Today my Dissociative Identity Disorder has been really bad, really bad. I have been switching alters all morning. We spent the morning putting up new chicken wire around the chicken coup as some of the clever wee birds had managed to learn how to fly out of the height of the wire we already had there.
All the time we were rolling out the wire and attaching it to the posts, I was switching alters. Going from being a four-year-old, to a twelve-year-old, to a seventeen-year-old to my most dangerous alter my mother. It eventually settled on my mother and as usual, the planning for self-harm and suicide started. All the while I just kept on with my part of the job of putting up and securing the wire. It is a huge coup and we were working at different ends so my husband was unaware of what was happening with me. Dangerous! As far as he was concerned we were having a very productive time working together and everything was fine. He was enjoying himself. Never happier than when he is outdoors.
We successfully completed the task and satisfied we headed back to the house for a cup of coffee having a swim in the pool on the way. All the while I didn’t speak unless spoken to. I was planning the whole time, scheming what self-harm I was going to do. I was completely dissociated.
We had a cup of coffee and I went for a shower, finding a razor blade I had hidden first. Then I got in the shower and coldly, brutally just started cutting my arm with deliberate, straight cuts. Deep incisions, one after the other with precision. My husband keeps me under strict supervision so only left me four minutes at the most before he came to check on me but that was enough time to inflict deep wounds. He was bereft. I couldn’t speak, only cry. I couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t respond to his entreaties. He gently took the blade out of my hand, turned off the shower and wrapped my arm in a towel and dried me off with another and helped me get dressed. I could hear him calling my name but could not for the life of me react to him as all I could hear was my mother talking too, saying “Don’t speak to him”.
We came out to the kitchen to where the First Aid Kit was and dressed the wound before driving to Emergency to go through the familiar routine of having it stitched. They know me well there. They took me in immediately and attended to the wound. By that stage, I was no longer dissociated and was communicative with my husband and staff. I was able to explain what had happened clearly and succinctly. Luckily I have an appointment with my psychotherapist tomorrow Thursday so they said I didn’t need to see the Mental Health Team. Always a relief.
The switching of alters has abated for the present. Hopefully, I get some relief for some time now.