THE ROAD TO RECOVERY
A recent question was asked from a clever inquisitor of LFA. He noted the resources LFA provides, but followed with a great question that we had never thought of before—honestly, I am not sure why we had not thought of this, but leave it to our wonderful visitors to point it out.
“I have looked over your site. You mention DID, but not the details of
your experiences in therapy and how you turned yourself around. What led
you to go to therapy, and how did you eventually learn to deal with your
abuse? Maybe an article on this subject for your website would be a good
idea.”
Although only speech therapy was utilized as a child, extremely unrelated to the real need in my life, I did not seek help until a very interesting string of events. Allow me to retrace my steps. The previous inconvenience turned nightmare around the age of 19. Although I had suffered blackouts, and continued to ignore my past, the ignorance precluded a series of very serious events.
One evening, my anger triggered a homicidal black out. According to friends who witnessed this terrible atrocity, I crossed the street with bearing a kitchen knife in attempts to rid this world of a nosey neighbor. While I do not recall this event, my friends remember vividly. You see, they attacked me instead, and threw me into a car where I later regained control of my body near a field of haystacks. This type of behavior continued.
I decided to get help when my roommate dealt with the alternate me as a seven year old boy. Apparently it was a mix of crying, screaming, and yelling for doctors that had not been seen in over ten years. At this time, because of my stubborn attitude and reckless regard for my sanity, they called a family member. It was this family member that relayed the message of my serious problem to the rest of my family. I could have killed him, but luckily, I was on the road to recovery. You see, I had done a great deal of research on dissociation, and found that many did not believe it was a valid problem. With all the doubt, I felt like there was no cure, and others would laugh, point, and spit in my general direction.
However, at this time, I had run out of options. Although some family attributed my condition to excessive drug use, I knew better. In fact, I was happy they thought it was a drug complication because I did not want the world to know about my dark secret.
The therapist first noted that I had an uncanny ability to compartmentalize my life. I was a mentor, a party animal, a student, a drug dealer, a parent liaison, a raging drunk, a comedian, a dark and depressed teen, a musician, a fighter, and the list goes on. Somehow, I was able to keep my life in good order because of my seemingly split personality and ability to cope in every situation.
This was just the beginning, he only act impressed because of his inherent knowledge of Dale Carnegie. He fooled me, and I began to trust him and cherish his opinions and advice. We began to re-compartmentalize my life first with the goal of having a seamless day, where I did not to shift personalities in order to be accepted in all environments. Granted, we all do this, but I did it to drastic and almost inhuman degrees.
This path required a lot of change in my life. First, I had to quit abusing drugs. It took a long time with many bumps in the seemingly mundane road, but it worked…eventually. We found that drugs and drinking was a big trigger for me. And the blackouts reduced by 75% after removing them from my life. This was not just because of the chemicals, but the environment I lived in. After steering clear of drugs, I also missed other triggers such as many unsafe situations where an alternate ego may be required. The biggest step toward my recovery was the rejection of drugs and their inevitable environments.
At this time I dropped the therapist for monetary and guilty reasons—my mother was driving me because of my lack of driving credentials. She never asked about the sessions, but I always felt extremely nervous after leaving the safe haven of his office and back into the world of judgment. I suppose I felt my mother was judging me each time I stepped back into her vehicle.
Later I was “ordered” to be in therapy because of a relapse, stemming obvious results, and attended for the next two and a half years. There I brought myself back the level where I had left therapy, and began working on the real issue—my abusive history. We talked about every single factor that warranted my unruly and unhappy disposition.
At first I was seen individually, and moved to group therapy. It was not a homogenous group, and all three members were males with varying histories of abuse; most physical in nature. We all talked about it in a very relaxed environment and learned through collaboration. We began to trust each other with everything. After establishing the trust and open sharing, this type of environment seemed to do the most good. Instead of feeling dirty and secretive behind a closed door with one other confident, we saw others experiencing pain and working through the issues. We used humor most of the time, and rarely had full on crying sessions—in fact, I think there was only one in all the years. It was an amazing group. Sometimes we would just watch a movie, or discuss the upcoming super bowl, or mess around with our therapist.
We finally decided that none of the abuse was our fault. We saw we had been dealt horrible hands, but needed to move on. In a way, being with others helped me realize I was not alone. I saw the devastating effects of abuse on who I came to call my friends. I knew I had to deal with it to be an example, a gracious receptor of advice, and a healthy and productive citizen.
For me, it took more than just a person with a hefty degree and vast knowledge of the human psyche in regards to abuse, it took others like me who tried above all to reclaim their lives, and the lives of their caring and wounded friends.
