DID and Me: Cause & Casualty

Why did I become DID – a disorder, diagnosis, or disease, depending on which way you look at it?

Looking it all over and looking at the patterns of behavior, looking ‘inside’ at what I see, I can simply sum it up with this:

It’s never that simple.  It never takes just ‘one thing’.  It takes several of them repeated over and over, and variances in cultures and things.  It takes diametrically opposing views having to be held in a child’s head.  It take making a child rely on their own resources, instead of giving them a hand.  Constantly and forever grinding away at them, from age one to twelve years old.  After that I think the ‘pattern’ is set: and a child learns to do it on their own.

For a child to develop “DID” or multiple personality behavior, several things have got to go on.  For one thing, you’ve got to have a creative child – and a talented one.  Preferably one who is gregarious and friendly – but who through isolation is forced to play by himself most the time.  Perhaps he will begin making imaginary playmates, making them out of things, such as stuffed animals and toys.  Isolate him; show no affection, deprive him of the real thing.  But make sure he sees it elsewhere.  Don’t give him the true meaning of family, where ties of love and blood can bind.  And yank him from one environment to another, time after time.

Make sure you cut him off completely after each move he’s made.  Isolate him entirely from one culture while dipping him in another, then do it again.  And again.  And again.

But wait!  That’s not all.  Lets make sure of this thing.

Change the family culture all the time.  Take the father out, put him back in, take him out, back in again.  Short absences and long.  Go poverty to middle class in a week – give him a year, go back again.  Drop him where it’s prim and proper.  Take him out again.  Go from apartment buildings to houses and back over and over.  Make sure you move him every couple of months during his ‘formative years’ then drop him in a foreign culture and move him a dozen times more in three years.  Make sure he can’t make any attachments – but give him enough time to put his heart out there.  Then rip it apart; rip him and his friend apart time after time.

Hook him up with a child molester.  Make it even better by having it same-sex love.  Confuse him more by throwing some girls in.  Have him fall in love with someone closer than his brother.  Break his heart again – yank him away from one society then drop him in another.  Lets put him back in his old one . . . his ex-molester’s former house?  Sounds fine.  Fill the septic tank with pink condoms.  Let him see that there.  Whisper in his ear what they were for.  And keep on going.

Hold over his head the scepter of atomic lightning.  Tell him if he’s bad he’s gonna die.  Reinforce that lesson by holding a gun to his head.  Wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him he’s dead – a long barrel leveled between his eyes, gun cocked and loaded, screaming it . . .

Have him learn things like lessons in life, that love is hard and a bad deal.  That he’s gotta work for it if he wants it at all – everything! – but keep snatching it from his fate! – every time he starts having it.

Teach him not to cry.  To hold it all inside; way deep inside, until it forms a dark bubble.  And then have him skin it over for you.  When he looks up at you with that sick smile on his face, looks like he’s choking – let him have some more.  Keep on feeding him some shit until it comes up mushrooms, and then feed him some more.

Tell him about the atomic clouds and dying.  Show him pictures and more.  Train him well!  He’s gonna be dying – might as well go out proud and with a bang.  Shove his parents outta here – no! – they’ve gotta stay around still trying – trying to grind him to a fine point, a missile and an island.

Teach him more than he can know or understand; dangle facts about the future.  Make up some, too.  Tell him when the time comes to be dyin’ – he’s gotta do it well; making sacrifices for ‘you’, the general public.  Tell him he’s got to defend the “American Way” and die tryin’ – and that he’s got to be the best when he goes to school.  Remind him that he’s never good enough, have mother call father a fool.  Beat him a lot.  Tell him you are going to abandon him at a very young age.

But never, never, let him show his emotions outside.

Keep him isolated from the crowd.

Drown his head in facts and emotion.

Make him hold it all in.

Keep changing everything, changing everything . . .

until he begins shattering within.

Don’t stop now; you’re almost done; time to muck with his head.
Teach him the skills you’d rather him knowing than the skills he needs instead.
Show him how to warfare,
show him how to craft,
Teach him to be gentle
with the back of your hand.

This was just part of the insanity we were raised in.  No wonder I went ‘insane’.  But to me it was all normal all the time,

a condition of the brain.

*It’s a Diagnosis when nothing’s wrong; a disorder when the systems’ not stable, and a disease when one starts to ‘self-harm’ themselves, whether through behavior or physical impulses (eg. splurge shopping, engaging in old drug habit, cutting, etc. – or doing something to deliberately distance one’s self from one’s loved ones – a common enough thing to do!)