Becoming One: A Story of Triumph Over Multiple Personality Disorder
An Excerpt From Chapter 11: “Thirty Years On: The Fear of Being Crazy”
I spent most of my life believing I was crazy because all the crazy things I experienced in childhood were treated as nonexistent or normal. This belief colored every decision made, from something so basic as what to wear today, to the more esoteric boundaries of whether I should kill myself. I understood very well that killing myself under the wrong circumstances would establish my insanity forever. So I analyzed every word, every gesture before committing myself. (Which probably accounts for why I am alive today.)
This strategy more immediately resulted in considerable lag time in conversations, which in itself appeared strange. I learned to remain silent and noncommittal, constantly updating my position to match that of a “normal” person. It became an elaborate game to correctly anticipate a conversational break so I could “naturally” participate.
Even greater than my fear that I was crazy, was my lifelong dread that someone would find out. As a child, that someone was my mother, who I felt certain would put me away permanently if my behavior grew too extreme. I continually tested her resolve in that area, but for the most part, faded into the background to not draw undue attention.
This created an ongoing conflict intellectually, as I was naturally curious and inclined toward study. Excellence and achievement focused a spotlight on me whenever grades were due. I learned early that being noticed for anything was dangerous. Good grades also briefly appeased my mother. My dilemma was how to receive justly due accolades without simultaneous detection of some form of defect. (A defect was anything not readily explainable, with which my life seemed replete.) I was forever searching for a balance between satisfying myself intellectually and not letting anyone else know I could.
The fear of discovery created a “push-pull” between perfectionism and its partner, procrastination. Perfectionism might guarantee no one would notice I was crazy, especially if I was supervigilant to every detail. The chain of prediction and probability could be calculated endlessly. (And often was.) Focusing so tightly on perfection could, temporarily, block out feelings of craziness. But “too perfect” would tip someone off, so I constantly procrastinated doing anything that might create the essence of perfection.
This kind of thinking creates entire conversations in advance, yet does not allow term papers to be written until the morning they are due. It anticipates and remembers everyone’s birthday to engender goodwill, yet fails to timely pay bills. It allows one to dream, but never quite succeed.
I carried my fears into adulthood, marking time between obvious insecurities and a desperate bravado. Strange, unexplainable things continued to occur, but it seemed best to pretend nothing happened at all. So I endured ridicule and confusion, created anger and tension, and lost credibility with the people from whom I most needed it. This, in the hope that my fundamental flaw that I was truly crazy remained unnoticed.
I never opened up completely in therapy prior to working with Howard. I felt intellectually superior to therapists, and played games. If a therapist was blind to my obvious insanity, s/he would never uncover my secrets, either. It never occurred to me that if Howard could recognize “crazy”, he might also know what “not crazy” looked like. I quickly realized he was three steps ahead of me. There was no time to play games. He constantly challenged me to expand the limits of my thinking.
Howard vigorously campaigned to convince me I was not crazy, and that DID was, if anything, evidence to support his conclusion. His model suggested that DID, by its very nature, indicated a desire not just to survive, but to triumph. He repeatedly used the metaphor that I had cast a lifeline into the future for a later, safe reunion. I wanted to believe him, but needed proof of an unequivocal nature.
September 13, 1991
Dear Howard,
I’ve been doing my usual family thing—trying to make them see, come, call, do—and while I’ve been successful, focusing on them stops me from focusing on me. (So much for resistance, hmm?) I feel like I’m drifting, waiting for the next wave to wash over me. While all this stuff explains the craziness of my childhood, it also feels crazy to have these memories pop up. It’s like reading a bad horror novel and realizing it’s about you. Sometimes it really frightens me.
- * * * *
The new memories and hallucinations I was experiencing terrified me. I felt isolated, but certain I could handle anything. I reassured my boss that nothing happening personally would affect my work, since work created my major escape from the terror in my mind. Even with that certainty, the next six weeks took a tremendous toll on me.
October 30, 1991
I feel myself disintegrating right before my eyes and no one sees me disappearing. The disease of the week bores my friends and they want something happy now. Performances at eight and twice Saturday. Nothing is real now. Everything is pressure I can’t stand it I will explode from this pressure and nothing will be left of me. Nobody calls nobody cares. I smile I laugh I sigh I commiserate; no one sees this shell making the moves of a person. No one sees they can see right through me because I’m not here. Every day I am less here than yesterday and no one sees, no one cares.
- * * * *
What happened to take me from full-of-bravado to becoming invisible? I constantly awakened in panic with night terrors and drugfree hallucinations. I heard voices from within my head. I feared something inside beyond my control would make me kill myself. I longed for a day when some heinous memory did not descend upon me. And still, I worked and “acted normal,” pretending everything was perfectly okay. To do otherwise would invalidate everything I’d fought for/against my entire life. After six weeks of this pressure, becoming invisible was beginning to look attractive.
Since childhood, my much-needed outlet for pentup emotions has derived from writing poetry. I keep it honest. I take each poem seriously, and nearly always know exactly what it means. But my poem “Thirty Years On” (see below) was a great mystery. The first verse seemed likely to be about me, while the rest seemed odd. It was written three months before I met Howard. I could not unravel whatever the title meant, which bothered me for months. I tried repeatedly to change it, but found I was “unable”.
Sometimes poems with very complex rhyming patterns poured out of me faster than I could write, and I’d wonder, “Where did that come from?” The notion that my poems might originate by some uncontrollable internal interloper was distressing. For years, I’d claimed that Inside Sarah wrote my poems, but never took the implication far. This notion fueled the fire in my “crazy” debate with Howard. Then I looked at “Thirty Years On” one more time, and knew exactly what it was about. It was a conversation between Nita and Sarah. All I did was add “who” was speaking when.
Thirty Years On
Nita: Nothing feels so lost and lonely As the sound of one heart beating Late at night when din of traffic And apartment neighbors ceases Might have been a time I welcomed Solitude booked through September Might have longed for my own space Without regard for old subleases
Sarah: I’ve been touring once upon a time A place in which you won’t be found And still I keep the searchlights on In hope of latenight revelations I wish you chose to speculate In happily ever after dreams The kind that other people have Without default for fabrications
Nita: Have you lately read a sonnet Pledging love to last forever Time can fool our best intentions Or, at least, it’s sure fooled me
Sarah: Do you wonder where I am tonight Or does my silence comfort you? The guardian of my secret thoughts Custodian of the only key
April 17, 1991; revised October 30, 1991 © SEO, 1991-1997
This poem presented a compelling picture of what my life looked like after pretending and not being real for 30 years. The “Nita” verses captured the aloneness and fear of being Nita. The “Sarah” verses portrayed someone who hoped for her future and enjoyed the present. The reference to “old subleases” recognized that other people were in residence, and that they had some formal right to be there.
I felt invaded, out of control, and more alone than ever. I demanded of Howard, bordering on belligerence, “When is this going to be over? When am I going to have a week when something major doesn’t hit me?” It felt unbearable.
October 31, 1991
Nita: This is like being in a really bad movie.
Howard: I want to know if you’re aware of something. All people have something that bothers them, which they feel unsettled about, and provokes anxiety. That’s normal.
N: I think your typical anxiety doesn’t really match this kind of thing. Sarah has been like a little joke. A little secret. It really upsets me. My poetry is something I thought I could call my own. Now I don’t even know if I’m writing it. I’ve always said, “My best poems kind of write themselves.” Maybe I wasn’t even doing it.
H: Are you worried that you’re splitting off? Fragmenting?
N: Yes.
H: When we talked before about it, didn’t you get a feel for the direction of how this whole thing was put together? You actually fragmented to stay stable and operating.
N: Yes. And you said to lead my (sarcastic) “best, fulfilled, happy, productive life” I needed to integrate. But I could go on without doing so.
H: You threw yourself a lifeline, and now you’re putting it together on the other side. You did a good thing.
N: (agitated) It feels like it’s coming apart! It doesn’t feel like anything’s coming together! It feels like . . . like I’m not going to be there. Maybe that’s real irrational. (laughs nervously) What’s rational, when you’re talking about someone else writing your poems? All of this has a very unreal quality to me. That we’re even having this conversation.
H: Okay.
N: It doesn’t seem real. It seems like we’re both going to start laughing any minute now. Like this is really funny.
H: It’s not that funny.
N: It’s not enough that I have to deal with everything Ron did, and what my mother did, but I have to deal with this, too?
H: I need a name. The “this” is what? Fragmentation? (she nods) That’s the result of the Ron deal. It’s not an addition. While it feels like you can’t connect and rejoin and integrate, you will. I’ve seen this. I know how it operates.
N: I feel like I have no control. I don’t even know what I’d be trying to control.
H: Sometimes when there is a need to reintegrate, it has to break down first. You’re holding on and controlling probably too strongly. Look, you’re in a safe place. If you’re nuts, you’re nuts. If it doesn’t make sense to you now, frankly, you’re far more animated and personable in this state than I see you many times. It’s true.
N: (very sarcastic) Oh, and you’re pleased. You’re happy.
H: Well, no, I don’t like that you feel pain, so I don’t get any pleasure out of that. But the nature of what I do is being present in other people’s pain. And it’s a privilege. I’m willing to sit with you in this. I’m also here to reassure you that there’s another side. You’ve got to break it all apart before it comes back together. It must sound lame to always hear, “Oh, you’re doing so great.”
N: And I’m here bouncing off the walls. I have to do everything I can to act “normal” at work. Whatever normal is. I see a correlation here. After we had that talk about Linda, it dragged on for another month. We were writing hate letters, and not handling it well. So I sent her the tape because every time I talked with her, I got upset really easily.
H: What happened?
N: She turned into the person I wanted her to be. And I see that my focus now is not on her or Ron. The distractions are over, so now I’m falling apart.
H: You don’t make a very good case for yourself when talking to people who are significant to you. You can’t get out the essence of what you want to say, and have it understood. You come up with a creative thing to share the tape. She says, “I understand where you’re at, what you’re dealing with.” That’s triumph, okay? You don’t know how to deal with triumph. You go crazy.
N: (arguing) I’m happy!
H: (exasperated) I know you are, but you’re not! You’ve never been validated.
N: But I can’t focus on that now, ‘cause it’s over. So now it’s like all this is happening.
H: That’s absolutely correct. Now you’ve got to deal with this other shit.
N: Well, yeah. All the other shit I didn’t know existed. I have no control over anything. It’s just one thing after another—major things I have to cope with.
H: It’s not likely you’ll get broadsided more than you already have been. This is the voice of logic now. I’ve been with you through this whole thing. You are a person—and I rarely say a thing like this—who has trouble coping with the success of your own understanding. Things making sense to you. Finally making a connection with people whom you felt could never understand, which made you feel more isolated. It’s all new. You’re being completely validated.
N: No. The understanding with Linda is new. I don’t know that it’s in cement yet.
H: You might be a person who is out to test it by staying in a state of turmoil.
N: So I’m making all this up?!
H: No. You go into turmoil to see “How much can I decompensate and they’ll still take me in and accept me for who I am?”
N: (agitated) That’s what this is about?! My poem was written six months ago. Until yesterday, I had no idea what it was about.
H: You’re freaked out. I can understand it. Do you understand splitting off, and the whole phenomenon of multiple personalities? (she nods) Are you worried about that? Badly?
N: (sighs) Yes.
H: Do you think there are other lives in you?
N: (hesitates) Possibly.
H: We’ve never talked like this before. It seems to terrify you, which you get angry about, because that’s how you deal with terror. (sighs) This isn’t fair.
N: No. It’s not fair.
H: But I will have the courage to sit with you through whatever feelings you have to share. I will be present with it. And however painful this is, you are, for all that I’ve known you’ve gone through, 500% better off than you were before we got together.
N: Just for knowing?
H: The way you put things together, you do more than know. You have great insight and survival instincts. You’re very creative and extremely talented. It’s hard to hear, unless all that stuff is integrated. You don’t like hearing it, because some of it that you can’t relate to you’re wondering if there’s an alter within who can relate to it. Have courage, though. You’ll be okay. It’s a very traumatic thing you’re going through. It cannot be determined, based on what we’ve talked about thus far, that you are hardcore MPD. I guess I’m asking you not to worry.
N: (loudly exasperated) I’m floating off into the universe, and I’m not supposed to worry!
H: That’s right. You don’t have to hold on. You’ve never been more free.
N: (agitated) Free to be nothing!
H: Free to be—come on!—nothing?
N: I don’t know what I am, if I’m not me!
H: Well said. (she laughs) I don’t know how to define what you are, because it doesn’t need to be defined.
N: But I thought I was creative, and now I don’t even know if I believe that.
H: Integration always means that it’s you writing your poems. You’re just more in touch with it than before. When you say it got written by itself, there are two ways to look at it. The scary way, which is that you’re out of touch with some entity within that’s writing the poem. Or, if you allow yourself to get out of your way with whatever emotional blockages you have, poetry comes out. I’m in the latter camp.
N: (sighs) Right.
H: I was asked not long ago, how do I do therapy? I said it’s a process of always getting out of my way, so therapy happens by itself. When I am ego-involved, it turns into shit. Same process you go through. You and I are more alike than you know; you are more like normal people than you know. Are you aware of how insecure a person I am? Or how anxious I am?
N: Sometimes.
H: You pick that up. I have a recurring dream, one not to be cured, but which causes me great distress when I dream it. My goal is not to eliminate it which, interestingly, makes it not happen that much. The dream is: an old man, sitting in a rocking chair. I realize this old man is me. I see this person; it’s not me; then I realize it is. There’s nothing more to this person’s life. I wake up screaming.
N: Are you screaming as you, or as the old man?
H: I’m this old man; I don’t want to be this old man. And I feel that’s exactly what I am. I feel I am a person without purpose or direction.
N: (incredulous) Are you serious? It’s not what you put out.
H: Because I’m not out to correct it. It’s my “thing.” You’ve got your thing. It’ll always be your thing. That one will always be mine. My dreams speak very directly to me, but knowing what they’re about doesn’t make me any less insecure. It doesn’t make me any less anxious, or concerned about my competency as a person. I carry that; I’ll die with it. My integration process is to be able to say it flatly like that. And it’s totally neutral. The thing that would happen to you at the completion of whatever needs to occur, is that this becomes neutral to you. It has meaning, but it’s not bad or good. You could have nightmares for the rest of your life— that’s not a curse—but you’d wake up in a fright. However it manifests. “Geez, that one again.” That’s all. “Oooh, I haven’t had that one for a while.” It’s both accepting and resolving at the same moment.
N: I don’t understand.
H: The implication is, there’s nothing wrong. Oh, you feel bad. I don’t feel great when I wake up in my anxious state. But symptom relief, as odd as it sounds, is not always the goal. Acceptance and acknowledgment is where you’re at. You’re getting a lot of validation. Qualitatively different from anything you’ve ever gotten. And it’s like, “God, can I handle this? I don’t know how people who accept themselves as okay handle that kind of stuff.” So you have to invent it. How does a person handle this kind of validation? With class and grace.
N: They don’t have a nervous breakdown.
H: If you have a nervous breakdown, I’ll do anything I can to help you pick the pieces up. I’m not that impressed with them, anyway. I know they happen, but I don’t get thrown by them. It just doesn’t have to come to it. People avert nervous breakdowns by doing one of two things. They either deny a lot of feelings, which really doesn’t avert it. It’ll come eventually, and probably be more severe. Or, they understand some important thing about themselves that they accept and resolve in the same understanding. The nervous breakdown is averted because there’s no need for one. Handling the situation with grace and class might be to say, “Linda, this is very meaningful to me. Thank you for acknowledging where I was coming from.”
N: I did! I wrote her a letter.
H: That’s good! It’s not beside the point, it is the point. You come here in a fairly decompensated way, you tell me all this stuff, plus you tell me who is speaking in your poem. There’s more texture to your revelation. You’re at a point where you can’t help but understand more. You’re on a roll.
N: It’s a rollercoaster.
H: Stay on it. It’s moving in the right direction.
N: (agitated) Ups and downs, very fast!
H: It happens when you put yourself in a risky situation—and not one where you take stupid risks. I’m talking about growth-producing risks. Talking plainly and directly about this stuff has always been risky. Life is supposed to have ups and downs. Everything you’re feeling now is exactly what is supposed to happen. “Oh, great. This is how a normal person feels?” Yes. Maybe you don’t want normal anymore. Maybe you want to revert to before.
N: (agitated) The other stuff, I know it’s going to happen! Life, yes. You have ups and downs. But you know what your situation is. You don’t think you’re losing your mind when it happens.
H: Yeah, you do. Go through a graduate program, sometimes you think you’re losing your mind. (she sighs) You think I didn’t understand you. Try me again. You’re losing your mind.
N: That’s what it feels like. And filling out some application for law school isn’t going to make it all better. You’re saying this is real life. I don’t think it is.
H: What you’re describing is more normal than not. At any given point of the day, a person could wonder if they’re okay; if they’re who they are; why are they sitting here? That’s really normal. It shouldn’t be very frequent. You’re going through more of it, probably, than a person who we consider normal. That you go through it, doesn’t mean it won’t find a time and frequency that is more regular and appropriate. And in the event there is more profound splitting off going on, you and I will talk about it.
N: As I said, Sarah has been this unique little thing in my life, who nobody really took seriously until you.
H: I think you’re both appreciative of me and pissed off at the same time.
N: (sighs) I’m appreciative, but not pissed off.
H: I know this has been really hard. The courage I’d want you to have is to entertain all possibilities. Even the MPD problem. I think it’s more common than most people know.
N: I think it’s crazy.
H: That’s what most people think, too.
N: (anxious) I don’t know what to do. It’s like okay, fine, all this is fine.
H: It is fine. It hurts. I’m not out for relief on it. It’s like putting relief on insight.
N: Do you think twenty years from now you’re still going to wake up screaming? (he nods) And that’s okay?
H: It’s fine. There are a lot of other things that function well enough that this is not my life’s focus. When I’m thinking about it, it’s always on the surface. But there’s no attempt to resolve it, because it’s like trying to resolve brown eyes. It is fine.
N: (very agitated) It’s not fine!
H: I’m proposing the idea that it is. Every time we meet, there’s more illumination. In three to six months, if we should talk, you’ll be saying, “You know, I do have those pains, but it’s not any big deal.”
N: Three to six months?!
H: Have the courage to feel the feelings. I don’t wish them on you. But I don’t believe there is anything to do with them other than acknowledge them. Be shaken by them in the moment. “God, that again.” Give it a name. And none of it should dissuade you from doing any of the other stuff you do in your life. Do that, and you can avert a breakdown. Repress the idea that it’s okay to feel, debate with me that point, and resist it, and it sets you up for a breakdown. Either way, you’ll come out okay. Whether you do it with a breakdown, or avert one.
N: (incredulous) No matter what happens, I’ll come out okay?
H: Oh, yeah, you can’t lose!
N: How can you be so sure?
H: This is how this works! Knowing the truth, and understanding and defining what’s going on, as you’ve shown every time we get together always works a benefit. I’m not happy for your pain, but your progression is fabulous. And you’ve done it very rapidly. You’ve demonstrated better understanding with a great deal of courage and strength. But you haven’t yet developed a creativity and confidence in your purpose. You’re very much in the childhood of your understanding. It’s a very successful, integrated childhood, from where we started talking about it. But it isn’t mature yet. And if you never saw me again, it would get that way, because there’s no stopping you.
© Sarah E. Olson, 1997. All Rights Reserved.