mental-health | littlebarefeetblog

DiD (Dissociative Identity Disorder) is one of the many mental conditions which are known to plague humans. Extremely uncommon, it is nevertheless so frequently missed in the diagnosis of afflicted people.

But, how many have even heard of it?

Over the past few years I have delved deeply on the Tube, and even via printed documentaries and manuals, to learn as much as I can about this profoundly confounding disease.

DiD is thought to occur in those who have endured REPEATED psychological and physical trauma, and that from early childhood.

The brain itself moves through several developmental phases, the most commonly known being the passage from concrete operations to formal operations. Concrete operations represents the ability to comprehend the literal world; by contrast, formal operations = the abstract world, and its requisite reasoning. Young children operate within the context of concrete operations until they approach puberty; anywhere from age 10 to age 13, formal operations may kick in, but exactly when varies within each individual.

But, the development of PERSONALITY is far less understood, and it is this area of growth within the mind/brain/behavioral matrix which becomes “fractured” during repeating trauma.

Trauma causes a certain “shut down” mechanism to activate, as a sort of protective measure for the mind. But, when shutdown occurs, growth is also halted. The theory suggests that, during this shutdown, personality stops its otherwise normal developmental expression, and freezes wherever it is on the path of growth when the trauma is actually happening. Just like children report that, during sexual abuse, they let their minds go someplace else outside of that which is literally taking place, personality itself does the same kind of thing; it finds a cubby hole, and hides there – indefinitely, only to re-emerge when triggered as time moves forward.

As a result, within each phase of development which trauma infiltrates or invades, personality crystallizes; if a child is abused at age 4, then the 4 year old remains in the brain as its own, complete persona. Each time trauma reoccurs, a new personality phase freezes/crystallizes and becomes an Alter, or one of the number of other personalities which will ultimately manifest over time.

Therefore, a person who becomes afflicted with DiD will manifest between two and as many as a dozen (in extreme cases) different personalities, each able to “switch” on spontaneously when external pressures are brought to bear. Sometimes the behavior of another individual or group will “trigger” a specific personality to front, and that Alter will come forward – beginning to behave as itself within the context of the triggering scenario. Example: a fully mature adult might suddenly begin to act like a young child – speaking like a child, going through childlike rituals (“bankie”; favorite stuffed animal; hugs and kisses….) until another Alter comes forward to take over.

Alters can range between the infantile (as described, above), perhaps a 10 year old, then a teen, maybe a young adult. Gender might bend, as well — some females report alters who are male, and vice versa; others report a change in sexual preference between alters. Each Alter has its own chronological age, physical stature (some are short, others are perceived to be quite tall), introvert or extrovert, from mousy and shy to grandiose and theatrical. Some have different nationalities and verbal accents. Each has their own skills, as well – one might play the piano proficiently; another might be tone deaf.

In nearly all those with DiD, there is always one, core persona. One may be a Protector, coming forward to take care of the Child Alter; another may be an intellectual, preferring to retreat into solitude to read or study. But, the leader is the actual, fully formed personality which is the true adult; all other Alters must, in order to generate full mental health, ultimately FUSE with the core persona to become one complete personality.

Anyone who has been out socially with a friend who seems to present from one extreme to another over the course of a week, or even several hours, might be in the company of someone with DiD. If radical behavioral switches occur, it is best to be very gentle around such individuals as, in many instances, the DiD sufferer may not even realize a switch has taken place. When there is awareness, a degree of humiliation might be present. Great care should be taken, if switches are either observed or experienced.

DiD sufferers lead exhausting lives. Each Alter has its own wardrobe, culinary preferences, and choices for social and private activity – even groups of friends are assigned, per the persona as manifesting. Unlike manic-depressives who, during mania, may travel to exotic destinations and play characters who get involved in multiple relationships, DiDs have DISTINCT lives per their various Alters’ traits and behaviors, and these manifest consistently every time they come forward.

If you think you might have DiD, or know someone who fits the description, there are resources. Go to YouTube, and Search DiD; you will find both delightful and agonizing personal testimonials as well as case studies provided by therapists. Everyone deserves to both feel whole and BE whole; professional therapists trained in DiD are out there, and their goal is to help the DiD sufferer INTEGRATE ALL his/her personalities into one, healthy, whole human.

Here’s to mental health!

Hear! Hear!

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It came in cans.

To any “artist” of the 1970’s who didn’t paint or silkscreen, fixative was an essential tool in every materials kit.

Sprayed across the surface of any graphite, charcoal, Conte crayon, or pastel drawing what otherwise smudged easily at the slightest touch would be rendered impervious.

I can’t recall what toxic cocktail was required to formulate the product – probably a solvent, some silicone and, of course, a drying agent; but, once the potent smell dissipated, each finished piece was sure to be protected from all invaders, both foreign and domestic, and into perpetuity.

Yes. The smell.

During that era, there were plenty of aromatic fumes. Mineral spirits, the chief deterrent to painting for me, was nauseating and, used to clean both paint and silkscreen ink, produced headaches and diarrhea. Permanent markers would be found decades later to cause kidney and liver diseases. Spray paint was probably a neurotoxin. And, the list went on. In order to make something beautiful, artists had to descend into the pit of outgassing poison.

Enter the digital age. Now, the only real known contaminant is blue light, emanating from the screens of any number of painter products. Even the coloration was now ensconced inside the ever increasing sophistication of the all-in-one printer.

But, back in the day, any work of art not incorporating actual paint was produced by hand using concrete, earthen substances and preserved by a single, aerosolized, rattling can of fixative.

I’d made my share of what were called “finished” drawings. Most of these took hours to complete, under the watchful tutelage of college level instructors. Give me a nude human in the middle of the room, and I could stay focused, first for seconds, then minutes, and finally however long it took ’til completion. I was a twenty-something – virginal, naiive, impressionable, and gullible – but, I had no known emotional problems. My ability to concentrate on completing works of art was just driven by what anyone might call selective, heightened desire.

Enter obsessive-compulsion. That would appear, a decade later, after the Swine flu vaccine and its subsequent panel of allergic reactions.

Dad had expressed symptoms of OCD. But, we’d hardly given them a serious nod; his need to check the door lock five or six times, well, that was just Dad, being quirky. Repeated visits to the bathroom mirror to feel and examine his nostrils; again, probably boredom on that one day off from cutting hair at the shop.

I wouldn’t know that OCD could sort of smolder in the first decades, provoked only by stressors. I couldn’t know that life itself would intensify these, in spades.

But, my first serious relationship break up would set a spotlight on obsession like something out of a horror movie. Could I stop circling his block in my car, accelerating faster each revolution, vitals escalating? Pre-ceding email and text, how many letters would I draft and copy and stamp and send? And, well before answering machines, how many times would his phone ring before he’d yank it from the wall?

OCD invades every aspect of interpersonal exchange. Every business arrangement. All social plans. It lies in wait, to sabotage anything worth sustaining.

Lately, instead of ruminating over the more typical repetitious thoughts, I’d been taken to dwelling on the syndrome itself. What caused obsessive compulsion? Were there catalysts? If so, how to intercept them? Perhaps, if confronted, there could be some welcome neutralization?

I’d read a paper, awhile back, and written about it. There were brain chemical deficits, but whence had they arisen? Rather than replace what was missing, why not get at the root cause?

My primary symptom, of recent date, had been fixation. Something, or someone, would captivate my imagination. Accompanied by mild euphoria, I found joy in riding this. But now, as the much older woman, I could recognize that the object of my fixation was neither responsible either for my actions as motivated OR for defining them; in short, the object, including any desirable traits my mind had assigned, was actually secondary. It was the fixation, itself, which both fueled my energy, drove my behavior, and provided the sought after experience. I had become slave to the fixative.

The conventional kind still comes in a can. For sale at any craft store, their supply can be updated anytime.

Fine art restorers likely have a product which unfixes the surfaces of ancient finds. For something that will liberate me, and release whatever is worthy deeply embedded beneath, I’m still waiting.

Here’s hoping it smells like candy.

Copyright 12/7/24 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. No copying, in part or whole or by translation, permitted without written release by the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for writing your own story, instead.

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Stories, in my head, since childhood….time to tell them.

Tag Archives: mental-health

“DiD You Hear Me?”

The Fixative.