Personal Essays about Dissociative Identity Disorder and Complex Trauma
My story explores how humans experience re-traumatization after childhood trauma because you are more vulnerable to experiencing trauma again if you’re already a survivor! I also discuss how I developed dissociative identity disorder, meaning my psyche created different alters/parts with their own traits and personalities to help me cope with the trauma. I still have most of my alters to this day. So this book is both a book I write to heal and to educate others on DID.
Content Warning
Moderate to severe descriptions of my experiences of past (childhood) physical/emotional/sexual abuse, suicidal ideation, mental illness, quite heavy descriptions of violence/violent behavior and mild to moderate descriptions of consensual sexual activity as well. My story also contains on ableism, homophobia, transphobia, racism, sexual violence/torture, forced hospitalization, children’s care homes and gaslighting. I can have forget about some things, so my advice is to proceed with the caution you need. If you need to take a pause, or stop reading after you’ve already started, that’s totally fine!
Chapter 1. Early morning reflection on my past
I’m sitting in my black nightgown in my living room that I share with my partner. I’ve just moved in with the love of my life.
“Finally”, I’m thinking to myself, ”Finally, I can spend time writing. Now that I have more distance from things that happened, I feel more peace in my writing practice”
While listening to my partner, that cute and pretty human being, lying in bed under the enormous blanket. Seeing my partner sleep is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Before this era of my life, I had a very hard time, and I’ve been through a lot, truly. I jokingly (but not really that jokingly) called myself “Murphy’s girl,” as in “murphy’s law”, you know, the saying that if “something could go wrong, then it will”. I felt like that expression was a personal attack on my personhood because it felt too real in my life. I almost thought I wasn’t meant to be alive and that God made a mistake with me.
I grew up in a religious home, although very progressive. My mother had several queer friends, and both she and my dad were very supportive of my identity and sexual orientation. I remember sitting in a literal closet, a walk-in closet to be fair, but nonetheless, sitting in a closet, and kissing my then-best female friend. And a little bit of touching under the shirt and between the legs of each other. Whooops… But it was consensual. We were curious. However, we couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen years old; we were barely teenagers. Now I’m engaged to a trans man, and I identify as non-binary, and I’m androgynous nowadays. However, as a little child, I was a little girl. Not very girly, but I didn’t know yet there were other options.
When I think back on my childhood, I mostly see murky clouds over what could have been a kind of sweet childhood with a mixed-culture family. I had a big family, a home; I never missed anything materialistic. Although I missed a lot of other important stuff. Like affection, safety, being allowed to be the person I was born to be… And even education. I lacked education due to trauma. I was neglected by the education system because of its lack of disability support as well. I’ve learned most new things as an adult or by myself when I was a kid. I loved books and learning, despite my circumstances.
When I’m thinking back, I feel so sad because most of my childhood was shaped by shame and fear. All my thoughts, all my feelings, and actions… They were motivated by fear. My mother always said, “It’s only how you feel; it’s not a big deal,” as if my feelings weren’t valid. When I was sexually and physically abused, I never told her or my father. I never told anyone, because I was a little girl and my feelings weren’t valid. Now when I’m an aunt, I think it’s so important to teach my niece and nephew that their bodies are theirs and that their feelings hold importance and always are valid regardless of what triggers them. It can be a big thing or a mundane thing. They have the right to feel and the right to say no to hugs or any type of physical contact.
I wish I was told that as a child. That someone, that any adult, had told me that my body was my own and that secrets weren’t okay. Shared surprises with friends and siblings are good, but secrets, especially with adults, are not okay! What he said was always “it’s our secret,” and the fact that I was almost entirely non-verbal due to my autism didn’t make it easier to tell either!
I was lying in my bed in a country I was just partially familiar with. It was my grandparent’s house in India. It was night, and the adults were out to dinner. He went into my bed. Our babysitter, who was a relative of my mother- I can’t remember, but he was a second cousin or something like that. Or if he even was her first cousin… I have no idea, but he often played with us kids; he was always friendly, and I liked him. Until this night.
I pretended to sleep when I suddenly felt a hand on my little child body. On my private parts, everywhere. He undressed me, told me to lie on my stomach, spread my legs, and then he put things inside of me. The female parts I was never told were private, but I later found out were very private and shouldn’t be touched by adults. Or anyone, for that matter! But at this point, I didn’t know. And now, I had him inside me, and it burned and hurt, and I thought I was dying.
I cried loudly when he raped me. I was only seven or eight when it started.
“Shh, baba, it’s fine, don’t cry”. He started to wipe my tears, but he didn’t stop to be inside of me either. He continued to hurt me, but simultaneously tried to comfort me. In my child brain, it was confusing. When wiping my tears didn’t help, he became more and more rough and violent with me, and the next day I bled and had plenty of red and blue bruises, particularly on my thighs. Now I hated him, but was also dependent on him, since our parents often left me with him when they went out. I hated that feeling of being dependent on someone who put me down, and to this day I hate that this could even happen! Why didn’t anyone know, and how could he hurt me because I couldn’t verbally tell anyone? I’m still furious.
I’m shaking when writing this. I want it out there. I want to share one survivor’s story. I refuse to stay silent. It’s not my responsibility.
So I developed DID. That’s short for Dissociative Identity Disorder. I was diagnosed the first time when the child psychologist noticed I switched to different voices during therapy sessions. I also shared how I had different voices in my head and that they all had different traits and names, and sometimes they came out and were in my body. I told the psychologist that these were my “inner friends” and that they comforted me. I was about thirteen when I first got the diagnosis, and I was thirty when it was confirmed again that I still had it. As an adult, I also got diagnosed with Complex Post-traumatic Stress Disorder because of my childhood and early adulthood traumas and the long periods of time it happened for.
One deacon at the church (I will go more into specifics later) told me it sounded like pure torture and that people end their lives for less. And I could understand what she meant! She didn’t mean I should take my own life; she just validated that what I’ve been through was truly mind-blowing in a way… She was the one who actually helped me during my miscarriage of my rapist’s baby later, and at this point I had no idea that she would play that part later. She was an angel sent by God, even though the same God cursed my entire existence…
I had my good moments as a child, but I wouldn’t wish my childhood on other children. Not even my enemy. And my childhood is partially why I choose to never have children either. For one, I couldn’t understand why we even bring kids to this miserable world, but when it comes to it, I think people can do what they want… I just won’t do it; it’s actually fine. My morals tell me this world is not good enough for my future children that will never exist.
I have a lot just with my inner friends; our youngest is just four years old, and I have enough just with her and the others. We are nine alters. Or… Are we eleven or twelve now? Anyway, you will get to know them one by one soon.
End of chapter 1.
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