Three or four years after my DID diagnosis and still I battle denial at every step. Maybe it comes with the territory. I hear that another multiple did this or that, something whacko that I’ve never done, and my first thought is, I knew it! I must not be a multiple after all! I’m always on the lookout for signs that I truly don’t belong in the Personality-of-the-Month Club. It can be any little thing, say for instance reading a multiple’s blog about how many times she changes outfits before leaving the house (because, of course, all her parts have different tastes) and my radar emits a high-pitched whine heard only by me. (At least I’m pretty sure that all the dogs in the neighborhood don’t pick up on it too—–though that would explain a lot, now that I think of it.) I personally don’t change outfits fifty times before leaving the house. A few times, tops. And only because my first and second choice don’t always fit—–so see, there’s proof right there that I’m a fraud, blogging about multiplicity when obviously I have no personal experience of any such thing.
Unlike Sybil and other high-profile multiples I could name, my voice doesn’t change when I switch, which is proof enough that I don’t switch, right? And if I don’t switch, well guess that clears me of all DID charges. Yep, you won’t catch me using different intonations, accents and whatnot, so put that in your pipe and smoke it! There is little or no circumstantial evidence to point to my being a multiple.
Oh sure, there’s the little things, if one wants to split hairs. Different handwritings. Inappropriate laughter (c’mon, like I’m the only one who laughs at funerals.) Things I’ve supposedly said and done that I don’t remember. Shoot, that could be chalked up to raising five sons, ever think of that? You try raising five sons all by your little lonesome and tell me you’d still have your wits about you! Or how about this, maybe I’m suffering from a mild form of early dementia. So I (occasionally) put the coffee pot in the fridge, climb into the wrong car in the parking lot, stumble into the men’s room at the airport, cry when I hear children’s music, covet my grandkids’ toys, am sometimes dyslexic, can’t sit with my back to a room, startle easily, and . . . uh oh. I just remembered the article on my blog entitled On Being a Proper Multiple. Crud. According to this article, most multiples don’t behave like Sybil. They don’t all express themselves with different voices, or change clothes when a new alter takes over. I feel my paltry defense weakening, and the back of my neck tingling as it does when a different part’s about to take over. I may have to rethink this whole thing and get back to you later.