At the time of our wedding, my husband had been out of college and working for Boy Scouts for two years as a District Executive. His job was located 700 miles from where I/we lived, so all our “dating” was done on the phone or during short visits. We were practically strangers, though we didn’t think so at the time. I thought I knew him. He was very sensitive and supportive in all the best ways. We never argued, but seemed to see eye to eye on about everything. He changed his religious affiliation (he insisted it was a choice he made by conviction, not so that it wouldn’t be an issue to hinder our marriage).

You know the calm before the storm? If it seems too good to be true, it probably is? It’s not wise to make major life decisions while in a major life crisis? All those good, wise, things I should have paid attention to but didn’t – not even a nagging dull reluctance in the back of my mind or the pit of my stomach. Three weeks after the wedding we were riding in the car, and out of no where he started screaming foul language and attacking viciously,  making wild accusations. I had never in my life been talked to in such a way, and it caught me completely unprepared. It was only a week more before verbal blows were accompanied by physical blows. I was 700 miles away from home without a friend or refuge.

I became pregnant right away, and lost the baby almost as soon as we knew he/she was there. The grief from the loss of my mother compounded by the grief of being separated from everyone and everything familiar to me compounded by the grief of my cherished husband turning abusive compounded by the loss of the baby. It was all far too much to bare. My heart breaks even now as I write this brief summary.

The day my mother died I suffered a complete physical collapse. The doctor said even the nutrients stored in the marrow of my bones had been completely depleted. I was only 18 credits from having my diploma and triple teacher certifications. My doctor was strongly against me attempting to take any college classes at all that spring semester. However, there had been a few times over the course of my college days when I seriously contemplated dropping out temporarily, and my mother had been strongly against it. I just couldn’t bring myself to take a semester off when she had just died. I went ahead and took the final 18 credits, but taking those classes and preparing for the wedding (which was the same weekend my graduation would have been) were too much for me. I missed classes, my notes were a disaster, and I failed one of the classes. After the DID had been diagnosed I could look back at that last semester and see clearly how the switching during classes had taken place. The hand writing changed, the type of doodling changed, the quality and quantity of notes – it all screamed DID. Since I failed a class I had to make it up at an extension of the university of the state I moved to after I got married, so I was taking that class while dealing with the abuse and the loss of the baby. Remembering it all now, I shake my head at the insanity of it all. I truly believe that if I had not been a multiple I would have had a major breakdown. More likely, I would have had more than one the year of 1980.