Tag Archives: PTSD

“DiD You Hear Me?”

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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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Copyright 3/28/25 Ruth Ann Scanzillo littlebarefeetblog.com. Please, share blog address freely.

AVERSION.

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Two magnets opposed cannot touch.

Or, we humans lack the strength to bring them together.

But, what of the psychological forces which repel?

I have no memory of what could have provoked the first episode, nor can I recall the manifesting scenario. All I do know is, my tendency to be easily averted has been lifelong.

Basically, aversion is turning away.

As a force, aversion seems to drive me to move in a direction opposed to that which I would otherwise choose. I can avoid tasks, events, even people, for days to weeks, cause not immediately named. And, my emotional connection to the activity or the person doesn’t seem strong enough to prevent this.

Rejection, or its potential, always lurks as a catalyst.

Often, the behavior of a single, key individual affects whether or not I turn from something toward which I would normally run. It’s as if some negative power or influence attaches itself to what I love, rendering it hostile. Like a poisoning.

Several months ago, I was displaced as pianist by another available candidate who had actually been nominated by me to serve temporarily in my stead when I could not. I made this recommendation on the basis of another’s reference, something I rarely do without knowing the quality of the player. But, ultimately, I lost my seat to this person, the panel in place to choose having determined availability to be the sole criteria in line with their needs.

While all these appeared satisfied with their decision, I was fairly well demolished by it. Gradually, I lost interest in my association with the group and, even more astonishing, my desire to play the piano. Now, every time I so much as look at my beautiful Steinway grand, aversion grips my soul.

The initial emotion was, invariably, anger; how dare anyone infiltrate my precious relationship with the music I made on this magnificent instrument?

Yet, the anger gets directed toward that from which I’m averted! The piano itself embodies the negative force exerted by those who have expressed their rejection of me, as if to become a tool of their power.

The dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed, seize me similarly. If I do not wash them immediately, they become increasingly capable of averting me until not a single clean plate or bowl remains and the task demands attention.

I use the term “lifelong” because I cannot return to a time when aversion was not played out in my realm.

Psychologists posit that trauma is the originator. Pain, and the fear of pain, cause us to do everything in our power to prevent its recurrence. Somehow, trauma causes pain and pain becomes associated with that which we hold dear.

Childhood trauma has many aspects – physical abuse; sexual abuse; emotional abuse. Being beaten; being violated; having love and care withheld. Our brains make connections. A single event can permanently associate the pain it generates with any number of experiences in the future which trigger its memory.

Likewise, the source of the aversion attaches itself like a barnacle to that from which I’m averted. They meld. The source seizes ownership.

Many, many years ago I did experience a memorable trauma, one which can be isolated and named. That episode caused PTSD, a phenomenon still manifesting residually all these years hence. And, what did this affect? My other musical instrument, my priceless cello. The ghosts of the nefarious surround me every time I look in its direction.

My conscious awareness of the cause, plus my love for my students, are the only forces which overcome this realization; I deliberately penetrate the veil of hate every time I choose to grasp hold of that instrument.

Aversion isn’t just a psychological neurosis. It’s the power of hate to command control over that which is loved, very well one of the demons about which the ancients speak.

We must all rise, and stand against such a force. “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.” – Song of Solomon 8.

Nothing should touch that which is loved except love itself.

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Copyright 8/28/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Plagiarists, take your hate and turn away.

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Honor.

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[ formerly titled “Objection.”]

Dad never knew his parents. He heard about them both, from his Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Marietta in Springfield, Mass on the rare respite they’d give him from the foster home or the Walter E. Fernald School in Waverly. They’d tell him things – how his brute of a father sang opera that you could hear down the block, in between the storied rumors of his philandering….about his mother, being committed, speaking only Italian, with no defense….and, about his cousin, Jerry Marengi, who would go on to become a world famous Munchkin. These things we all, as his family, would carry forward in the form of his legend.

So, when Dad escaped the confines of his anonymity,  via the freight cars that carried him all the way to California from Boston, joining the US Army seemed almost logical. Free room and board, a hot meal (for which he’d panhandled so artfully as a self taught harmonica and bones man), a little physical agility, and he was in. In, to await deployment by the powers in place to submit him. No ties, no accountability; he was their easiest prey.

Fort Riley, Kansas was the first destination. Having had a few trumpet lessons in the Fernald school, he was ripe for lead bugle; each dawn and dusk, Private Anthony Scanzillo dutifully played Taps and Reveille on the horns the army gave him. Organizing, and then leading, a parade for the dignitaries on base earned him the rank of Corporal, which he held proudly until his death.

Dad, however, didn’t die in battle. Oh, no. He was one of the survivors.

In fact, when the war commenced, he being third fastest runner in his outfit they’d shipped him to Germany right off.

But, from that point, his always colorful stories were few; Dad would only speak in detail of the day he, as a member of the forward observing team of the 3rd armored, had to “infiltrate the enemy” at the Bulge. It was snowing, and he had a cough, and they had to shoot all the German prisoners on orders. But, they all lived through that hell and, in exchange for it, every infantryman received the Bronze Star.

Somewhere between enlisting and coming home the victor, there were less celebratory if more defining moments. There were the AWOLs. There was the all night guard duty. And, there was the guard house – where he’d frequently qualify, to all who would listen, his presence on Pearl Harbor Day, which was also his birthday. Dad’s role in all this emerged as a stand alone story; he wasn’t there for the medals.

I can’t remember what year it was. PBS was airing several mini-series, most of them documentaries, and the historian who stood out above the rest was Ken Burns. Ken Burns made his life work the chronicle of America, and he did it well. Never before seen footage, all the real thing, of everything from the jazz greats to, yes, American soldiers, in action.

Naturally, in the course of the Burns chronology of World War II, America’s most outstanding general received his own, multiple chapters. George S. Patton, the formidable, would be displayed in all his imposing force, with selected film clips in abundance.

One of these stopped me in my tracks.

I’ll never forget the evening. Probably dull of wit from a snacking binge, I had to be jolted awake by the scene. But, the image. The image was unmistakable.

Patton, Burns narrated, was always hard on his men. He never entertained the faint of heart, for any reason, chasing them down whenever he could. On one particular day, seems he’d found one: there, before our eyes, underscored by the unwitting Burns, was an army hospital, and one, lean, lone, raven haired soldier on a cot by the wall. The General loomed, raising his hand over this cowering young man, even in silent film barking forcefully at him to get up. The cameraman did not include the strike, but rumors were well circulated that this was part of the Patton package.

I recognized my father instantly.

No one knows when this happened. All anybody knew was Dad left the war a decorated forward observer, shell shocked, a victim of PTSD for the rest of his life. He could never tolerate fireworks (“screeming Meemies”) or sudden explosions of any kind, and would warn us repeatedly until his final years never, ever to come up behind him in the dark.

I wrote directly to Ken Burns, asking him to edit that segment from his series. The next time it aired, as God is my witness, actors portrayed that scene.

But, no actor could characterize my father as he was. Dad was a transparent innocent. He had none of the conventional role models, not a one. He was blessed with many gifts, one of them being the honest candor for which he was beloved by all. Dad was nobody’s victim.

God, in the wisdom mankind will never understand, spared Dad’s life – his, along with so many others, a fact for which the man himself always gave his Creator the glory. I like to think that Dad was protected because of his honesty. There is a fearlessness in such truth.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo   5/30/16    All rights, in whole, in part, in word, and in letter, the sole property of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your respect.

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