Dissociative Episode #2

In October, 2013, I was reading in a park in St. Paul when a visual aura suddenly appeared in my right eye. I groaned because the areas precede a graying out of part of my vision, a minor headache, and 15-30 minutes lost to sitting back, eyes closed, hoping that it doesn’t become a migraine like I used to get in my 20s. Those were completely debilitating for two days.

Again there was no migraine and my vision cleared up. I felt sort of disconcerted, which is not unusual. I drove home immediately.

It was a 10 minute drive. The last 8 blocks were difficult. I felt foreign and strange to myself. I struggled to string together a long sentence. I felt very young, little. I kept a conversation going with myself. “You know who you are and where you are going. You know that in just a few blocks you’ll come to . . . a corner you know. You’ll turn there, go just a little way, turn in the alley and drive into your garage.” I couldn’t come up with the names of the streets I was crossing, the number of blocks to go, or my street address.

It was critical that I not panic and lose hold on the things I did know. I kept repeating what I knew, maintaining a calm voice.

I got to my garage without a problem, but I couldn’t figure out how to get the door to open. I thought there should be some device in my car to do that, but I didn’t see anything. I did know that I could open the side door and push a button there to make the big door open. I did so and parked my car. I went into the house and to my rooms. I changed and sat, watching tv.

The next thing I recalled was still sitting in the chair but feeling certain there was something I should be doing. I didn’t know what that thing was. I put flip flops on, grabbed my purse, and went to find someone who could direct me. I found a housie and said to her, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

I felt calm; I just required some direction. However, there was apparently something about my visage that alerted housie that something was up. After she briefly spoke with my psychologist on the phone, Mary took me to the ER at my hospital.

She asked if I was willing to ride there with her so the medical people could help me. Of course I was willing. I’d been searching for someone to tell me what to do.

The ride to the hospital was fine. Housie walked me in.

Later I woke up in a semiprivate room. It was dark by then. I thought I might have been given something so I could rest. I felt unsettled. Things didn’t feel just right. I didn’t feel just right. I was kind of disoriented. I fell back to sleep.

After dozing off and on, I began to feel more coherent and asked questions of the nurses. Sunlight shone in the window. I learned that I had been there all night. Everything they’d wanted to do – tests, diagnostics – was done. I told them, “Then I might as well go home.” They agreed.

Housie gave me a ride home. I was very anxious waiting for her to come. It seemed like a very long wait, though I don’t really know how long it was.

I got home, went straight to bed, and slept most of the day. I was exhausted, especially mentally. I’d had more than I could manage. It wasn’t until another day later that I learned all that I’d missed.

Mary said she stayed there in the hospital for three hours. Medical people had asked her to come to me twice.

The first time I was sitting on the floor in the corner talking coherently, but to no one. The doctor asked me a question: “What is your name?” My response: “Then we left.” The doctor asked Mary if I was always like that. She told him that I am normally lucid and intelligent. In short, a normal adult person.

The second time Mary came in I was sitting upright on a table or bed, staring straight ahead, rigid, oblivious to the world.

That information shook me to my core! I didn’t know I was capable of such things and I had absolutely zero recall of it. I was frightened. The new information was very disorienting. What else had happened, or might happen in the future?! 

After a few days I began to accept my new self-knowledge and accept that I have full dissociative episodes, that my Dissociative Identity Disorder is an accurate diagnosis. I came to feel that this knowledge does not diminish me. It is another step on the trail of knowing myself more fully. Such knowledge is a good thing and I welcome it. I am okay.

Dissociative Episode #3

(The actual number is higher.)

I was at the coffee shop at 4:30 reading a blog. I got up for the bathroom and there were odd sensations or something visual when I close my eyes. I’m thinking Fuck! Not the aura. Not a dissociative episode. Then there it was, just a tiny flash, but I knew the whole, big, curvy glitter ball was on its way. Fuck.

So I knew that I wanted was to get home ASAP. It’s only 5 blocks. I packed my stuff up and got in the car. I noticed that some vision was blocked, but I was going while I could. I was buying myself time. Otherwise I lose too much vision and have to wait many minutes for it to go away. The dissociation follows close after my sight clears up. Then I really struggle to get home and manage it.

As I was driving I continued reminding myself that I knew what’s happening and I knew how to manage it. “I can do this without an overnight hospital stay this time.”

I got home and in the house okay, hustling myself to my rooms.

I hadn’t been there long at all when my phone rang. It was someone trusted and dear whom I really wanted to talk with. I was still present for the conversation and enjoyed it.

I had to come back down to the kitchen and the housies were there. I just wanted to make a quick grab and run back up. Housie asked me a question. I looked at her and didn’t recognize her or understand her. I asked her to repeat, realized it was something about laundry and said yeah. I fled.

I ate a little of a dish for supper, but I felt somewhat nauseous and headachy and couldn’t finish it. The only thing I could consume was water, in small sips.

I sat still in my recliner, keeping my eyes closed and sound minimal. Usually after the glitter disappears a gray area moves in like a fog to blot out 1/3 to 1/4 of my field of vision. It eases away after 15-30 minutes.

The gray was gone, though I was focused on staying present.

“Okay, I’m still here. I know what is happening. I know how to cope. I have a big, smart brain that works and I/We can get through this.”

I frowned hard, squinted my eyes and strained to focus. It took a great deal of energy to figuratively keep my feet under me.

My phone rang again. It was my favorite sister-in-law, Cheryl in Denver. She’s been struggling with some serious health issues, including MS, for quite some time. She and I were college friends and share an athletic background. That gives us a simplicity of language and an additional closeness due to our shared experiences.

It was not the time I wanted to have a long and intimate conversation with her, but that only happens a couple of times annually. I did pretty well. I was coherent, a good listener, empathetic, understanding.

I did well for the first 20 minutes of the conversation. Suddenly, in mid sentence, my vocabulary deserted me. I could find and speak the first short and simple words of the sentence, but the closing was not anywhere I looked. I tried the sort of mumble/jumble until the correct word flashed, or anything close to it. It never came. I’m certain I uttered a few of the most discombobulated sentences ever. So I got off the phone fast.

I wondered if I Katy and Cheryl really had called. Beginning with the onset of the aura, everything was very confusing. What was real? I didn’t know. I realized that the information was recorded on my phone and I could check Recent Calls. I didn’t have the energy to do so.

I stayed in the chair the rest of the night, with only a couple of trips to the bathroom interspersed. I did not interact with anyone else for the rest of the night.

About 10:30 the nausea had subsided and I felt hungry. I ate the rest of the dish I’d started earlier. It was good and I felt better. I began to feel a little more confident that I was going to be okay.

I still felt odd: Not completely real, not completely present, not fitting in my space, feeling foreign. I knew that I was in my private rooms of the past 3 1/ 2 years, but I also had the sense of an impostor. I believed it would pass.

I checked the Recent Calls and was relieved to find that my recall of the phone conversations was accurate.

I went to bed at midnight, 1 1/2 hours earlier than usual.

I woke after 9 hours sound sleep and felt  very good! In previous Diss Episodes, I’ve been wiped out for the entire following day. I did it.

I DID IT!!!!!! I did it. I managed my Diss Epi. No hospitals. No days lost. It was a 10 hour effort. And I Did It.

The fact is that not every D E is the same. I am  so lucky that I have had a glimmer of consciousness during most of my DEs. That’s what has enabled me to learn how to manage them. That and marvelous help – therapists, medical people, friends, loved ones, groups, support, and even people who have no idea they made a difference in my life.

I want to be cognizant that there will likely be future DEs. Those DEs may be more or less severe and hospitalization may be required. Nonetheless, I am

CELEBRATING THE RESULTS of THIS EPISODE!!!

I    Did    It!!!         Woo-hooooooo!!!!

Who Am I? Where Am I?

Once upon a time that quick line was a well-known punch line. Not so much for me now. I have Dissociative Disorder.

On rare occasions I have trouble being present. When I was younger, living in near proximity to my abuser/torturer, I had these experiences with greater frequency and intensity. I didn’t know what they were then. I just knew I ‘went away,’ away from the nightmare I lived, thanks to dear old dad. Kept me from going screaming crazy! Thank god.

Those episodes have become rare. I had one in 2011. I was driving alone on a Minneapolis street in very slow rush hour traffic. I realized I didn’t know where I was. I was sure I should be able to read the street signs, but I just couldn’t quite decipher them. I felt very small, like a little girl peeking over the car’s window sill at the big and strange world. I looked around me. Cars, traffic signs, landmarks, people. It seemed to me that I ought to be able to make sense of the tumult, but I simply could not sort it out. “Who are all these people? What are they doing here? Where are they going? Do I know any of them?”

I called a friend, a name I found in my phone. She quickly understood that I was in trouble and called an ambulance. I pulled over to wait for it to take me to the hospital. I couldn’t remember my name by then.

They suspected a stroke. After some tests, and several hours in the hospital, all results were negative. I felt a little  more “back to myself”, and got a ride home.

To make certain that it wasn’t a stroke, I underwent several different brain tests over the next couple of weeks. They found nothing. (Joke intended.) There were no physical aftereffects.

I talked with my shrink about the experience extensively. It was frightening for me. It took some time for me to feel comfortable and safe again.

Yesterday I had another episode. This one, beginning about six in the evening, was shorter and less intense. I was able to remember my name. I knew where I was and the way home. I couldn’t remember my address, but I knew how to find it. (Thankfully I was very near home when the episode intensified.)

I spoke my name aloud. There were other words I wanted to use, but I was unable to say them. I didn’t take time to worry about that. I knew what was happening and that it had happened before. I needed to concentrate solely on the information I did have – My Name and the Way Home.

I made it. I was not well-grounded in any sense. I felt overwhelmed and confused, unsure of what I ought to do next. I ate something, then laid down on my bed. I was exhausted and shaky. I slept for an hour, regaining some of my strength. I knew I was home, knew what had occurred, that it was past, and not likely to return soon.

As it got later I recognized that there had been significant differences from the previous dissociative episode. I knew who I was, what was happening, how to respond and get home safely. That is very good news.

I think it would be best for me to recognize that these episodes may be an irregular and rare facet of my life. My goal is to improve my coping skills, both mental and emotional.

This experience has been nearly as exhausting as the first. I was lacking resilient energy yet today. I was unable to work. I’ve spent a very modest day. I am confident, however, that I will feel stronger tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, until I am back to my baseline.
I will discuss this dissociative episode with my highly skilled shrink again, gain more understanding, and greater skills to manage the next one.

 

I can do this.

I am doing this.

I have a good life.

Photolly Yours

Special Effects Fuzz Butt

These damn photos skip around on the page and won’t stay where I want. I guess they want to be pictorially FREEEEE!!!! Anyway, I took them with my Droid Razr phone and used the app, PicsArt, to play with them. It’s not Georgia O’Keefe, but it is fun. Just sayin. . . .

Special Effects VeraWang

Stink

I think Stink should have a color, like some sort of putrid green. That way you could see it coming.

Picture this:  You’re walking toward the bathroom in a fast food joint. You see noxious fumes seeping from under the door. You turn back, deciding you’d rather die of bladder explosion than enter that perverse prison.

See, colored stink gives you a chance to avoid it, rather than wandering blissfully into a full-scale, stealth nasal assault. I mean, who would want to be one of those poor souls we see stumbling out of public bathrooms with their eyes watering, blowing out through their mouths, cheeks pinched, face pale, hand clamped over mouth, stomach heaving?

There is a cure for this dreaded affliction:

Colored Stink!

(Yes, I have given this a lot of thought. Too much?)

Stinking Poll!

I think the Colored Stink question is important enough to merit this poll. (You can vote more than once.)

Family- or -Lauren Bacall

You see, I just finished reading Lauren Bacall’s second autobiography. The first one, By Myself, was published in 1978. Now was published in 1996. Third is By Myself, and Then Some, 2006. She’s 88 years old now. I’ve always admired her. I read By Myself many years ago, loved it and Now, and can’t wait to get my hands on By Myself, and Then Some.

In Now, Bacall is much more reflective, looking at life in its stages, movements, constant changes. I seem to be in a similar place. Perhaps that is a big part of why I was so taken by the book. I’m an introspective person, sometimes too much so. In the past two or three years I’ve found that introspection has increased, my sense of looking back at my experiences as movie scenes or shorts has become quite vivid.

I find that I’m seeing much more than I did then. I’m “getting it” significantly better than I did then. I think that’s due to the increased breadth and depth of my visual filters. Experience is the very best teacher, if one pays just a little attention.

In both her books, Bacall speaks frequently of Humphrey Bogart, “Bogie”, and all the empty spaces he left in her life. I think there are losses like that. Those are losses that one does not “get over.” One learns how to go on, but the loss and empty space is forever there.

I lost my family, meaning two parents, three sisters and two brothers, in 1992. (My father was a child abuser, and I spoke the unspeakable. I told. I was never forgiven for that.) My parents died in 1999 and 2010. All my sibs still live, and married, have children and grandchildren. I knew some of  the children when they were very small. I don’t know any of them now, grown or new. The loss is always there, always painful, leaving lots of empty spaces, and I have learned how to live with those spaces. Mostly it’s not so difficult, but sometimes, especially holiday times or certain dates that were special in the family, the loss is acute.

When I think of them, how they were, our shared experiences, and how they are now, my understanding is greater than it was in 1992, despite 20 years of ignorance. I think it’s my experiences, my thoughtfulness, my introspection, my desire to understand, my compassion, that are leading me.

Diamonds Coffee Shop

It’s in N.E. Mpls. at 1617 Central Av, NE. It’s in an old brick building full of nooks and crannies and character. Way cool. Plus after first tea or coffee drink – unlimited refills. What’s not to like?! The building is brick and home to several art studios/galleries. Well worn wooden floors, twists and turns, hallways, caged freight elevators, mondo ambience. I love it! Lots of variety in the background music. Many tables and chairs, plus sweet overstuffed sofas and chairs. Ahhhhh.

Oh, the soups, salads and sandwiches look great. I wasn’t hungry and didn’t have any, but they make the sandwiches there by hand. So go.

I’ve attached a couple of photos here that might illustrate the funky vibe.

Note the vaulted brick ceiling. Of course you know that’s the U.S.S. Enterprise flying among the lights/stars.

Don’t know why this one is so small . . .
This is the front area, counter just visible on the left. See the coat tree on the right side? Note the red object at the top of it? That’s a lobster. Just thought you might find that interesting. I do.

Bathroom Graffiti #4

This work of art is on the trashcan in the bathroom at Diamonds Coffee in NE Mpls. Great place.

 

 

Stan Dream

(Okay, so his name is not really Stan, but he was my client and I want to protect his privacy, so I’m calling him Stan.)

Stan was my client for more than three years, until he moved into a group home. Stan is autistic, 43 years old, and funny – when he wants to be. Most of the time he’s very quiet, except with me and his mother. He won’t stop talking! On and on and on. Stan’s  sharp memory of every Three Stooges and Laurel & Hardy routine is remarkable. He’s pretty good on movies like The Wizard of Oz too.  Stan recites entire scenes with perfect vocal inflections. He can sound like any of them.

Stan is smart. He was born in the time when people with autism were considered retarded and attempts to help them reach their potential were very primitive, is there were any efforts made at all. Stan taught himself to read because he wanted to read and because the experts of his time never thought he would be capable. He loves math too, and computers or anything electronic.

At his day program, Stan has a few limited friends, mostly women. Although Stan can really become angry with his colleagues, he is essentially a gentle man and his friends are quiet and gentle people too. I have never seen or heard any interest on Stan’s part in sex, sexuality, anything. I’ve always felt he has very little interest in that topic. I believed that he did not perceive himself as a sexual being.

Ruth, Stan’s mother, is his chief care-taker, guardian, and home provider. However, she struggled with a variety of illnesses and debilitations in 2010 and 2011, and finally relinquished her role with Stan because she was no longer capable. Stan moved into a group home last year, and that’s where my relationship with him ended. It’s been a year since I last saw him or talked with him.

All of that adds to how bizarre  this dream really is.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Stan and I were walking to a specific destination with me leading, as usual. To get there we had to go through a rather odd house. There was no other way to get past it. Our destination, another house, was only accessible by walking through this strange house.

The vibe was 60’s hippy commun-ish. There were about a half dozen adults in one room. They were very mellow, lounging on the floor with big, fluffy pillows, lolling against one another. Some of them noticed Stan and I with wan smiles and vacuous eyes. I didn’t see any liquor or weed, acid, heroin or any other common 60’s drug, but those adults certainly looked stoned. In the entire time Stan and I were in that house, no word was spoken.

The house was big, full of rooms, hallways, nooks, crannies, levels, corners, half levels, ladders, stairways. It was maze-like. Some of the rooms were bedrooms, some lounges, some bathrooms, a kitchen.  There were lots of children running about, playing, laughing, having a good time. There were some people in various rooms, young adults. It appeared the stoned adults practiced laissez-faire parenting.

Stan followed me through the house, winding around corners, up and down stairways. I looked in the rooms as we passed them. Stan didn’t appear to notice strangers, though in truth, he misses very little. He did not speak or interact. The people we encountered seemed to pay little attention to us. I sensed that having strangers walking through their home was not an unusual experience.  In fact, there was really no way to discern who actually lived there.

I knew the way to our exit from the house, but when I got there, I discovered Stan was no longer behind me. I know that he can get distracted easily. I thought perhaps he had noticed a cartoon show on a television, and stopped to watch. I retraced my steps.

I found Stan in one of the bedrooms. He was pulling his tee shirt down, looking a little disheveled and confused. A sallow young man, perhaps in his 20s, was lying on the bed, sheet pulled up to his waist, naked torso exposed. He was calm, at ease.  The young man had a palpable inoffensive sweetness about him. Stan did not make eye contact with the young man while I was there. The young man fixed me with a languid glance, but said nothing.

I got the implication immediately. I think I may have interrupted them. I was taken aback at the unexpected scene. Being skilled at dealing with my clients, I said nothing. I did not want to embarrass or shame Stan. I had no idea he was gay, or that sexual awareness was even on his radar. I motioned Stan that it was time to go, and we left.

We walked on down the street to our destination, which was less than a block away. The party was in a large, but commonplace house. There were many people present for some kind of occasion. The attendees were rather quiet and reserved, sipping drinks and nibbling on bacon-wrapped chestnuts while muted music played in the background. It is a gathering of members of Stan’s extended family, and I brought him to the event.

I left Stan in the safe and trusted arms of his family while I wandered about the house, keeping to myself. I made regular checks on Stan, just to be sure he was there and okay. There came a time when I realized that he had disappeared, and I knew he had returned to the strange house.

I retraced my steps and searched the house for him. I came through the room with the stoned adults, nodding as I passed them. They nodded back wordlessly. I went through the maze of hallways, up and down stairways, into small and narrow corners.

I climbed a ladder and found myself in a small bedroom, and saw Stan sharing the bed with the sallow young man.

Neither man smiled at me, though both acknowledged my presence. Stan’s impassive lack of expression was his norm, but he looked different.

Stan physical body has always reminded me of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Inoffensive, soft, smooth, without form or color. He got up from the bed and began dressing, his back to me. His body looked more square, defined. He held himself differently. His body and his carriage were no longer a soft and mushy silhouette.

More defined as a man, rather than an autistic man/boy, Stan seemed to have suddenly come home to his body. He was suddenly more “Stan” than he had ever been before.

I asked the young man, “You two had sex?”

“Yes,” he said in a matter of fact voice.

“Umm, did Stan get to do both. . . . ”
He interrupted me, “Yes.”
“Good.” My lips twitched, almost into a  smile, and I nodded. The young man nodded too. There was much not spoken, and everything understood.
Stan finished dressing and turned to me. He did not overhear my conversation with the young man. Stan indicated with a gesture that he was ready to go. We left the room and house.

Stan walked ahead of me. Something very important, and very good for Stan, happened tonight. I broke into a huge grin.

———————————————————————————————————————————-

And so my dream ended.

I have never dreamed about a client before, except perhaps for little snippets. This dream was long, detailed, and vivid. I am still surprised that I had this dream, though less stunned than I was initially. What in the world does all of this mean?

Perhaps there is no point in trying to assign meaning to this Stan Dream. Perhaps it is simply a dream. But due to the specificity and imagery, I wonder.

What do you think? Let me know in the comments. Thanks.