My mum has Dissociative Identity Disorder in conjuction with Schizophrenia that was misdiagnosed as Bipolar for my entire childhood and adolescence. What I feel for my mum is complicated, painful, and often something I ignore. But it was her birthday on Thursday, she turned 69.
Right now I don't feel love or hate for her, rather disappointment.
Her alters weren't subtle, I could kind of tell when she shifted, for the most part anyway.
She had six that I recognised • The mum: the only alter that loved me • The abuser: selfish and sexually abusive • The jealous wife: she blamed me • The absent one: she didn't recognise me • The wife: did as she was told and what was expected as a wife • The child: from when she was a little girl, confused and disoriented
When I was 4 years old is when I noticed the first shift, she was different after my dad hit her, the mum disappeared and the wife was the dominant alter, my next "mum" memory was when I was 10 years old and we went to the movies.
Mum was sweet and caring, she loved to sing the old hymns and I pretended to hate her voice because dad would get angry at her singing, but she liked sewing and using something called "hobbytex" and she loved me. She had prayed so hard for a daughter and she finally got one, me. She would walk us to school and volunteer in class, she would be a mum.
The wife was the next alter I identified... it was fast... one night mum was standing up to dad about what he was doing to me and he lost it... mum became a robot after that, cooked meals, no vegetables, just what dad wanted, then slept all day while my brothers were left to their own devices until dad got home with me and mum had dinner on the table then watched tv and went to bed. The same thing for the next 4 years.
The jealous wife showed up when we moved house when I was eight years old and dad made no effort to hide anything... she would scream and blame me, using very colourful language to her eight year old daughter, she was a frequent visitor but it was all just words.
The abuser terrified me... the most vicious... the most careless... the monster... she turned up when my dad didn't take me somewhere else to be abused... when I was left with my mum to care for her...
My mum isn't small by any stretch of the imagination... Her opportunistic alter... there was only one way I could satisfy her... She wouldn't always notice when I couldn't breathe... When I went unconscious... And I don't think she cared...
At least my dad knew CPR... at least I knew I wouldn't die... more to keep his secret than because he cared sure... but the abuser mum didn't have that control... that presence of mind to care or notice when something went wrong... it was only what I could do for her... how I made her feel... that she would often say why my dad got all the 'fun'... that she had just as much right over me and my services as he did... that she got sadistically excited at time alone with me...
I only have one memory with the absent one... when I was given a break from my dad in a shopping centre and approached my mum coming towards me, I smiled and stood in front of her and asked if I could tag along... she asked me who I was and told me that she didn't have a daughter, that I've got it wrong and carried on shopping.
The child... she was interesting... met her a few times... she asked me who I was and where her mum was, where she was, I still don't know why she came out... I was a teenager when she did though... maybe she felt safe with me...
The jealous wife and abuser were the most dominant when it came to me... the words and actions of her, it burns so deep inside that I feel sick... it's hard not to blame her for fragmenting... for what these parts of her did to me... because they were still parts of her...
@avant-garde I'm glad to hear that (not that you're feeling dissociatey, that it helps to write about it). Sometimes it's like...if the words are out in the world, they're less likely to be swirling around my brain.
Ugh, nooooo 😩 The repetitive but inconsistent noises are the worst - like when my neighbour wants to mow the lawn with their whipper snipper (so it's not a consistent engine noise, it's revving and whirring) at who-knows-what-hour! Did it wake you, or just contribute to the sensory overload? Both are very unfun.
@avant-garde I am glad that you've been able to write and express all of this. I could easily tell you that you're super brave for sharing, though I'm not sure you did it to be brave. Sounds like you have been holding onto a lot of this for a very long time.
I think it's okay for multiple things to be true. For instance, your mother's actions are understandable in the context of what she was enduring (that level of dissociation is often only seen in really severe developmental trauma) - AND her actions were deplorable and have had an incredibly traumatising impact on your life. We can hold space to be compassionate to her experiences without necessarily condoning her behaviours. Or at least, this is how I try to operate. This is of course, your story, and it's up to you how you want it to be written.
I hope that it's been a cathartic process for you hun. I wouldn't be surprised if you continue to feel a little fragile for a little while - vulnerability to this degree leaves me feeling pretty wonky 😅
Be gentle with your wonderful self. And I hope you're also proud of yourself for how you've been able to engage in this process.
That was after it got pulled down, I had a meltdown, had dangerous desires, wrote intense poetry, edited that poetry, posted it, sent an email saying I was ok, was brutally honest, then made the edits and tagged you.
I kinda figured @avant-garde - why I sorta phrased it that way, cos I knew that words wouldn't quite be able to capture the enormity of this process for you.
For sure, an incredibly complex process to go through @avant-garde in terms both of the expression itself, and in trying to write it in such a way to ensure it's within guidelines. I think it's so powerful to share your story.
