One bite at a time. I went back to therapy last March. I say that I went back, because this is not my first foray into the world of therapy. I saw my first therapist when I was 15 years old. I had to beg my parents to allow me to go, but they finally relented. They were not keen on the idea as I’m sure they were convinced that I would be spilling family secrets. I certainly didn’t provide my therapist with a glowing image of my parents and home life, but I was smart enough to know where to stop. I was, after all, still a minor. I knew that meant any disclosure would come with an investigation. No thanks.
When I was 20, I went back to therapy again. This time was much more successful and I thought I had put all of my demons to rest. We touched on the sexual abuse, or so I thought. What I had been aware of at the time, it turns out was only a taste of the awareness that was yet to come.
Fast forward, one marriage and three kids later to last fall. I cut off contact with my biological family a few years earlier and once I did that things started to get interesting. I noticed that I was dissociating more, especially during intimate contact with my husband. This all peaked last fall when I was triggered by contact from my biological father. I rapidly declined (all the while maintaining what looked like a normal life) and finally in February I told my husband that I thought I needed to go back to therapy.
I started therapy with my current therapist in April. She is a trauma and dissociative disorders specialist. Finally, after months of working with her, in September I was diagnosed with DID. It was shocking, but at the same time wasn’t. I just never realized that it wasn’t normal to have other voices talking in your head.
At this point, I’ve been in therapy for eight months. I see my therapist twice weekly since the DID diagnosis and that has resulted in more stability. I created this blog to chronicle my journey.