What Does Life With Dissociative Identity Disorder Really Look Like

It’s so scary to wake up as a toddler alone in a condo with only a dog. This is the terrifying reality I live with. 

I have no warning signs, no sensations that give it away, no quirks that other people can see. I can be fine one moment, and the next, I’m 4 years old, confused about why I’m in an office with a woman holding a notepad and a pen, sitting across from me. 

During dissociation on the highway, I might feel like a 9-year-old driving 35 mph on an unfamiliar road, clueless about how to operate the car. I panic, asking, “Which pedal is the stop one?!” I manage to pull over to the side, struggling to figure out how to put the car in park, but at least I’m safe. I gasp for air. 

The scenery comes back into focus, and I realize I’m on the side of the highway with cars whizzing by me. I turn on my blinker and merge back into the flow of traffic, now even more traumatized than before. 

Dissociative Identity Disorder isn’t about changing clothes to look and act like a different person; it’s about subtle shifts and raw vulnerability. 

DID occurs when an individual has separate parts inside, known as alters, each with their own personality, desires, and goals. 

It’s when a 35-year-old woman turns into a 2-year-old, not knowing how to reach out for help. The fear instilled in my little alters is horrifying. Not knowing how to use an iPhone because your littles only knew rotary or dial-by-number phones is a kind of panic I would never wish on anyone. DID is when 5 of the same thing arrive at your door in the mail, even though you only remember buying it once. It’s saying yes when you mean no, with a big, convincing smile on your goofy face, all the while thinking, “I’d better get murdered before I have to follow through on this, but I just can’t form the sound ‘N-oh!”

Dissociation to this degree is crippling. Without my mom and dad helping me get to and from appointments, picking up groceries for me, and taking me to every in-person appointment, and with them living 6 minutes away so they can be here in an instant in a crisis, I’d be destitute. 

I’m working with top-notch doctors, using ketamine-assisted therapy, and engaging in intensive trauma therapy 3-4 times a week. I’ve gained a ton of awareness and let go of a lot of the abuse I experienced. But the switches still happen out of nowhere at random times.  

Now and then, the fan will touch me in a way that sends me into a different personality. Or the sound of a door, setting boundaries with people I depend on, the darkness of a basement, an intrusive thought, or anything else that may or may not hit me just right, sending my system into a spiral and leading to another personality taking control. 

Each one of my parts sees the world differently. 

We each have a different perspective on what life looks like. Some see clearly; others need glasses. Some are scared and young, stuck in the past. And some are bold and angry; others are shy and trapped. People-pleasers, protectors, managers, and littles, all just me, but so much more. 

This is my life with Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s not as showy as the movies portray it. Instead, it’s subtle and sly, trying to fly under the radar. It’s a protective mechanism for times when there was no way out. While dogs learn helplessness when repeatedly shocked, children split: some become the person needed in the situation, and others perish. 

I survived, but I am damaged. And no amount of apologies from my abusers would ever make up for what I’ve lost. 

This is my experience of living with DID, but there is hope—growing, learning to embrace all parts, welcoming diverse aspects, listening to each part, and making communal decisions.

Featured image via David Besh on Pexels