult personal circumstances (although, like me, she returned to finish her studies the year after). I had a fantastic English teacher who encouraged me, though – she held my hand through that entire year. She wrote a beautiful inscription on a book that she gave me as a gift: “You are so intelligent. I’m going to keep telling you until you believe me”, and “_______”. I cannot thank her enough. I’ve been fortunate enough to have several teachers believe in me over the years, and it dramatically changed my perception of myself. When I was a younger child, I was pretty average academically. I was the silly, weird class clown more than anything else, who would invent ‘walrus dances’ and perform them in front of everyone. I cared about fitting in as best I could (I mean, I was weird even then), making people laugh, having fun, and riding horses – not grades. Although, I loved art class and playing the saxophone – anything creative. I loved computers, too. 

I think I was probably born with some form of neurodivergence (mild autism/ADHD) – I’ve always been different. I was the kid in class with a report card often reading “doesn’t pay attention and distracts other students”. Although, as a small child I was apparently very advanced when it came to learning to read. I’d also zone out sometimes – staring into space. I received an epilepsy misdiagnosis as a child for this reason. Doctors assumed my zoning out was due to partial seizures. I took Tegretol (an epilepsy medication) for a short time, but it made me depressed and so my parents ceased it. I’ve been tested for epilepsy several times since, and told that I do not have it. I think that sometimes I just get lost in thought. Another facet of childhood weirdness is that while at The Patch Primary School (aged maybe five years old) I remember hiding under a table in the classroom and sometimes struggling with being in a school environment. Things improved for me at St. Margaret’s – mainly due to my closest friends – but I was still kind of ‘weird’. As I continued through St. Margaret’s, I had some fantastic teachers and I made more friends – I felt welcomed when I arrived at school every day. Honestly, it is one of the few places I’ve felt that I belonged in life aside from hospital. I will always cherish my time at St. Margaret’s. 

Aside from my time at St. Margarets, friendships, horses, etc, some of my happiest memories in life are of my Granny Sue. She was fun, elegant, warm, witty – I loved her so much, and would always be so excited whenever I’d hear that she was coming to visit us from Tasmania. I could be myself around her, and would play pranks on her constantly – she never got angry about that, or treated it as bad behaviour. She thought that my pranks were endearing – and it felt like we were two peas in a pod, both with a little mischief in our personalities. Speaking of peas – I’d get frozen peas from the freezer and put them on her feet so that she’d wake up from her naps. I was so excited to spend time with her that waiting for her to wake up seemed unbearable to me – I was not a patient child. I’d bring home books about Tasmanian devils from school because I knew that she hated them. I’d annoy her constantly – and while my parents didn’t find this aspect of my nature to be particularly charming, she did. We would laugh and laugh! She was so much fun – but when it was time for her to fly home, apparently I’d get so distressed that my parents had to keep me home sometimes. I couldn’t always go with her to say goodbye at the train station or airport. Unfortunately, she passed away when I was around eighteen. I wish that I’d lived in Tasmania so that I could’ve spent more time with her, and I wish that she were still here.

I also have happy memories of my parents’ only close friend, Sarah – who was extremely fun to be around. I’d see extended family, but only occasionally (Christmas, Easter, etc) – they weren’t a part of my daily life. While my parents were restrictive in each their ways – my mother was extremely overprotective, my father was controlling – Sarah was wild. She was extremely passionate, bursting with emotion, warmth and creativity. While my parents had me on a leash, I could run wild with Sarah in the way that children need to. We’d laugh together, paint, run around, be crazy! I’m grateful that she was a part of my childhood. She gave me an outlet for just being a kid, being a human. She’d almost be a kid with me. She felt like a friend as well as an adult – and in that way our relationship was similar to the one I had with Granny Sue. I think that it’s so important that kids have the opportunity to run wild. I cannot imagine how damaging it would’ve been for me to be in an apartment with just my parents (who treated me like an adult, in many ways, rather than a child). I needed acreage, I needed mud, I needed people to let me run around like a mad thing. I’m glad that I was born in the 90s, as I think today I’d probably have been diagnosed with ADHD and medicated. I’m so grateful that I avoided taking medication (aside from briefly taking Tegretol, but that was very brief) until I was older. I think that we may need to broaden the definition of ‘normal’ when it comes to how kids behave.   

I remember that my parents (I think mostly my father) had the idea that I’d call them by their first names, rather than Mum and Dad. I still feel strange at the idea of calling my father ‘Dad’, although I think of my mother as ‘Mum’ for the most part. I can think of my mother as ‘Mum’ or ‘Ava’. As a child, my father would treat me as a small adult and expect me to behave with far more maturity than I possessed. He wanted me to become successful, but I don’t think he knew how to prepare a child for success. There were huge expectations of me. Seriously huge expectations, and I’ll elaborate later. However, aside from my schooling, there was very little preparation or guidance at home. There was very little care for what I wanted to become in life. Whenever I expressed an interest in something, I would usually hear that it didn’t make enough money. Perhaps it was for this reason that I never really thought about my future career, or what I wanted to become – I thought it didn’t matter. I thought it’d somehow just magically happen, be decided for me.   

Although, I do remember looking at the moon through the car window and thinking to myself one day I’ll look at this same moon, and everything will be okay. I guess that’s what I wanted. I wanted everything to feel okay. I never thought much further than that. If I’d been asked and given the choice, I probably would’ve chosen to work with children or horses. I love being around kids, teaching them to read and seeing those little lightbulb moments when they understand something. I love how excited they are, and being able to make learning fun. I love how I almost get to be a kid again myself, and I can just be silly and not feel judged for it. I love horses. A horse doesn’t judge you, and I love how freeing it is to gallop across a field. However, my father firmly wished me to pursue something with more income and status. I remember going to an open day at Melbourne University with him, and seeing some very friendly and enthusiastic geology students wearing ‘Geology Rocks!’ t-shirts. I thought those people were so cool and I’d like to wear a t-shirt like that, so expressed a vague interest in geology. He said it didn’t make enough money, and I didn’t think more about it. When he said ‘no’, I generally dismissed whatever idea I’d had pretty quickly. That changed dramatically as I reached sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old – but when I was younger, I accepted that he had the final say in many of my life choices. 

Anyway, so – my parents expectations. There was more to it than having a successful career. This is perhaps one of the craziest parts of my story to hear, and it began before I was even born. There was apparently a myth around my birth – that I was a ‘Bodhisattva’ and my mothers’ spiritual ‘teacher from another realm’. Apparently, I was dying in that other realm and therefore needed to be born here – despite my father not really wanting children. He agreed to have me, but apparently said ‘one or none’ to the idea of having more than one child. Both of my parents were a part of a Buddhist community that had some weird ideas (and some kind of shared interest with marketing, which seems like a bizarre thing to pair with Buddhism). I don’t know if it was a cult or not. I didn’t end up spending much time at the Buddhist centre, and only have a few vague memories (I would’ve been a very small child) of things like sitting on the porch with Sarah and learning how to draw a dragon. Or watching Sarah climb up a tree to prune it (which was funny, because I’m pretty sure she was known for falling out of trees…but she kept on climbing them anyway). I remember sitting in on a Buddhist talk once, too – hearing something about how you shouldn’t step on insects, even if you are surrounded by them and have to stand still to avoid doing so. 

After a time, my parents stopped going to the Buddhist centre. However, they retained very strong (and very private) spiritual beliefs and I was raised hearing Buddhist stories and learning about the five precepts. I was told about ‘cities’ or magical powers that can be developed. I was told about how putting mirrors on the outside of the house is important for protection. One time we went to a cemetery, I remember being told to ‘keep my mind inside my body’ (inside my chest, specifically) and repeat the phrase “Buddha, Dharma, Shanga” inside my mind to protect me (assumedly from evil spirits). I was freaked out by this – I’d repeat that phrase again and again, trying to keep evil spirits out. Trying to keep my mind inside my body, where it couldn’t be attacked. I was told about devas, Bodhisattvas and benevolent deities. I was also told about malevolent hungry ghosts, nagas, and hell realms. We couldn’t put any of our animals to sleep when they became old and were dying. It was seen as killing, which went against our religion. I was told not to talk about these spiritual/religious things with other people, as they wouldn’t understand. So, I didn’t. I didn’t think that my home life was abnormal. 

Buddhism did have an impact on me, yes. It had positive impacts, and negative impacts. On the positive side, it’s possible that it rendered me less vulnerable to addiction than other people. I grew up being afraid of alcohol, to the point of having a nightmare about consuming a single drop. It’s hard to know, though. Every person is a sea of influencing factors – genetics, environment, etc. I don’t know why I’m less prone to addiction. It could be because I’ve been on so many psychiatric medications from my late teens – I have a lot of experience with tapering off meds, withdrawals, etc. Starting new meds, stopping meds. At the end of the day, drugs are drugs, weeds are plants. Maybe I’ve just got a lot of experience with drugs, and thus have learned how to control my relationship with them. It could be that, or a thousand other things.

It’s important to me that I mention what was amazing about my childhood. I had a very close relationship with my mother, and loved her so much. She would take me horse riding, and whenever I hear Norah Jones, I’m immediately transported to those happy times, driving to or from horse riding. She’d play that CD a lot, and it so perfectly illustrates how beautiful those times in my life were. She is a very sweet, kind person. She’s pretty naive about a lot of things, and easily influenced by other people. She believes in things without a lot of evidence. She’s generous beyond belief. She’s a little bit childlike. She has trouble standing up for herself. She hates conflict. She’s emotionally distant. She is funny about germs, and had some form of postnatal OCD. She apparently used to wash her hands until they bled (like me). She has a deep need to belong somewhere. She had a father who could be difficult, and also had anger issues. She prefers it when others take care of her, and can have trouble taking care of herself in some ways. She relies on other people to solve problems. She has her own trauma.

What of my father? His parents had issues with alcoholism, and he was determined to follow a different path. I respect that about him. His father had anger issues. He had anger issues. He’s tried to work on them. He is a wonderful cook. He makes kind gestures, often through cooking a nice meal or something like that. He knows interesting facts about zoology and botany. He’s not open about a lot of things. I know almost nothing about his father. He is prone to believing in a narrative that might be comforting, but is not necessarily aligned with reality (like my mother). When I was experiencing housing instability, and for a time was living in very basic accommodation (without a lot of money) – he described that as a ‘monastic lifestyle’. I think he genuinely saw it that way, and did not realise what I was going through when I was functionally homeless. He told himself a different story (I think that my mother did, too). He tries to do what he believes is right. He can be dogmatic. He tries – to educate himself, to improve himself. He can be controlling, but over the years has become far less so. He has his own trauma.

When I became unwell, my parents didn’t know how to handle it. They trusted Dr. Smith, they trusted the hospitals. They paid those private health insurance fees, and trusted the system to take responsibility for me. Suddenly, I didn’t have parents in the same way – I had Dr. Smith. I had nursing staff. I had fellow patients. When I gained weight from antipsychotics…I was ashamed, and so that was a part of the reason I withdrew from extended family. This all contributed to a perfect storm of circumstances which meant that I needed to keep Dr. Smith close by any means necessary. He became the person I emailed throughout the day. He became my obsession…but also acquired the role of my parents. At one stage, he referred to himself as being in ‘locum parentis’ – I’ll have to research exactly what that means and include it, but essentially it meant that he took responsibility for me in a way similar to that of a parent. Both of my parents failed to question Dr. Smith. They didn’t question any of it, with one exception – when I was seventeen and in ICU, Dr. Smith recommended ECT. He needed my parents to sign some paperwork, and my father wouldn’t do it. I think that morally, he couldn’t. However, my mother trusted Dr. Smith that it was necessary and signed it. Overall, though, my parents trusted the doctors. I suppose they felt that they were out of their depths, and therefore just trusted the ‘experts’. They stood back. As a side note, I ended up not receiving ECT until I was eighteen (I think, anyway) – but the why of that is another story.

A lack of questioning is something that extended far beyond my parents not questioning Dr. Smith and the hospitals. While Dr. Smith questioned the diagnosis of DID in the beginning (which had been made before him, although on scare evidence) – he didn’t question it once I began to play it out. Not for long. Once I began to construct these fantasies for him, for myself, for my own submission to him and everything that provided me with (attention, escape, distraction, freedom, etc)…he stopped questioning it. He did enlist another Psychiatrist/Psychologists’ perspective here and there – but their insights could only be limited, as they didn’t get to know me well enough. Mostly, they’d see me for a once-off. In the case of the Psychologist I saw from Dr. Smith’s recommendation – that was focussed on my OCD rather than everything else. I don’t believe anyone really questioned Dr. Smith. Dr. Smith stopped questioning Dr. Smith. There was a real lack of questioning.  

Why? Why didn’t he question himself? That’s a complex question, and I can only guess at the answers. I think that it is human to want to believe that the conclusions you have arrived at are correct. We see what we want to see – and Dr. Smith was fascinated with the study of DID. He wanted to see that, he wanted to believe that he was correct. I believe there’s a term – ‘confirmation bias’. In addition to this, it is my opinion that Dr. Smith might me a little bit prone to believing in conspiracy theories. That is just my opinion. I was also very convincing in my acting (if that’s even the right word – it’s more complex than that), as I was replaying these fantasies deeply in my mind. ‘Method acting’ – now, I don’t know much about method acting, but I believe it refers to an approach to acting where the actor becomes the role, even outside of performing. I think there might have been some strong elements of this involved, although I need to do some research on this and add it in later. Anyway – combine all of these factors, and it became very difficult for Dr. Smith to see the truth of what was happening. It was also probably a very convincing presentation because my pain was real. There was real pain that I was expressing through these characters (or ‘alters’). Later, when I told him the truth (he didn’t believe me), he said that he’d seen actresses win awards for less.

When I eventually told Dr. Smith what my truth was, he did not believe me. I was very clear about the fact that I did not have DID, that I had ‘made it up’ (to put it in a simple way that denies the complexity of everything and is therefore untrue, yet gets the point across). I did everything I could to be honest with him, despite how vulnerable and ashamed it made me feel. He dismissed it. At one point, he said “Well, I hope that you do have DID – because, if you don’t, then you have Schizophrenia and there’s nothing we can do but medicate you.” His tone was pretty nasty. Perhaps I’ve remembered what he said in a slightly inaccurate way – perhaps he phrased it differently. Although, ironically, I have a wonderful memory for conversations or little details that I find fascinating. That was the last time I was an inpatient under his care. 

In an outpatient appointment (I can’t recall if this was before or after), I asked him “If what I’m saying was objectively true, what would you say? Would you hate me?” – he seemed taken aback, and then replied with something along the lines of “No, I wouldn’t hate you. I would think that you were working through something”. That was a huge comfort to me, and the closest I got to him considering what I was telling him. I had to pose this question in a hypothetical way to get what I needed – but I got it. Not as much as I’d have liked, but at least it was something. I wish he’d truly considered what I was saying, that he’d been deeply introspective about it and curious to know more…but he didn’t want to hear it. We’d go around and around in circles on it, getting nowhere. 

He didn’t want to hear that DID therapy had been damaging for me. He didn’t want to hear how confusing and painful it had been to recover from (I saw him many, many years later during a desperate time in my life). He didn’t want to consider that he’d been wrong. When Jack came with me to see him, and told him that he did not believe I had DID – then Dr. Smith said something about how “If that is true, then I have made a grave mistake”. However, I’m pretty sure he said that only because Jack was there too. He never went down that road with me, or said that to me in any real way. He never truly considered that he’d made a mistake. Or, if he did, then he did so privately. I took full responsibility for my role, yet I don’t feel like he really considered his own. I hope that he did. I mean, it would’ve been nice to hear about that from him – but I hope he has thought about it privately. I do not wish for him to be hurt emotionally  – but I think that we (him and I) have a responsibility to ensure that nobody else goes through what I did. That’s probably not possible. So, at least, a responsibility to make sure that people are aware that this is a thing. That this can happen.   

I used to watch one of his lectures online when I had left therapy with him (which happened many times). When I missed him deeply, that was my go-to. I think it helped me to stay away from him, just seeing his face and hearing his voice. Unfortunately, I can’t find that video anymore. I’ve searched the internet, and it is nowhere to be found. I can’t even find a photo of him online anymore. I can remember him, though. I just wish I could see him. I wish that so badly, but I won’t allow myself to (he’s semi-retired, but still working a little bit). I could see him. I could email him. I could text him. I could call him. Sometimes, that idea is intoxicating to me. However, most of the time, I don’t long for him anymore. It is something that has faded with time and distance. I miss him when I think about him, but I don’t long for him in the same way. Missing him feels kind of like how I miss people who have passed away. Yet, sometimes I’ll get drunk on memories. Drunk on fantasies. It comes and goes. I don’t think it will ever disappear completely, and I know that my feelings would resurface powerfully if I were to see him again in person. They always have in the past. I’m better equipped to manage that now (being thirty-one years old), but I still avoid it. It would not be healthy for me to return to therapy with him.   

Anyway…back to the point I was aiming for. Point being – I don’t think my parents’ spiritual/religious beliefs were hugely impactful in comparison to other factors. I think that having an overprotective mother and a controlling father was far more impactful. Steve (my father)’s anger issues, walking on eggshells around him. Seeing him scream at my mother, while she stood frozen and silent. Being an only child. Just being a different kid, and perhaps slightly neurodivergent in some way. Having parents without an ability to be vulnerable, and talk about emotions in any real way. Although, I think that how my parents, and Sarah, saw me (as some kind of supernatural being in human form) definitely had an impact. These beliefs weren’t obvious to me while I grew up, though. I didn’t know that they believed I was my mothers’ teacher – not until I was older. I don’t recall what age I was when I found out. Yet, I’m sure that this belief must have affected how they treated me.    

Okay – yeah, I need a cigarette. 

This is my own history and somehow it just…it’s kind of crazy to write out. It felt so normal to me. When I first started really struggling at around sixteen or seventeen, I thought that my childhood was boring, normal – that I didn’t have any valid reason to be struggling with my mental health.

So, how is this relevant? That’s a question I just asked myself. Anyway – Dr. Smith absolutely latched onto the parts of my history involving Buddhism. These were of great interest to him, and so I incorporated a Buddhist theme into my fantasies. I certainly received far more attention from him whenever I did so. So, I did it more. Fact mixed with fiction, fantasy mixed with reality. Dr. Smith was fascinated – this was addictive for him, I think. When I was in hospital, he would spend a lot of time with me. I felt that I was special to him, and that I had to keep giving him more material in order to maintain his interest in me. I was obsessed with him, so deeply. I couldn’t control myself. There was almost no limit to what I would say or do in order to get his attention.

Anyway…let me just say – this isn’t going to be a linear story. Anyway – during Year 12, I remember my boyfriend (a bush-doof loving computer nerd in his early thirties) sending me a song by The Mountain Goats (I think?) I’m going to make it through this year if it kills me. I remember how deeply that song resonated with me at the time. With support from him, my mother, Dr. Smith, my English teacher, and one or two good friends…I made it through Year 12, despite overwhelming obstacles. I stumbled through it somehow, arriving each day on my Vespa-like scooter and sneaking off to have cigarettes whenever possible. I graduated from high school. Did I get a wonderful ATAR score? Nope, I got a fairly average (but decent) one. Yet, considering how many medications I was on and how distracted I was by my relationships (both with Dr. Smith and my boyfriend) – I’m just proud to have done it. I still think my younger self was a total badass for finishing that year, despite being in a fog and suffering with mental ill health. 

I remember how impossible it was to wake up every morning. I was living with my mother at the time – she had just separated from my father. I remember my mother trying desperately to wake me up every morning, but it was extremely difficult for me to wake. I had heavy sedatives running through my body. I remember figuring out a trick – I’d muster an enormous amount of effort, and start by finding the strength to wiggle my toes. Once I wiggled my toes for long enough, I’d eventually figure out how to get myself out of bed. Sometimes, getting up was so difficult that I would scream at my mother to leave me alone, but she never took that personally – she knew I was fighting my own battle. That is not hyperbole – it was a fight to wake up. If you’ve ever been heavily medicated, you will know what I mean. I had to fight with every fibre of my being to meet the attendance requirements for school. I am so thankful that she cared for me through that year, despite me being a grumpy pain in the ass every morning. 

If I had to do Year 12 again in the same circumstances, I would enrol part-time at a Centre for Adult Education. It would have been better for my health (and for my mother). I knew that adult education was an option, but I was determined to graduate from a normal high school. I wanted to do it the traditional way, as it felt like an expected right of passage. These things can seem vitally important to young people, but the thing is…they don’t have to be. You get to decide. What high school you graduate from doesn’t really matter.

I received acceptance into the Bachelor of Nursing at Monash University. Dr. Smith was very encouraging and supportive – constantly validating my intellect and capacity to achieve at a high level. I also received a lot of support from my boyfriend. I got my fair share of High Distinctions, proved myself academically, and then moved into a Bachelor of Psychology with Honours at Deakin University. I hadn’t felt any deep sense of belonging at Monash, so I thought I’d try Deakin. I didn’t feel any deep sense of belonging there, either. I had superficial friendships and acquaintances, but it wasn’t enough for me. I’ve studied at several more Universities since, but feeling a real sense of belonging was something I experienced only briefly while studying abroad (though my studies abroad were indeed brief due to my mental health). I tend to get along better with people from other countries, even New Zealand (I’m from Australia) – which is a common thing for people who are a bit different. One of my friends there saved my life, and I flew home and went back into the psychiatric hospital.

University is stressful. I think I could have endured that stress if I’d belonged, had better mental health, or been insanely motivated to finish my degree – preferably some combination of those things. I’ve started several degrees, but they are all currently unfinished. I’m not extremely passionate about academia – I’d much rather be with friends, horse riding or playing the saxophone. In that way, I’m still very similar to how I was as a child. Feeling comfortable and accepted by others is what matters to me. I need to feel very emotionally safe, and if I cannot have that to a high degree…then I really prefer solitude. Even if that means being seen as a failure in life. Even if that means being poor. Even if that is painful.

I know that I need to work on this…but it’s hard. I find being around other people to be a painful experience most of the time. I see their reactions to me – I feel their reactions to me. It feels as though I am reading a constant stream of their emotions, that I am almost reading their thoughts. I don’t literally read their thoughts – I hear no words, only feel emotions. I obsess about my social mistakes, and their reactions to them. I worry that they have misinterpreted me, and often, they have. It’s not their fault, but it happens. These little misunderstandings that we all have are somehow amplified for me – they hurt, deeply. I know that I need to somehow become less sensitive, to habituate myself to being around other people again. I need people – I crave connection, yet I fear it. It’s exhausting, it’s painful, and I’m tired. 

I think that people underestimate how drastically a person can change. When I think about my own arc of transformation – it is absolutely crazy to me. I went from being a silly kid who didn’t see herself as very academically-inclined to being a high-achieving University student. I went from being a naive, immature teenager to being extremely mature for my age. I was somehow extremely extroverted and enthusiastic as a child, yet awkward and weird. I went from that to being a social butterfly, at times, when in hospital. I lost a lot of my awkwardness for a time. I went from being super silly and having a huge amount of empathy to, now, viewing life from a more survival-based perspective. I’m not often silly anymore, and I mourn that part of myself. Life has been brutal towards me in many respects. I’ve experienced deep pain and solitude. I’ve found myself in impossible situations with almost no resources. I’ve had to learn how to be resourceful, adaptable – even though it didn’t come naturally. Yet, sad animated films make my cry like nothing else. They hurt.

I’ve seen what people can be capable of, and have experienced horrors at their hands. I don’t want to go into every traumatic experience I’ve had in my life. I will say that there have been many, though. These experiences have often happened when I was most alone and vulnerable.

I didn’t want Dr. Smith to know that it wasn’t ‘real’, as I thought that I would lose him. I thought that he’d be angry, or hate me. I thought that my new friends at the hospital would reject me – and the hospital had become a place where I felt a strong sense of belonging. It was my second home – and where I wanted to be. So, I escaped further into the fantasy. Further, and further, for years and years. These narratives became second nature, and I didn’t really feel that I was lying. They were real fantasies, expressing a real pain. It was a dynamic that allowed me to escape from real pain, also.

Yet, in my heart, I always knew that I did not have DID. I knew what the truth was…but it made me feel guilty and ashamed, so often I didn’t want to fully acknowledge it to myself. I’d push it away. I wanted to keep what I had with this Psychiatrist, I wanted to keep my hospital friends, my life as a part of the hospital community. I didn’t want everyone to think that I was a liar. I was in too deep. I feel like we, as humans, do this with a lot of things. You know, like when you’ve gained some weight and you know that you should stop eating junk food…but you’re kind of stressed, oblivious, on auto-pilot. You keep this awareness of weight gain in the fog, avoiding mirrors…and a few weeks pass before you fully realise you’ve gained even more. You know that you need to make healthier choices. Yet, you don’t always act accordingly. Except this dynamic with my Psychiatrist was far more addictive than junk food. It’s not a perfect metaphor at all, but I’m trying to make this relatable – I’m trying to help you understand how I felt, even just a little bit.

I never lost myself completely. That is a huge part of what allowed me to heal myself in this regard. After I ended therapy altogether and spent a lot of time alone, I began to write. No therapist involved – just me and my writing. Thinking, alone. Smoking way too many cigarettes, but I think that’s fine in this context. I thought. I stared at the wall. I walked along the beach. I thought. I wrote and wrote, and slowly began to separate fantasy from reality in a concrete way, understanding what role these fantasies had for me. I began a journey of truly realising what had happened, what I’d been through, why I’d been through it – a journey of understanding my past, truly getting to know myself, and of returning home to myself. 

It was a very individual journey, and one that required me to not be in therapy of any kind. I find that I have extremely all-consuming ‘transference’ reactions which can be intense, confusing, and require a lot of mental energy. This was a period of my life where I needed to devote every ounce of mental energy to figuring things out for myself – not being swayed by transference and countertransference. Not being swayed in any direction by a therapist. No – I had to do it alone. Perhaps other people would have different needs in the same situation, but I needed to do it alone. I had superficial friendships during this time – I did some volunteering, I had housemates, I travelled around from place to place (although being functionally homeless wasn’t helpful in this context – stable housing and relationships would be an enormous help). I visited some beautiful places. I went hiking. I thought, and thought, and wrote, and wrote. Just no therapy, no medication (or if I took any at the time, it was very little). This is what worked for me, but I’m not everyone. How healing works in this context is going to be individual.         

I also cannot stress enough the importance of sleep when healing. There are times where it is extremely helpful to allow your brain and body to have as much sleep as it needs – no setting alarms, no restrictions, just allowing space for your body to sleep and heal. Sometimes that would mean that my sleeping pattern would migrate or become reversed, and I’ve lived years of my life in this way. Not having daylight is a challenge, and can be detrimental, but there are also times in life where you just need to respect what your brain needs. Mine often needed to sleep for fifteen hours per day, and I stopped judging myself for that or trying to normalise that. I believe that this allowed me to heal, and to still be alive today.

This process of returning home to myself – this process of healing, it has taken years. Probably eight years at this point, and every day I heal a little more. I’m constantly having new little insights into myself and my past – constantly understanding more about who I am and what I’ve been through. While life carries on, so does healing. It is not a destination, but a journey (as cliche as that sounds). 

I’m not well in other respects, though. I have crippling Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – that is the most prominent thing. I probably have some form of Borderline Personality Disorder (although, I doubt I’d meet the criteria for it now. I feel I’ve recovered a lot from that). I have also experienced further trauma during my adult life, which has taken a toll. I am prone to paranoia. I have social anxiety. I am very easily exhausted, especially by social interactions. I require more sleep than a normal person – I suffer without it and can become emotional, weak, or physically sick. I react to one night without sleep in a similar fashion to an average person who has barely slept for a week. I feel world-weary and older than my biological age (currently 31 years old). I have osteoarthritis in my shoulder. I have TMJ/TMD (I experience pain in my jaw and face). I can become very deeply engaged with a task, and sometimes stay up all night, doing nothing else for long periods of time. It can feel urgent to me – like I can do nothing else, like I have to write NOW. I can have periods of deep depression. I often zone out, stare into space, and don’t listen to others when they talk. I can listen to them if I am interested enough and make an effort, though. I’m ‘in my head’ a lot. I feel like I may have slight elements of ASD and/or ADHD – although I doubt I’d meet the diagnostic criteria. I take medication for insomnia. Without it, sometimes I won’t sleep for days (although I’ve had periods in life where I’ve managed without medication for sleep). I have body-image issues, and at points in my life have restricted calories and made myself vomit (although I wouldn’t say I’ve had an eating disorder). I can sometimes experience a feeling that everything is surreal somehow, or that I am removed or distant from it (which is a dissociative experience – although fairly common). I have trust issues. I have difficulty maintaining relationships. Yet, I’m still very proud of how much I have healed, especially with regards to what I call ‘the DID thing’. It was not DID. Not in the way that is usually meant. So, I call it the ‘DID thing’ for lack of a better term.  

I still live my life in a very escapist way, often deeply immersed in fictional fantasy worlds. I get lost in books, TV series and movies. I re-watch fan videos obsessively (if you don’t know what these are – these are fan-made videos, often made to music. So, kind of like a music video crossed with a film trailer). I re-watch my favourite TV series and movies countless times. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-watched The Vampire Diaries and True Blood (I find Sookie Stackhouse to be extremely relatable). I adore Shadow and Bone – especially the dynamic between Alina and the Darkling. I’m a Harry Potter fan (although Snape is my favourite character). I also love sit-coms like Black Books and The IT Crowd – I can pretty much quote those at this point, and somehow they never get old to me. I love Bernard (Black Books) – he somehow makes me feel like it’s okay to be a mess. He’s a balm to my OCD brain. 

While I don’t have DID, I can present in very different ways according to my state of mind or mood. When I feel vulnerable and unsafe, I can present in an almost childlike-way. I usually want to hide in my room when I feel like this. I feel utterly raw. However, if I’m around people at the time, I can appear in a way that others might see as quite autistic. Eye contact is difficult – because I fear what I’ll see in those eyes. I get strong emotional impressions from people, and making eye contact intensifies this. When I feel really vulnerable, I don’t want to feel peoples’ reactions to me when those reactions might be painful. 

When I’m feeling comfortable and confident – I can seem to be a very different person. I’ll make jokes, laugh, and show my intellect more. 

If I feel threatened, I can give people a very intense look and present in a drastically different way. I feel different, too. One time when I was driving home from a small town in the middle of nowhere at night – I was on dangerous highways, with almost no light and trucks speeding along occasionally with their headlights on high-beam. It was hard to see anything as I passed them. Some cars/trucks would dim their high-beam lights, some wouldn’t. I knew that just a small lapse in attention on my part could result in a fatal crash. I knew that I’d possibly be in physical danger if something went wrong with my car. I was frightened, and tired. Then – I wasn’t. I enjoyed what level of focus that drive required – how it distracted me from my problems and put me into a different zone. It was like I suddenly became a different person in a kind-of crisis situation. I thought to myself I am the most dangerous thing out here. I don’t need to be afraid. They should be afraid of me. I felt this sense of calm, of power, of knowing that I was capable of defending myself if I needed to. I don’t know if my brain was just trying to protect me – but I do know that I’m an insanely strong person. I have a strong soul. A tired one, now – yes. Yet, strong as hell in some ways. 

In some ways, I am very weak. In some ways, even my strength is a weakness – it renders my mental health issues strong too. I am both strong and weak. 

When I’m extremely depressed – sometimes it feels so heavy that I can barely talk. I appear very differently then, too. 

When I interact with people – my main objective is wanting-them-to-like-me. In Australia, we have a strong ‘tall poppy syndrome’ – which means that there is a certain cultural expectation to appear in a ‘no worries mate’, casual way. Being open about who one is (in an intellectual sense) isn’t always encouraged. If I’m in the right company, however, I can seem vastly different (if I’m feeling comfortable – or if my mood is aligned with that in some other way). I speak in a very different way to how I write, also. I don’t think that any of this means that I have DID. I think it’s pretty common. However, I think that this may have rendered me more vulnerable to misdiagnosis. 

Written at a later date (same with some of the above, further up):

If I do have some form of DID now…I don’t know, I suppose it’s possible. I don’t think I had it at seventeen. I think I was masking my awkwardness, and trying to figure out who I was. I think I’m just a complicated person, and that’s okay. Even if I did have some form of DID at seventeen, I will say that the therapy was damaging and what narrative was there had very little to do with the reality of my mind. It was mostly fantasy. It was mostly a form of submission (for me, anyway). I think it would’ve been best to just leave that alone and focus on supporting me with things like being more assertive, setting boundaries in relationships, etc. What happened has left me confused. I think it is currently best to leave that whole identity-complexity-stuff alone. Don’t label these ‘parts’. It doesn’t help. So, what does? In my case, I think that acceptance is what matters. I accept that I have a personality that is both complicated and fluid. I have different sides to me – yet, these are all equally me. I have no memory loss and never did. I am what I am. I am whatever I am, and that’s okay. Why dissect it, label it? What’s the fucking point? It wouldn’t make me feel better, it’d make me feel worse. People love to categorise things – to put them neatly into boxes. That doesn’t work with me. It probably doesn’t work with a lot of people, yet people feel that they must put themselves into a box in order to receive help. Is conforming to boxes in order to be comprehensible to others really helping? I don’t know. Maybe sometimes, but probably not. Not with me. I’m so tired. I’m writing this particular part at a later date, tipsy and exhausted. I recently had an admission to hospital where I ended up on an involuntary order – many things contributed to me ending up in hospital. There were so many complicated contributing factors. I contacted Dr. Smith again (before I ended up in hospital, out of desperation because my mental state was so bad), not that we spoke much. I did write a very embarrassing email, though. Apparently, he didn’t read that before we first spoke. I’d deleted his email address – but I did find one online, an old one though, one he apparently doesn’t check regularly. He didn’t read what I wrote before we spoke that first time. Before things happened. It’s a blur. I was desperate and unwell. There were many contributing factors – it was a complex situation involving me being suicidal, lonely, depressed, paranoid, psychotic (?), etc. He did encourage me to call the CAT team when we spoke again, and I did. I went to the hospital. As I said, there were a bunch of contributing factors. I was unwell. Things were complex. Stuff happened. It’s a blur, as these things often are. I was so desperate. I was diagnosed with BPD, Schizoaffective Disorder and OCD. Although, Bipolar Disorder was also mentioned seriously – so I am assuming that I’m diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder Bipolar Type. I think that I probably do have some form of Schizoaffective Disorder/Bipolar Disorder. Or elements of it. I think I still am unwell in many ways, but I mask so much of it. I have a high level of insight into what others consider to be sane. I wear a thick mask. I use radical acceptance to an extreme degree, and that allows me to appear as a fairly sane person despite everything. I analyse my own mind, that helps. I challenge my own thoughts. I try to get through every day as it comes. I try to think ‘What next?’ and imagine I’m on one of those survival TV shows, like Alone. I try to just keep breathing, putting one foot in front of the other despite the chaos. Acceptance, acceptance. Just keep going a little bit further. Maybe, hopefully, something might change if I keep trying. I’m so tired, though. I’m tired of trying. 

I think that things are broken between us, broken beyond repair. Yet, I think that – I hope that – he really did believe everything. He believed that it was true, I think. I don’t think he was trying to hurt me. I don’t know what the truth is, really. It’s confusing as hell. I know that I loved him. I think that he cared about me (in a different way). I remember writing him a beautiful letter one time – one of the times I said goodbye. He cried. I think that he did care. That’s true. That’s what matters to me now. I think that we hurt each other, but that we cared about each other once. I think we still care about each other, even now. I’m so sorry, Dr. Smith. I never meant to hurt you. I got confused. I loved you. I needed you. I know that I hurt you. You hurt me, too. We hurt each other, but I don’t think we meant to. I think we got confused. Things got messy and complicated beyond belief. We cared about each other, though. That is what matters. That is what is important now. Thank you. Thank you for every beautiful memory that I have of you. Thank you for being there for me, for your care and concern. Thank you, I’m sorry, thank you, I’m sorry. I loved you. I love you. I’m sorry. 

I don’t know how long I have left on this planet. I am so fucking tired of life, of fighting this fight. I’m kind of amazed that I found the energy to write this, but I feel it’s important to write. Last time, I wrote in a huge surge of energy and urgency. This time, it feels like an obligation – I need to leave this behind. I hope that things will improve, that I’ll live a life that is less painful – hopefully even content. However, I know that it’s possible that won’t happen. I need to leave this behind.  

So, there you go – make of it what you will. We humans just need to care about each other, love each other – that’s what the core need is. We need each other. We need to feel safe, supported, loved – and nobody should have to warp their mind beyond recognition in order to achieve this. Why can’t we just be good to one another without an excuse? Why can’t we just be kind to each other? Why can’t we just take care of one another? Why do we make it so fucking complicated? Tell your kids that you love them, that you’re proud of them. When someone is struggling, ask them what they need and be there for them. Just sit with them. Be there. Let them know that they matter, that they are loved. Love. They say that attention is the most basic form of love, and so many of us are starving for it. Love. Kindness. Consistency. That’s what heals.  

Perhaps living in tribes would serve us better. Teal Swan has some ideas on this that resonate with me. I’m not saying that I agree with everything she says – I watch some of her videos occasionally, though, and on tribal living – I agree, I think. We definitely have dependency needs, too. These things are human. I think that tribal living is wise in many ways. 

Just be kind. Be there for your loved ones. If your kid develops a mental illness – don’t think that paying for their health insurance and sending them to a hospital is a replacement for parenting, for family. It isn’t.  

Side note: I know that I might seem like a pretentious knob. However, talking about my intellect is relevant to the story. I’m not doing so just for the sake of it. I do have an ego, like everyone else on the planet. I often haven’t been allowed to be what I am – I’ve had to be humble. More humble than others. It has often felt like other people were allowed to have pride, but I wasn’t. Other people were allowed to talk about their achievements, but I wasn’t. So, yes, I do want to be seen. Yet, that’s not why I’m discussing it.   

When I do meet a new therapist – sometimes I’ll begin to obsess about them, and I feel those old longings return. However, I know what is happening to me now. I can see my transference patterns, and try to redirect my obsession onto fictional fantasy worlds (books, TV shows, movies) – I think that this is healthier for me. Or, I’ll make an effort to see more people. Isolation intensifies transference reactions. It really helps to distract my mind with new interactions – preferably as intellectually stimulating as possible. Exercise helps, too. Writing helps. For the most part, I try not to engage in any form of all-consuming therapy. I try to keep it to a minimum – but if I do get obsessive, I’m far better equipped to handle that now. If it gets too much, I know that I can walk away and that these feelings will fade. Walking away from Dr. Smith (not his real name – but anyway, I’m referring to my DID thing Psychiatrist) was extremely hard. After doing that several times, and leaving many other similar dynamics with people…it does get easier. Walking away is like a muscle that can be built, it doesn’t have to come naturally. Now, I’m constantly surprised at just how buff my leaving-people-muscle is. It is for better and worse, though. I think that I now walk away too quickly, too easily, and am thus very isolated. 

I believe it’s worth mentioning my opinions on what traits/disorders may predispose someone to being more vulnerable to a ‘DID thing’ like mine. While I’m not a qualified mental health professional, I have a wealth of lived experience and have done my own research over the years (on Psychology and Psychiatry in general). 

Here’s a list:

• Teenagers without a stable sense of identity who are experimenting with different expressions of themselves
• People who can appear very differently depending on their mood
• People who often hide their intellect (or other aspects of themselves)
• People who have experienced trauma
• People who have experienced emotional abuse
• People prone to daydreaming
• Creative people
• People who get obsessive about fantasy worlds/fiction
• Anyone who is lacking love (they say that attention is the most basic form of love)
• Highly intelligent people who are prone to enjoying submission
• Anyone prone to enjoying submission (irrelevant of intellect)
• Borderline Personality Disorder
• Autism Spectrum Disorder (especially in females who are more ‘high-functioning’ and mask their symptoms)
• BPD Aspies (people who are some mixture of both, yet not really fitting either diagnosis – they might meet the criteria for BPD while not fully meeting the criteria for ASD, or the opposite, or some other combination) 

I do not know whether true DID exists. I’m not going to get into semantics about the word ‘true’ here – you know what I mean (speaking to mental health professionals here, for a second). If true DID exists, then it is of course possible that it could co-exist with any of the above. Does DID exist? We can’t know that, generally speaking. Only individuals can know about their own experiences.  

It is a complex question, with no simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. I don’t want to invalidate anyone’s potentially genuine experience here. I can only provide insights that are informed by my own personal experience.  

Do no harm. In this context, that can be difficult – however, mental health professionals should aim to do no harm. It is important to respect peoples’ experiences and what they are expressing, while also striving to do no harm. I don’t care that I’ve repeated myself here.

14 June 2025       

Over the years, I met many of Dr. Smith’s patients. I spent much time among people with a DID diagnosis. They are some of the most wonderful people I have ever met – and who am I to say that what they are expressing is untrue somehow? I don’t know their minds. However, I also don’t want anyone with a similar experience to me (iatrogenic for lack of a better word, although it’s more complex than simply ‘iatrogenic’) to be alone. I was so alone with this. There was nothing that I could read. No stories I could find. No support groups. Nothing. I had to figure it out on my own.           

On psychiatric diagnoses and their limitations – I believe that these diagnoses are only helpful for describing clusters of symptoms. It’s like how just knowing what job someone has doesn’t tell you who they truly are, or what they are capable of. People are so much more complex than these labels allow for. I think that OCD is different – it is more of a brain disorder, and I truly believe in ERP as an effective treatment and management strategy. However, with most psychiatric diagnoses…it’s not the same as OCD, for example. It’s not the same as diagnosing someone with arthritis – although mental illness can be far more disabling and painful. Mental illness is real. It is just as real as cancer – even if someone doesn’t have a label for what they are going through. There are states of mental ill health that no labels exist to describe, but that doesn’t invalidate the pain of it. 

Psychiatric diagnoses often deny the complexity of the human condition, although yes, they can vaguely describe ways of being and relating to the world. So, they have value. They can indicate which treatments might be helpful. That’s the main thing. However, where they can also be…dangerous, is that people can come to define themselves by these labels. That can be limiting, and also cause people to stop questioning if these labels are truly accurate (as in the case of DID when iatrogenic).  

I believe that identity is inherently fluid. It has some things that are constant (to varying extents), but it’s also fluid and defies being paused. We all have different modes/roles depending on the context we are in. At work, you may almost be a different person to who you are at home. You may be very different with different people. We adapt to people and situations, and that’s normal. Some people probably have more modes than others, some people are probably more different in different situations. I think that this could be due to a variety of reasons (complexity of the person, intellect, neurodivergence, life experience, trauma). Different modes are not the same as different identities – however, the first Psychiatrist who diagnosed me with DID failed to understand this.  

I believe that intellect can be developed, like a muscle. I think that genetics play a role, however if one spends enough time alone, being introspective, challenging their mind…then I believe that there are no limits to how far one can develop in this way. You just need to spend time alone, really thinking. You need to observe your own mind with curiosity, and delve deeper. Observe everything you can about the world and other people – then think about it. Don’t always look for someone else to follow, or someone else’s ideas – that takes the fun out of it, and you might come to a different conclusion on your own. You need to know what your own conclusions are in order to evaluate other peoples’. You need to have thought about things yourself in order to avoid being led astray. I’m not saying that I’m ‘all that’, but I’ve definitely developed my mind far beyond what it would naturally be under normal circumstances (if I’d had a normal life – gone to school, gone to Uni, gone to the bar with friends, watched TV). That has come from being alone, thinking. I don’t have social media. I don’t watch normal TV, but I love YouTube and watching certain shows I like on Netflix, etc. I watch YouTube in incognito mode so that I’m not caught up in an algorithm, and can be more objective. I try to listen to both sides of things, and make up my own mind.   

Okay, so, Psychiatry has been preoccupied with two main models of understanding Dissociative Identity Disorder – trauma-based or iatrogenic. When referring to the trauma-based model, many equate this with DID ‘being real’. When referring to the iatrogenic model (a fancy word meaning that it is caused by therapy) – many equate this with meaning DID is ‘not real’. This is such an oversimplification. Questions worth asking are – how do we define real in this context? What is a ‘real’ experience? Also, read what I’ve already written about my experience and see what questions you can formulate on your own. 

While mental health professionals debate the validity of DID as a diagnosis (trauma based? iatrogenic?) – I would say that no mental health professional can definitively know the answer to that question. Each individual with the diagnosis can know about their own experiences, but not the experiences of others. This is an incredibly complex topic.  

Anyway, I believe that DID that is ‘iatrogenic’ can absolutely involve trauma. Trauma can predispose one to being vulnerable to this. I do have a problem with using the term ‘iatrogenic’ to describe my own experience. Why?   

• There is an idea that iatrogenic equates to fake. This denies the truth of things (as I’ve already explored)
• There is an idea that iatrogenic means that the therapist causes it, completely. Yet, I also had a role. I’m not denying that. I was encouraged through therapy – therapy caused this to happen in many ways. Yet, I had a role too
• Is there an assumption that iatrogenic DID involves real memory loss? I don’t know. I never experienced memory loss
• What even is iatrogenic DID, exactly? I think that there is no one model for understanding iatrogenic DID. I think that it is probably extremely different for every individual who experiences it
• There is not much written about iatrogenic DID and peoples’ experiences with it
• I’ve never found a detailed personal account written by someone else with an experience of ‘iatrogenic’ DID. I think I’ve heard whispers of a few other people – but nothing of any substance or detail from the person with that experience
• I’ll check this later – but I doubt there are any research studies about iatrogenic DID

So, while ‘iatrogenic’ DID describes my situation better than ‘trauma-based’ DID…it still doesn’t feel right. I prefer to just call it ‘the DID thing’, or the ‘DID stuff’. Perhaps, for the sake of brevity, there should be a third category in this conversation – something like ‘Otherwise Specified DID-Related Experience’. I feel like that’d be a better fit for me. I feel Psychiatry needs to have a more complicated conversation than ‘iatrogenic’ vs. ‘trauma-based’. It’s not a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, ‘one or the other’ kind of thing. It’s not black and white. It’s not something that can really be categorised. It’s something that is so individual by nature.

So, how can we do no harm? Now, perhaps I’m being a little out-of-place by saying ‘we’. I’m not a qualified mental health professional. However, I feel that right now, I’m speaking to mental health professionals. In this context, I think that one of the most important things is to be extremely cautious about mentioning this diagnosis to the patient. You should have real evidence, not a hunch after a few sessions. You should get second opinions. Once you mention any hunch that this patient has DID (to the patient) – then you’ve potentially done harm. You’ve potentially started someone on a path towards having an experience like mine. How? They’re going to go home and research it. They might sit down and evaluate themselves through that lens. They might see different aspects of their personality, different modes (that everyone has) – and try to separate these out into characters. This can take them down a dangerous road – it can lead to DID therapy, and an experience like mine.   

So, be extremely careful. Have extremely strong evidence before you even consider it. Question yourself. Question everything. Do not make this diagnosis lightly. In this heavily digital age, it is possible that they’ve already stumbled across it online – so bear that in mind, too. When I was first diagnosed, I’d never heard of DID. However, that was in 2011 or so, and the internet was a different place. 

As a side note: I do not know whether ‘true’ DID exists. It is possible that it does. I can only speak from my own experiences. I do not have an answer to that question.   

It is possible that ‘real’, trauma-based DID exists.

It is possible that iatrogenic DID exists. 

It is possible that trauma can predispose one to iatrogenic DID. 

It is possible that iatrogenic DID can also develop in someone without significant trauma. 

It is possible that factitious/malingering DID exists.      

There is no reason why there has to be one answer. It is possible that all of these things could exist. Each can exist as a valid thing, without invalidating the others. It’s individual.   

Next, and this is important for Psychology and Psychiatry as a whole, you should be compassionate if you suspect that someone is ‘faking’ or amping-up their symptoms. You should resist any urge to shame them, and ask them in a way that is full of empathy. Ask them in a way that lets them know you won’t hate them, won’t leave them. In order to help people, you need to know what is honestly going on. You need to approach issues of potential ‘faking’ or amping-up symptoms with the utmost compassion and understanding of why they might be doing that. You need to appreciate the real pain beneath it.      

You need to understand just how much pain this person must be in to be doing this. If you do shame your patient in this context, if you express anger – they might just get better at hiding what they’re doing. Patients need to be comfortable. Patients need to have their pain believed simply because they’ve said it, so that they don’t feel the need to show you with ‘faking’, amping-up symptoms and self-harm. You can’t see their pain in the same way as a broken leg, and thus might not take it as seriously. However, you need to. Otherwise, they might find a way to show you that their pain is real (and their pain is real). They truly do have a broken leg (in terms of the pain), and they need you to see that. Unfortunately, sometimes through ‘faking’ or self-harm. Do not make them prove that they are ‘sick enough’ to deserve help. Another strategy related to this is to ask your patient to pause – to really think about the truth of their situation. Ask them to stop and think before answering your question.  

Essentially – it is important to understand the reasons behind it, the genuine pain behind it, the fact that people are often starving for love. They say that attention is the most basic form of love, and this is true. When people are in pain – it is natural to want attention, and this should not be shamed. I think the reason why amping up, or exaggerating symptoms is perhaps common with mental illness is that mental illness is invisible. It cannot be seen, and people often need to see pain to believe it or understand it. Therefore, psychiatric patients may feel compelled to show their pain through exaggerating things or manufacturing things.

Other puzzle pieces – how role identification contributes. Stanford prison experiments 

Confirmation bias (in patients and therapists) 

Transference and countertransference

How never getting to know one’s therapist as a person contributes to extreme transference reactions

There’s a quote: “Love is a disease cured by marriage”. I’ll have to look it up, but it goes something like that. It’s not a directly relevant quote in that a relationship with a therapist is a different scenario. However, it is relevant that transference/obsession can become extreme because the patient never truly ‘gets to know’ the therapist as a person. They usually remain a mostly blank canvas (except when boundaries disintegrate, which can happen). This means that the therapist doesn’t exist as a human – not in the same way as a partner or friend. It is very easy to build a fantasy of who a therapist is, and become obsessed with that. It can feel as obsessive as love. However, it doesn’t fade in the same way. It can worsen over time, instead of fading as it should. 

I had a therapist for a time – a woman who had an office at her home. She told me a few things about herself (nothing particularly deep, but enough that I saw her as a person). I experienced a little bit of a transference reaction at first, but it faded quickly. I saw her as a human person, rather than a blank canvas. She was the first therapist (I’d already told Jack about it) who I told, in a real way (although not detailed), about what had really happened with ‘the DID thing’. I didn’t tell her everything – I didn’t need to. I stuck to the basics. She didn’t judge me for it, and was very understanding. That’s what I needed. That and a reason to leave the house and interact with another human (besides Jack or my parents). I think that sometimes it can be helpful for therapists to tell patients about themselves. It can be helpful to talk to a person instead of a fantasy.  

I think that I’d already told Dr. Smith by this time, yet I don’t count that. I didn’t receive real understanding from him. He didn’t really consider what I was saying. 

I had those years alone (not in therapy) before this, also. I think that I had to come to my own realisations before re-entering therapy. I had to have a solid sense of myself, what I’d been through, what I was comfortable sharing and what I needed from therapy. That’s just what worked for me.   

The use of ketamine in my treatment, and why that was wrong

Why it’s important that people come to their own realisations with DID  

Moving forward – incorporating this

Why it is of the utmost importance that individuals diagnosed with DID receive second opinions from generalist psychiatrists

Not seeing a psychiatrist of the gender you’re attracted to 

Not seeing a psychiatrist you’re attracted to 

Why third, fourth, fifth, sixth opinions might be needed  

How I deal with extreme emotional pain

Add in research

Problems with research – people invested in either side of the debate

Emotive language – often not an objective vibe 

I’m not going to write on the history of DID here – I am not a historian. I can’t imagine how much would be involved with that, but I think it would be a heavy and long process from the little that I do know. If nobody else writes it, perhaps I will later in life. I intend to do my own thorough research into the history of DID at some point in life (but not right now). I think that an unbiased, objective, factual, thorough history of DID is a book that needs to exist. I’d love to see a history of DID written by someone who is not invested in either side of the DID debate (iatrogenic vs. trauma-based). A truly unbiased history. I don’t know if this exists or not. Maybe also incorporating some research studies. Reputable, experienced historians – I’d love it if you’d write this. I read NeuroTribes by Steve Silberman (?), which went into the history of autism – and it was fantastic. Something like that would be wonderful.      

Now, onto the psychodrama part. I’ll have to include the studies – but participating in theatre has been shown to be beneficial for people recovering from trauma. I’m pretty sure that Bessel Van Der Kolk talks about this. Now, there’s a huge difference between DID therapy and taking a drama class. Yet, I think that in some small ways DID therapy might have fulfilled a need within me in a similar way to taking a drama class/performing as an actor in a role (if I had done that, which I didn’t’). Drama classes or acting a role on stage would have been far healthier for me than DID therapy (as someone who essentially did not have DID). 

Love without having to be truly vulnerable – creating characters to express real emotions, but with fabricated stories. Perhaps because I lacked the self-awareness to talk about what was really happening. I didn’t know the answer to that myself – but I needed to talk, and this enabled that.  

Not having to open up about what was really causing the real emotions. Not knowing that myself a lot of the time

Stories to hide behind

Perhaps there was some benefit – in the same way that taking drama classes might be beneficial. But drama classes would be far healthier than this kind of therapy

While I have mixed feelings towards Dr. Smith (as you can probably tell by now), I also have a lot to thank him for – I learned a lot from him. We spent a lot of time together (sometimes perhaps an hour per day while I was an inpatient, plus frequent emails), and it was very educational. In many ways, he was a wonderful mentor. He’s clever, and an interesting conversationalist. I love that about him. I miss that. So, despite everything, I’m grateful for that. Not many people my age had such access to a highly distinguished academic, and that part of it shaped me for the better. If you’re reading this, Dr. Smith…thank you, and I’m sorry if reading this hurts. I can’t help but hope you’re proud of me. I miss you, and I always will. I’m just here to share what I need to.  

A letter to someone with a similar experience to mine:

I don’t know if you exist, but I’ll imagine that you do and write this for you. I know that it may feel like you’re alone on this planet. At least, that’s how I’ve felt (and feel) a lot of the time. 

I’m so sorry that you’re going through this. I know that it can be confusing and painful.

I know that it can sometimes feel like nobody understands. It can feel like your past, and your mind, are somehow too complicated for people to comprehend. People can react to this in all kinds of ways. Some people have been fascinated – and desperate to crack me open like a nut, and understand what is within me (no matter the cost to me, or if I was ready for that). Some people have been afraid of me. Some people just don’t know what to do with me. Some people jump to the worst possible conclusions, and don’t get to know me as a result. Some people jump to conclusions that aren’t necessarily bad, but are just plain wrong. These are only a few ways that people react to me. Sharing my past…I’ve basically figured out a way to ‘put it in a nutshell’ for people. As I get to know and trust them more, then I’ll share more. 

I’ve been very isolated from society. I’ve felt truly and utterly alone. If you feel alone too, then know that I’m here, on the planet. If you’re reading this in a hundred years – then know that I existed. I understand why, and I’m telling you that there’s nothing to be ashamed of. 

I hope you’re not alone though. I hope you feel supported, understood, loved. 

Please know that it is okay to trust yourself. 

Please know that there is hope. There are soft blankets, hot chocolates, gentle touches, and kind people. It may take time to find those kind people. Yet, they exist. There are people out there who will love you, and will not judge you. 

Try to have compassion for yourself.

I wish that I could give you a hug right now.

Don’t give up.

Love, 

A human who has been through something kind-of similar