The Many Of Me

I just looked back over the things written by personalities using this name. There are several drafts that are part 2 to something that was published. It kind of seems like we should go back and publish them, but I’m not sure if they will be connected to part 1 anymore, since they are being published so much later. Will try to look into that.

I know most of the posts lately have been focused on early hospital days, but there is a very important element that has not been written about – the impact of those hospitalizations on our family.

Going back to the first time I worked with a psychiatrist, when my dad came to help us out which was to take the place of a hospitalization. After the frightening episode of me loosing control of my body causing it to flop around the car while I groaned and wailed in response to husband’s intentionally verbally attacking me after the psychiatrist had just told him in no uncertain terms that he was to be very careful with me due to how very fragile my mental state was at that time. (I know that sentence was a whopper, but it was primarily to refer back to a resent post.), I don’t remember much more about the ride home; but I think my response to his verbal attack scared him sufficiently to cause him to be quiet and let me struggle to regain control with no further altercation. As soon as we arrived home I went immediately to bed as the doctor had instructed. Husband sent the children outside to play. There were grape vines growing along the lattices that lined the way to the back entrance to the house, and there were frequently bees buzzing around it. From our bedroom located in the back of the house, I could hear the children playing. I also heard a large fly buzzing loudly in the window. Somehow in my fragile mental state, the two sounds mixed together and I thought the children were being attacked by the bees in the vines. I leaped out of the bed and took the stairs so fast I nearly fell down them in a mad dash to rescue the children. However, when I got out the back door the children were happily playing on the pavement of the driveway. My heart felt like it was going to pound right out of my chest from the terror I felt thinking the children were in danger and the abrupt realization that they were all fine. I was confused, and very angry (not at anyone in particular – just the emotional response to the situation).  Husband came out of the house and gently lead me back upstairs as I sputtered out a mix of words in an attempt to explain to him what had upset me – they didn’t even make any sense to me, and he wasn’t even trying to understand, just leading me back to bed. It seems to me now that the doctor had given husband medication to give to me if I became overly stressed, and he gave it to me at that time. I slept for several hours until later in the evening when my father arrived.

Another medication the psychiatrist gave us for me to start on immediately was an anti-depressant. I had avoided seeing a psychiatrist because I knew he would put me on an anti-depressant and I would not be able to nurse the baby any longer, which was the case. My cousin who lived a few miles away kept the baby at her home for a week while he was being weaned, and I think the children spent a lot of time there, too, during that first week. Out of his deep concern over my condition, the psychiatrist cut down the period of time that is normally done to gradually start on a new psych med., and he also started me out on a higher dose that normal. The combination caused me to collapse several times when I was taking a walk. Just a few more days into the process of getting started on this medication, I started having seizures, or at least what looked very much like grand maul seizures. That forced the doctor to take me off that anti-depressant and start me on another one, which was closely related to the first one. He was more cautious about how quickly the dose was increased and I was able to tolerate the new med better.

I had not used bottles at all for all the previous children, so when the baby came home there was a whole new aspect of caring for him. I didn’t have to learn much right away because my father was the one caring for the children.

I wish I could say that husband was so appreciative for my father’s help that he controlled his temper during the four month stay, but it seemed he was incapable of doing that no matter what the motivation. I don’t know how many times I would hear him verbally attack my father and i would run to intervene. Husband was as unrealistic about his expectations for my father as he was with me. He would make very unrealistic demands, do everything in his power to complicate all efforts to comply to his demands, and then viciously attack when the demands were not met. It was a pattern that persisted throughout our marriage, and he even attempted to extend it to the time after the divorce; but that is a different story for a later time.

I know that I have not been very gracious towards husband in my accounts of our life together. The days of making excuses for him are over. He was not always mean and tormenting. He would sometimes go weeks without any outbursts or attacks. I thank God for the happy memories we were able to make during those times. Another point that should be made is that his attacks were directed toward me, not the children. I always feared that if I was not there to take the abuse and guard the children, that he might attack one of them instead. I would never flee unless I had all the children with me. But except for the trauma of hearing and seeing his attacks on me, the children were never targeted  (with one exception which was the one that got me to file for divorce. But that came years after the season of life we are talking about now). These are not excuses – just the truthful facts. It’s my understanding that it is common for abusive men to have these spells of calm and sometimes loving responses. Frequently they are an attempt to prevent the wife from leaving or filing for divorce, or possibly an effort to relieve the guilt or shame that they feel after an outburst. Even though the reasons may be selfish and self-serving, it does make it possible to have some happy memories. That doesn’t excuse or balance out the attacks (something many abusive people try to convince their partner it does), but they are part of the whole picture of what our life was like in those days.

One of the most significant things that started the second week of the first MPD hospitalization was a “picture”/”image” that came immediately to view whenever we closed our eyes. It came complete with sensations and sounds. We were slowly wading deeper into a vast expanse of water. Our destination was somewhere on the other side of this body of water, but it was too far away to see. Over the course of that first week of this experience the water gradually got deeper, and then occasionally we would feel something cold and slick touch the side of our leg, but we couldn’t see what it was. We searched the water around us but could see nothing until one time we saw a dark fin moving fast away from us right after feeling the touch on our leg. After that first sighting, the touches and more sightings of sharks came more frequently as we continued slowly progressing deeper and deeper into the water. Even though the presence of the sharks was frightening, there was a deep inner determination that had a sense of assurance with it that we were doing what we must do.

Dr. H took this whole thing as a very significant and important message from our subconscious. We were on a journey through deep water containing life-threatening elements towards the far off shore of strong, secure mental health. There was no turning back now that we had begun this journey. Dr. H strongly believed that somewhere (maybe someone)  inside was well acquainted with what needed to happen and when it needed to happen. It was up to the two of us to grasp what the subconscious was telling us and follow that plan for us to succeed. He was very concerned about the presence of the sharks, and he tried a number of things, including hypnosis, to formulate a method of securing safety during the journey. Each attempt to get rid of the sharks or secure our safety in the water failed to have any lasting impact on the image we kept seeing.

After about a week of efforts focused on dealing with the sharks, it got to be the night before our Sabbath. We explained to Dr. H that we took a break from our weeks work from sundown Sabbath Eve to sundown night after the Sabbath, so we would need him to excuse us from groups and plan to meet with us after sundown night after the Sabbath. He agreed to this, and even though I couldn’t attend worship, we took a rest from therapy of any kind and focused our attention on personal worship, spiritual songs, prayers, and rest. We couldn’t do anything about the image that continued whenever I rested, but we tried to basically ignore it or in our thoughts and prayers we lifted up the image to God for Him to deal with in whatever way He chose. Getting close toward evening, as I was resting, the image changed. God brought dolphins into the image to surround me and protect me from the sharks. When Dr. H came in that night and we told him about the dolphins, his joyous response was, “Who but God could have come up with a solution like that!”

The image continued to be something I could intentionally “check in” on if I chose to or if Dr. H wanted me to, but it no longer was a constant presence whenever I tried to rest. Dolphins became a symbol for us that God would protect us as we continued to face and deal with the potential hazards along the journey toward mental health.

(Picking up from last post) Once the word got around on the inside that our space had been discovered and we were connected with someone who could and would be able to help, the strategies for how to “come out of the closet” so-to-speak started. It took a few weeks, but it went down like this.

ok, not quite yet. First you got to understand that Abigail was so far from consciousness and had been for so long that we had other personalities who were dominant at different times and provided leadership for the subdivisions of groups. So the personality who was dominant of one of the primary groups was out. I will call her Beth. She was Mom to the kids and wife to first husband, so she was primary personality almost all of the time in those days.

So, Beth was 1/2 awake and 1/2 asleep – asleep enough to “dream” and awake enough to be aware of her husband beside her and her surroundings. So we staged this “dream” that wasn’t really a dream at all. In the dream husband was chasing her and she ran into the bathroom and locked the door to get away from him. For some reason he called the fire department to help him get her out. Then she felt trapped and frantically sought for a way of escape. She decided to jump down the laundry shoot but part way down she got stuck. The firemen and husband were in the bathroom and some had gone to the basement to see if Ishe had gone down the shut. Then she became more awake but not able to move. In the “dream” which continued she became four different persons. They were different ages and sexes and looked very different from each other, and were all arguing about the best way to get out of the predicament she was in, yet at the same time they were all her. She finally was able to be fully awake and functional but she was deeply traumatized by that “dream” or whatever it was. Husband felt it was distressing enough to call the psychiatrist. When she described the “dream” to Dr. H, he decided to admit her. I think he realized it was time for the MPD to come out in the open, but he didn’t do or say anything along those lines. We adjusted to the new hospital, did the groups and other activities, and did a lot of praying and journaling and Bible study. On the inside we all kind of got cold feet so we pretty much stayed quiet.

After about a week or so with nothing happening, Dr. H decided maybe it wasn’t time for disclosure after all and he was going to release us. That was like a kick in the pants to us inside, so just as the team of people who were meeting together to plan discharge (that would be Dr. H, a social worker, a nurse, and Beth) entered the room for the meeting, a nine year old personality who’s name was Ellen came out. She talked with Dr. H and the others for about 20 minutes, answered questions, etc. until Dr. H asked if Beth could come back. It was a bit stressful and embarrassing to switch in front of people, but Ellen managed it. Dr. H asked Beth what was the last thing she remembered, and she told him it was watching and waiting for him to open the door to the conference room. He had her look at the clock so she would realize 20 minutes had gone by that Beth couldn’t account for. When Dr. H told her about Ellen, she had a hard time taking that in. Of Course, the discharge plans were changed and we stayed in the hospital while Dr. H became acquainted with some of the other personalities in Beth’s group and helped us set up an internal intercom system and an internal map.

There were other significant things about that hospital stay, but I will write more about them in another post.

I need to start with an explanation. Even though it’s still Stranger writing, I am writing as if I were Abigail – telling about the experiences from Abigail’s perspective. I have been doing that for most of my posts. I’ve gotten used to referring to myself as if I were Abigail because that’s how I have to live. It would be too confusing to people in general if I were to always refer to myself as Stranger, so I have naturally just carried through in my writing too; but it has just dawned on me that I should clarify here so as not to confuse you all.

As I stated in the previous post, Rapha helped me to understand my need to change therapists when I got back home; and since I was on Psychiatric medications for depression at that time, I also would be needing a new Psychiatrist. The psychiatrist who serviced the clinic where my new counselor worked was Dr. H.

Dr. H was from the big city about 60 miles away, but he came down once a week to service the people in our smaller city. Psychiatrists were few and far between, so this was a generous service on his part. The first time I met with him I was immediately impressed that this man was going to be able to help me like no one I saw before him. By that time I had seen several psychiatrists and umpteen therapists, and by then a pattern had developed in their responses to things that concerned me the most. When I brought up my concerns about suddenly not knowing where I was or what year it was or who I was, they ignored or changed the topic. When I talked about not being able to account for hours of the day sometimes, they suggested a possibility of some form of seizures. I would point out that the EEG showed no seizure activity, but they said it might have just missed it or some other statement that dismissed my concerns.

But Dr. H actually brought up those specific concerns with me, asking if I ever lost track of the time or became disoriented. The hope must have shown in my posture or voice or something, because he stayed right on that topic. I told him about the walks with the dog, and about accidentally overdosing on medication because I forgot I had just taken it, and about the time it took me 4 hours to find my way home after taking my son to the emergency room of our local hospital. I could have taken hours to recite the countless times things happened along those lines, but he had heard enough. He asked me if I would be willing to close my eyes and just relax. Then he asked me what I saw. I told him I saw a large wooden door. He asked me if I could open it. I shrugged me shoulders – I had never tried to open it before.  The strange part about it was I don’t think I could have told someone about the door if they brought it up in general conversation; but on a just barely conscious level I had always been aware of the presence of that door. After I had described the door and the surroundings, Dr. H suggested I attempt to open it so I did. It opened without any difficulty at all. He asked me what I saw behind the door. I told him there was a long corridor with doors on both sides.

That was enough for him. He had me open my eyes and we picked up with more questions about my experiences with previous mental health providers and about my family. Even though the discussion moved on, my mind was back on the door. Something inside me told me that bringing that door to conscious awareness had been a very significant and positive development in my therapy.  A point of no return had been reached and I was excited to discover what was going to happen next as a result of opening that door. The session ended and a new appointment was made for the next month, but we (the many of me) were not about to just sit back and wait for a whole month to elapse before getting Abigail to pursue what was behind that door again. We started that very night to make strategic plans for how we would go about being discovered.

The next psychiatric hospitalization came a few months later. It was called Rapha, (Jehovah-our Healer). It was based off Dr. Robert McGee’s book, In Search For Significance and each day part of the book was incorporated into our therapy. It was foundational for us for several reasons. The material itself was deeply healing. Also, one of the videos they showed enlightened me to the fact that the counselor my husband and I were seeing was doing things that were clinically unethical and possibly dangerous. Rapha connected me up with a new counselor who was in our home town. This counselor couldn’t prescribe medicine but there was a psychiatrist who worked with the clients at that counseling center.

This was also pivotal for two reasons. For one, my husband refused to stop seeing the counselor we had previously been seeing together. For the other, this was my introduction to the psychiatrist who would eventually diagnose the MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder) which was later renamed DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder)

As I said in the last post, my dad came to relieve me of all family and household responsibilities and I was taken to see a psychiatrist several times each week as a substitute for in patient treatment. My Dad stayed 4-5 months and during that time the visits to the psychiatrist became less frequent. My husband would rage at my father but he did not resort to physical blows with him. It made me furious and I was quick to jump to my father’s defense, but it did little or no good.

When the baby was about 14 months old we moved.  Husband was fired from his position in this church too, as he had been from the first church he pastored; and he blamed my depression. At the point we moved he still had no job but we moved where we would be close to family and where husband had the most/best job prospects, which was in a Northern Midwest state. We discovered upon arrival that the house we had planned to rent was not safe to house young children in, so a church member let us all sleep on his floor for the first 5 months. Husband and the wife of our host family were both prone to angry outbursts, which made life tense for everyone.

I had to get connected up with psychological services in order to keep on my medications, so I continued to get counseling. I don’t remember much about it. We moved to a town about 30 miles away from our host family when husband got a job with social services. Previously it was somewhat common for me to become disoriented while driving, but at this new location was the first time it happened when I was walking. I took the dog on long walks, and quite frequently I would suddenly realize I didn’t recognize anything in my surroundings. I would go to the next cross street to read the names of the streets and neither one would sound familiar at all. Then I started a mental inventory, realizing I didn’t know what city I was in, or what state, or what year it was, or what my house looked like. The dog we had at that time was very sensitive to me and would pick up on the fact that I didn’t know how to get home, and she would take me home. More than once I didn’t even recognize my house when we got to our lawn. She was such a good dog – I don’t know what I would have done without her.

The abuse accelerated again once we lived on our own again – both emotional and physical abuse. I reached a point where I couldn’t connect words to make a sentence again, and for the first time I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. It was a week before I came to the realization that it was the abuse that caused the break down, which had been obvious to staff from the very beginning. I was in the hospital for about 5 weeks. While I was in there my medical doctor wanted to run some medical tests, and he discovered a bleeding ulcer, Gall stones, and I can’t remember what else. One of the tests done was an EEG, which was really confusing to the technician and diagnostic doctor because the brainwave pattern that changed was the part that is like a person’s fingerprint – everyone has their own pattern which never changes. I was put on an anti-seizure medication just in case it might help, but it was a shot in the dark.

The most significant thing about this hospitalization was that I had to confront my husband about his abuse and inform him that he had to sign an agreement to attend a series of classes on anger management that the state police ran and supervised, and he had to move out of our home before I would be released from the hospital. I was really afraid to do that, but the man who escorted us to a private room was a big, burly fellow who intentionally looked really tough. There was a small window in the door to the room, and the escort took us in and seated us so my husband was facing the window. Before he left us alone he told both of us that he would be right outside that door the whole time and if I so much as raised my voice to call for help he would be there immediately. Up until this time I believed my husband when he said he was unable to control his temper; but I watched him become more and more enraged as I continued to lay out the requirements for me to be released; and although he trembled and clenched his fists, he did not lose control. That was a huge eye opener for me. It made it clear that that he was choosing to abuse me – it was not something he couldn’t control. In many ways it was the beginning of the end of our marriage, because I was making requirements that I knew he was capable of meeting.

Just a couple weeks after I had been discharged the anti-seizure medication had done so much damage to my liver that I was literally bleeding to death from my liver. I thought I had a flu, but I just couldn’t get off the couch to take care of the children. I called husband to get girls to take them to school. When he saw me he insisted on putting me in the car and taking me to the emergency room. I waited for a room for hours,slumped over in a chair along a wall. Everyone there knew I would be admitted. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my eyes and skin were the color of a rotten pumpkin from the poisoning in my body. That night they did emergency surgery and I spent a week in intensive care. Once I was transferred to the surgical floor I had two nurses come to see me and said, “we were there that night you came on and were part of the team working to keep you alive. When we heard that you actually made it, we had to come see for ourselves.”

It takes a very long time to recover from severe liver damage, so when I went home from the hospital I was a long way from being able to take care of our large family. I had no alternative but to let husband move back in. All too soon after moving back in, he started up the abuse again.

The next time we were in a marriage counseling relationship that made a real difference was when my husband was pastoring his second church. It was along the northeastern coast. Our counselor’s office was in a different state than the one we lived in (we lived close to the boarder) and I was expecting our fifth child. I told my husband in a counseling session that the verbal attacks which were frequent at that time were breaking me down. I felt like I had previously had a barrier inside me that protected me from his verbal abuse, but I was feelilng like each time he attacked me that wall was getting thinner and weaker. I was afraid of what would happen if that wall gave way.

My counselor was deeply concerned and focused his counseling towards me that I needed to get away for at least a couple weeks – away from my husband and away from the children and church. I needed to be somewhere where the stresses and pressures I was under would be gone and my basic care and needs would be taken care of for me. He told us (both my husband and me) about a place called L’Abri which could be a haven and a place to get my head straightened out. While the counselor focused his encouragement to me to go and to let nothing stop me, he was focusing his counsel toward my husband that he should send me. It was no longer enough to stop the abuse. That had so stop and it was critical that it stop immediately; it was no longer enough. It was essential that he make the preparations for me and give me many reassurances that he and the children would be fine and he was to send me with his blessings. As the time drew nearer for the baby to be born and husband wouldn’t step up and make the appointment, the counselor told me I had to make the appointment myself and carry through no matter what husband did or said. The counselor promised me that my husband would come through after I left and the children would be fine in his care. Meanwhile, at home I was being threatened that he would not be responsible for what happened to the children if I left them in his care. It was beyond his capabilities to care for them without me, especially for that long. As the appointed time drew nearer I shortened the duration of my stay but I didn’t cancel it. I ended up going for an extended weekend, and the whole time I was worried sick about what was happening at home. After a brief interview the first day I was there, I was assigned to read a book focusing on personality development, ironically enough.

When the baby arrived it was on Easter Sunday. As I held that tiny new life so dear and so vulnerable the wall inside of me broke. I knew it immediately. I feared for what that would mean. I don’t have much recollection about the first 5 months of the babies life; but he was 5 months old when I was driving on my way to a counseling session by myself and very nearly intentionally drove head on into an 18 wheeler at about 65 mph. I was at complete calm as the wheels crossed the center line and I continued full speed, but somewhere deep inside there was a struggle like a tension pulling the wheel against my will back toward my side of the road. I resisted until there was no was to change the outcome. Even if I were able to swerve to my side of the road the car was too fast to avoid rolling the car. I relaxed my hold on the wheel and by some miracle the truck got past me and I was still driving on the road in my own land. I was in a state of shock as I continued to the counselor’s office and told him what had happened on the way there. He made some phone calls – one to husband to find someone to bring him to get me and the car – I was not going to leave that office driving myself anywhere. Another call was to a psychiatrist who saw most of this counselor’s patients. Up to this point I had refused care by a psychiatrist because I refused to go on any psych meds because I was nursing and I knew as well as I knew I was alive that the only thing keeping me alive was the baby’s dependance on me for nourishment.  I guess my close encounter on the way to the counselor’s threw that excuse out the window. I sat in the counselor’s office while he made these calls, unable to put two or three words together in a coherent sentence.Husband arrived and was given directions on where he was to take me immediately to the psychiatrists office – do not pass go do not collect $200. I don’t remember the ride there. The psychiatrist spoke with a strong British accent. After a few attempts to ask me questions, he turned to my husband and said, “she’s really quite retarded.” which tickled me. He said I was in an extremely delicate condition and normally he would send me immediately to a psychiatric hospital, but our lack of insurance left the only option available a state institution and he felt I was much too fragile to survive being treated there. The only solution the two could come up with was to ask my father to come live with us to take care of the children and help with household duties so that I would have no responsibilities at all. The baby was sent to my cousin who lived not far from our home so she could wean him and I would not be able to take over his care. Arrangements were all made before we left the psychiatrist’s office, and three more appointments were made for that week. My husband was given very stern strict orders that absolutely nothing was to upset me further. We left the office in silence to begin with; but we hadn’t gone more than 115 minutes down the road before my husband started his verbal attack. I don’t remember his words. I started shaking my head no, trying to ward of the attack with the shake of my head. Before I knew it my whole body was flopping uncontrollably back and forth while a ghastly sound came out of my mouth and I floated out of my body, not able to comprehend anything anymore. My body flailing around caused my husband to quickly pull the car over and attempt to stop my movements. I’d like to think he was feeling somewhat guilty for intentionally pushing me over the edge, but I’m afraid his thoughts were more for himself – how he was going to get me home. I don’t know how it happened our how long it took, but eventually I calmed into a slump and we drove the rest of the way home in silence.

The story doesn’t end there, of course; but I have to say that I have no knowledge that husband ever indicated in any way that he regretted what he had done to me – not at the time and not any time since. Even as I write this with tears streaming down my face, there is a deep longing for some acknowledgment that he felt some remorse for what he did, but it is met with nothing more than an empty void – an aching empty void. It’s one thing to have no endearment towards one’s spouse; but it is still to this day incomprehensible that one could intentionally do such severe harm without even the slightest remorse.

I weep because I’m still wounded. All the years of marriage to a man who truly cherishes me cannot remove the pain of that past injury. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating here. I am told that he is not the same man today that he was back then. I knot that there are parts of me who have forgiven him and even invite him to family gatherings on holidays; but I guess this is one of those areas where I, Stranger, am in a very different space than my others. Speaking only for myself now, I still fear him and don’t trust him. I don’t wish him any harm; but neither am I willing to go out of my way to do anything kind or good for him.

I suppose I need to start by mentioning another significant thing that happened that first summer of our marriage. My husband decided he couldn’t work for Boy Scouts anymore because of the time commitment on the weekends, and he talked to the appropriate person in our denomination about starting graduate training to become a pastor. So in the midst of my failing health and being verbally, emotionally, and physically battered, I was helping my husband fill out applications to seminaries to begin classes that same fall. He chose a seminary located about 1 1/2 hours drive away from my family’s home. We lived in a small apartment about 3 blocks from the seminary that first semester, and I became pregnant again. All my protective mothering instincts kicked it to shelter the little one I carried, but my body was still far from recovered from the physical collapse less than a year earlier and all the other demands I had made on my body following that. This pregnancy was diagnosed right after I had accepted a teaching position in the state I had gotten my degree and teacher certifications from; so I was commuting 1 1/2 hours each direction for work while I was horribly sick to my stomach. My body struggled to survive and protect this little one I carried. The severe nausea didn’t decrease as the pregnancy continued, so we moved close to my work and my husband commuted to his seminary. I  lost 30 lbs during that pregnancy, and vomited nearly every day. I went a full 5 weeks past my due date because my doctor wanted to give this baby every possible chance to grow inside me. Finally, when he did induce, the placenta had deteriorated significantly and the baby got pneumonia from infection in the amniotic fluid she inhaled during the birth process. The doctor figured she had lost a minimum of a pound by letting her go so late.

We had planned for me to stay home with the baby so after the school year ended we made arrangements to move into the seminary my husband was attending just before his new term started. The due date was July 1 so we thought there would be plenty of time after the baby arrived to prepare for the move; but it turned out she was born the end of the last week before my husband’s classes started and the weekend we were scheduled to move. The baby had been transferred to an infant ICU at a hospital in the city the seminary was in. My doctor had planned on keeping me as an inpatient after the delivery for as long as he could because I was so weak and vulnerable; but once my baby was transferred I was very determined to be released so that I could be with my baby. So I sat in the ICU with my baby while my husband and family members moved our belongings.

I wish I could say things got better between my husband and I at that point, but it would be dishonest. I had not planned to be so detailed about this part of our life. Now I’m going to do some major condensation. The abuse continued, at times being worse and at times being better. People think that abusers are always evil; but that is rarely the case. Frequently, as was true in our case, there are episodes of abuse, even seasons of abuse, and seasons when the abuser seems to really try to do better with some measure of success. There were redeeming qualities in my husband, as is true of most abusers, which I was  determined to hang on to and nurture. Consequently there were ups and downs, but the downs at times were dangerous. The journey that eventually lead to divorce was long and hard. I was hospitalized in both medical hospitals and psychiatric hospitals due to my husband’s abuse. For a very long time I refused to even consider divorce; but eventually I let God  lead me out of my first marriage. As years continued to go by my ex-husband did make some major changes. I don’t think he would be abusive to a new wife if he were to remarry. But I don’t believe that he would have ever come out of the abusive life style if we had not divorced him; and I’m very confident that God not only gave me permission to divorce him – God lead me to divorce him. That is a very complex and lengthy thing to explain, which is something I don’t want to do here and now; but if God had not directly lead me to divorce my first husband, I wouldn’t have done it Much healing has taken place in both of our lives that wouldn’t have happened if I had not done it.

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.