Dissociative Disorder

Given my friendship with Leah, dissociative identity disorder has become part of my life. Like my other preoccupations (e.g., the Middle East), the ignorance on the subject is shocking and ubiquitous. Please watch this video, and pay particular attention to the vocabulary.

I really like the lead interviewee, Amanda. And the warmth and humanity of this video is a joy to watch.

Just wonderful.

Intelligence

I tell my students: “I don’t care how smart I am, so it’s safe to say I don’t care how smart you are.” And I don’t. I could not care less.

I also tell them the best students in the university—as a cohort—are the nursing majors. Now, is this because nursing majors are the smartest people on campus? There is no reason to conclude that.

It’s because nursing majors—again, as a cohort—work the hardest. They come to class prepared, the PDF is printed out and highlighted in three colors, they take reams of notes, they ask questions, they’re engaged.

I have had students with stratospheric IQs who couldn’t think their way out of a cardboard box—if it was open. Sure, they can do marvelous things in the physics department, but give some of them an excerpt from Plato’s Republic, and they have nothing to say.

What matters is hard work and a sense of curiosity.

IQ is a thin segment on the intelligence spectrum. It means you’re good at math, probably chess, and you do well on standardized tests. And that’s about it. It does not mean you’ll master the violin quickly and well; it does not mean you’ll become a good painter or artist. Maybe it will help with language acquisition.

However, I know a retired professor who can barely do simple math. If you asked him to add a small list of single-digit numbers in his head, he would likely begin sweating. But he taught himself Greek so he could read Plato in the original; and he also taught himself Russian so he could read Dostoevsky in the original. He also knows French and Italian. So, he’s not smart because he can’t do math? You try learning Russian to the point that you can read The Brothers Karamazov in the original, and then send me an email telling me how long it took you.

Intelligence is a spectrum that allows for myriad abilities. I know a gent who, in a thirty-minute conversation on the phone will five times get me to think, “Holy shit,” because he just combined Aristotle with a potato chip commercial and created a novel insight into the human condition. He’s lousy at chess, by the way.

For that matter, so am I. My strengths do not lie in math, or chess, or standardized tests. I know my strengths, and I play to them. I don’t much care about what I suck at—which is a very long list of things. My IQ is probably not very interesting.

And this used to bother me. Why did it bother me? Because in this culture, IQ = smart. If you crush the ACT or SAT, congratulations, you’re smart. It’s official. And as a young man, this really ate me up. It wasn’t until much later that I realized the difference and how my strengths lie elsewhere on the spectrum. Now I’m relaxed and do not care about intelligence at all.

It doesn’t enter into my thinking. Sure, what geniuses can do is really interesting—and again, this includes an array of abilities. Michael Jordan was a genius. Simone Biles? Genius. Are they geniuses the same way Isaac Newton was? No. Or Noam Chomsky? Or Bobby Fisher, for that matter?

In my sweet, short 53 years, I have met one—one—genius. I had the privilege to sit with Noam Chomsky in his office at MIT. He is not normal. Intellectually, he could bury me a hundred feet deep. He can read faster than I do. He’s got a better memory than I do. He’s analytically sharper than I am. He’s analytically faster than I am. All down the line. He has both intellectual intelligence and a high IQ. He’s got both and lots of each. Like I said, he’s not normal.

But what makes him fascinating is his work ethic and his moral precision. His sense of justice is nothing short of inspiring. One could say his moral intelligence is as high as his other ones.

This is not to say “Everybody’s smart!” There’s a spectrum, so just pick where you are on it, and hurray, you’re smart! Nope. This is next door to the book smart/street smart distinction. This is also another case of “Everybody gets a trophy!” You just pick your flavor of smart, and Bob’s your uncle. No, sadly some folks are just intellectually unremarkable. Some folks are strong, some are not. Some are really good looking, some are not. God doesn’t deal with both hands. So, if you are intellectually less than vibrant, maybe you’re really handy at something else. You are. Everyone’s good at something. And I believe that to my bones.

But what I do not buy is that IQ is the measure of a human being. This is utter nonsense. “Mensa takes no stand on politics, religion or social issues,” they proudly trumpet on their website. Wow. Curious that an organization built on self-congratulation announces to the world their cowardice and low moral intelligence.

If we attend to the writings of antiquity—Plato, Aristotle, Seneca, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, Confucius, et al.—we learn again and again that what matters is what kind of person you are and how you live your life. One might also consult the teachings of Jesus, the early Jewish scholars, the Muslim hadith, and the founding gurus of Sikhism. They all say the same thing: live an upright life, show compassion, and care for your fellow human beings.

As to how smart you are? I categorically don’t care.

Is Ignorance Bliss?

I got into a very good discussion with a student about the ignorance-is-bliss assertion. I then got into another discussion of it (sort of) with my friend Leah and her friend (and my friend) Kaiden (which I forgot to mention is not his real name). They asked me one night to explain my analysis, but I was lazy and enjoying just hanging out on FaceTime; I did not feel like going into professor mode. “I’m the laziest devil to ever stand in shoe leather.” —Sherlock Homes

So, is ignorance bliss? My initial response is to say no, that ignorance is ignorance. There’s nothing particularly blissful about it. But then folks will point out that not being ignorant brings with it a certain set of woes. If I am aware of all the bad in the world, it’s going to have a depressing effect. I suppose that is partly true.

But I would suggest that we take a closer look at the word “bliss.” The question is then: Are the people unburdened by the harder things in life happier? Does bliss = happiness? And if it does, what kind of happiness are we talking about?

There is having fun at a party happiness. This happiness, I would argue—as would Plato and Aristotle—that this happiness is pleasurable. It’s thin. It’s here today, gone tomorrow. In a sense, it’s cheap. Laughing your head off at the party is surely enjoyable. But it lacks depth. It does not enrich your life.

The happiness I would say that has greater depth, one that does indeed offer enrichment, is the happiness the Greeks called eudaimonia. This is a deep, contemplative, abiding happiness. It is a long-term investment.

This is what philosopher John Stuart Mill is talking about in his essay on utilitarianism when he says that it is better to be Socrates unsatisfied than a pig or a fool satisfied. Mill is pointing out that it is easy to satisfy a pig or a fool. It takes almost nothing. But for Socrates, it’s three steps forward, two steps back: he wrestles with intellectual problems, things weigh on him. It’s not cheap and easy happiness. Yet, is the fool happier? Sitting on his barstool, getting high while playing video games all day?

I would say the fool is less alive, that he or she is doing something less than living. They are, in a sense, hiding from the world. They fear being connected to the world. They, like the fool, are children—just tall ones. Becoming educated and informed is to march toward eudaimonia. It connects you to the world. Furthermore, it accentuates your responsibility as a person living in the world, as someone embedded in a society. Adults confront their responsibility; cowards and fools and children evade it.

So, is ignorance bliss? I would say ignorance is weakness. Would we prefer weakness over strength? Because when we say ignorance is bliss, that is what we are saying. We are saying ignorance is pleasurable and preferred. We are saying it’s better to be a child than an adult. It’s better to hide from responsibility; it’s better to be disconnected; it’s better to be a coward.

Only strength can lead us to eudaimonia. Ignorance is not bliss. It’s the opposite.

My Friend Leah—update 2

As you can see, I have included a photo of Leah with her two friends. I thought it might be a good image to obscure her identity and post with the next update. Leah came up with the butterfly stratagem.

Leah is approaching week two at her residential facility. It’s been a mixed experience. The facility itself is beautiful; one couldn’t ask for nicer accommodations. But Leah’s situation is, to say the least, unique. We were skeptical if the staff there could meet her needs. However, that seems to be improving.

We had an interesting evening earlier in the week. I received a phone call at around 7 or 8 pm from a number I did not recognize. Upon answering, the woman on the other end said, “Is Craigory there?” I replied, “Who’s speaking?” But I was thinking, “Did she just call me Craigory??” Leah calls me Craigory as a nickname (long story), and that is how I appear in her phone. I said it was me, and she put me on the phone with the … EMT.

“Hi, this is Jessie, and I’m from the fire department.” I tersely replied, “Why is the fire department there?” Jessie said the staff found Leah on the floor, that she’d had a panic attack, and called 911. Jessie asked me, “Does Leah have any medical issues we should be aware of?” I said that there were too many to condense into a quick chat.

After requesting I be left on speaker phone to listen in, Jessie began asking Leah the usual questions: “Leah, do you know what day it is? How many quarters are there in a dollar?” I could tell the way Leah was mumbling that something was wrong. I said, “Jessie, um, she has dissociative identity disorder, and you might not be talking to Leah.” Jessie replied, “Good to know.”

Her vitals were fine, and I spoke with Leah shortly thereafter. She had indeed switched. Jessie was not talking to Leah.

Leah recently entered a new phase of “twilight,” as I call it. Sometimes people with dementia can get worse when the sun goes down. Leah has been having such difficulties, despite not having dementia. After 3 pm, she can bottom out, start having suicidal thoughts—called “suicidal ideation”—and switch; it’s up for grabs. Sometimes she’s fine. It just depends.

Last night was fair to middling. She was taking her frustrations out on a floor-mounted punching bag. It looks like a speed bag that wobbles on a thin stand. Leah wasn’t wearing full boxing gloves, but smaller training gloves. I was really proud of her. She looked kinda bad ass, and I could see that it was doing her a lot of good.

She had not eaten much that day, so I was on her case (as I usually am) about getting at least a small amount of food in her. There was much discussion over a pear—too much any one pear deserves.

So, she made her way to the kitchen. There she bumped into one of her buddies, Kaiden. He is a younger fellow, quite funny, and irritatingly has fabulous hair. He is very sharp.

At one point he was telling me something and used the phrase “with regular frequency.” He then corrected himself and said “Those two words are the same, never mind.” Later I said, “Kaiden, I don’t mean to be obnoxious, but can I tell you something?” He said, “Sure.” I pointed out that regular and frequency are not synonymous. He very quickly said, “Ah yes, regular is consistency and frequency is speed of consistency.” I became the proud professor.

I really like Kaiden. But his hair I’ll just have to learn to tolerate.

On balance, Leah is doing well. She wants to come home. Being gone is hard for her. I try to be supportive, but sometimes I just offer platitudes and become tiresome instead of reassuring.

When she leaves, she’s going to sorely miss her new four-legged friends.

Oh, I have a nickname for Leah, as well: it’s Cuckoo Bird. She did not love it at first, but now she does. At least I’m 78 percent certain.

Leah the Auteur

 My friend Leah sent me this video she made today. She put a very lovely song over it, and I must say it had me almost emotional. Maybe it’s the song, maybe it’s my connection to Leah. But I found it meditative and sweet. I just wanted to share it.

Curious there’s a fence, because usually Leah is right in the mix with the animals. But there it is.

I hope you enjoy the video.

Blogger is not processing the video. See my Instagram profile.

My Friend Leah—an update

I mentioned my friend Leah in a recent post about my re-reading of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. She battles dissociative identity disorder (DID), more commonly known as “multiple personality disorder.” It’s the brain’s way of dealing with trauma and abuse at an early age, which Leah was treated to an abundance of as a girl.

I will not go into specifics, but what I have to tell would keep you up at night. Society jokes about being scarred for life. Leah is. Due to the trauma, her mind has fragmented and has become compartmentalized. One might say it became modular.

As mentioned, Leah is not her real name. As a matter of fact, she hates that name. But it’s the one that I selected, and she is stuck with it. She’s absolutely thrilled.

At any rate, she is currently in a residential mental-health facility. It’s quite nice, located in a secluded and scenic area. They have goats and pigs. I have seen them on FaceTime, and I kept urging Leah to go pet one of the pigs, but they were too far. Leah is well accustomed to me acting like a four-year-old.

We bicker endlessly. Like children. “You’re weird” “No, you’re weird!” “You are!” We recently got into one of our bickering matches, and Leah said, “Is this all we do??” To which I replied, “It’s about 80 percent of it.”

She has had a rough few weeks. Leah bottoms out. Think of the trough of a sine curve. When the emotions get too intense, she is prone to “switching.” This is when one of the parts or alters (personalities) comes to the front. I have talked to a number of these. How many? Hard to say. I would say maybe six. There are fifteen in total.

A few nights ago we were talking, and Leah looked off. I asked her if she was okay. The eyes are always a dead give-away. They go dull and start darting to and fro. She had switched.

I ended up having a rather lovely half-hour conversation with Bailee (not the alter’s name). She now knows her codename is Bailee, and she doesn’t much care for it. “That’s a weird name.” But there it is.

During our conversation, she asked some interesting questions. She said, “She [Leah] loves you.” I replied that I loved Leah as well. Then Bailee said, “But we’re kinda the same person, so what does that mean for me? I replied, “I love you both, of course.” “You love me?” “Yes, Bailee, I love you.” She smiled and said no one had ever said that to her before.

She began painting during our chat. I’ve been nudging Leah in that direction for a while now. Not necessarily “pushing” it, just encouraging it. I think she loves it—hard to say. She definitely enjoys buying art supplies, that’s for sure.

At first she was apprehensive. She didn’t want to fail—something she fears in general. I said, “It’s art. You’re 100 percent going to fail. You’ll paint one crap painting, then another, then another. You might paint fifty crap paintings, but on painting 51, you might be like, ‘Huh, that’s interesting.’ Then it begins.” But Leah is already conducting interesting experiments.

Her last painting, however, was … um, not great. We laughed hysterically. “Okay, it’s not your best work,” I said, trying to be supportive. But then I said, you’ve done two interesting things here. After pointing them out, I said, “Let’s commit those two ideas to memory.”

So, back to Bailee. She begins painting, and she says “Do you think we [Leah and I] can have different abilities?” I said, “Of course you can. However, you do paint like her.” She replied, “I think we both like red.” “Yes, it would seem so,” I said laughing.

Near the end of our conversation—we both desperately needed to get some sleep—Bailee asked me, “How come you don’t write about us anymore?” (I was impressed she knew and remembered.) I pointed out that I had only done the one essay—and a half-essay at that. She said, “Can you write about us some more?” I said that I would, hence this piece.

Bailee, this essay is for you. And thanks, Leah, for letting me post it. I love you and I believe in you—and that goes for Bailee, too. Of course.

Detectorists

A friend recommended this British comedy series. I found it endearing and charming. It's about two metal detector hobbyists, Lance and Andy (played by Toby Jones and Mackenzie Crook),—they're called detectorists!—who are best friends. The series is calm, rather funny, and humane. It's really unlike any series I've seen.

There are also two rival detectorists—Lance and Andy's arch enemies, really—who happen to look like Simon and Garfunkle. When the four exchange words, which occurs frequently, one of our detectorists invariably cites a line from a Simon and Garfunkle song. Lance and Andy then always fist bump. I love this.

If you're looking for calm and charming and light, this is the series for you.

https://tubitv.com/series/300006335/detectorists