It doesn’t matter if its Monday or Friday, there’s no calendar yet made for us. Us, the one person… or the one body with many minds.
I live with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) or, as you might have learnt from one of those ridiculously sensationalist movies, multiple personalities. And, unless you spend a lot of time with me or see me every day, you would probably not know it.
Despite what you imagine about DID, I don’t change from nun to monster or from serial killer to child. My changes can be subtle and only perceptible to those who have been able to stick around long enough to know me. Sometimes the changes are evident because my large breasts become more exposed and my dresses are quite revealing, or my boots are too masculine and so is my demeanor.
Or you can tell which are the peace-loving, adventurer ones of us because they usually wear things on their hair (hats, flowers) and “free spirit” type clothing. Or simply because, when you say hello to me, I will have no idea who you are.
Sometimes my day doesn't start until 3pm; others, it just doesn't finish. These are the most trying times because I have been awake, without knowing, for the most part of 24 hours straight.
Sounds crazy — and this is what people enjoy calling us. How they can enjoy perpetuating ignorance and the comfort of not going a little bit beyond their limited understanding, I don't know. But I know I am not crazy. I am aware of my condition, I treat it and am slowly embracing it, because the truth is, lovers and friends, even family, will come and go more easily when you have DID - but this, my own crew, is here to stay.
But I’m not going to dwell on the solitude that living in an individualist society means, especially for someone like us. Not yet anyway. I simply wanted to drop by and take you for a wander into this world of being one, but multiple.
Do you know those times when you drive for a while, get to your destination and suddenly ask yourself where that travelling time went? Well, you have also dissociated, like everyone does. This is a capability we all possess, except that in my case (I feel so faux talking about a me, as a “singleton”) the skill you have to “come back,” is one that I no longer can control at will.
So, I drive and arrive at the destination, but besides not knowing where my time went, I also don’t know for sure that I actually drove the car; I have no memory of grabbing the keys, starting the engine and going. Sometimes, I can’t even recall getting out of bed, showering, etc. Even if my hair is dripping wet and I am decently attired, I don't have a memory of any of that sometimes, because it could have been *Sofia or *Martin who were in charge.
And that’s not all.
You get to the place without remembering leaving your bed. The wetness of your freshly-washed ponytail has permeated your top so you decide to change into something dry; you can’t stand the feeling of wet fabric against your skin because you have also become hyper sensitive to physical stimuli, since it is one of the only ways you have to keep “grounded” in reality.