It’s important to bear in mind that switching is not necessarily a bad thing. One might leap to the conclusion that switching means she’s unstable. This is not the case. The goal is systemic balance or harmony. Her therapist is clear that the number of alters will likely not change; we just need them to work together. And some intermittently “coming to the front” is not a bad thing.
I had in interesting exchange with a part recently. Leah switched hard, and I got instant attitude. “Who are you?? Who the f*** do you think you are?” I replied, “My name is Gregory, I am a friend of Leah’s, and I care for her very much—that’s who the f*** I am.”
I was treated to condescension and disdain. I said, “You can drop the attitude, I’m not impressed or intimidated. If you want to play the ‘smartest person in the room’ card, you just hit a concrete wall; you’ve got the wrong guy.” I took a deep breath and reminded myself this was not constructive. I adjusted my approach: “Let’s have a conversation; I want to hear what you have to say.” They changed their tune quite abruptly.
They said they thought that was how one was supposed to talk to people. “I had bad role models.” I inquired about their name: none. I inquired about their gender: unknown. “Why do we have names anyway?” they asked. “Not sure, it just seems to be how humans interact with one another.”
Because the gender was unknown, I went for a gender-neutral name. “How do you like Blair?” They liked it (not real name). They liked it even more when I pointed out that Blair was the last name of an important author. “I like words.” “We’re going to get along just fine, Blair.”
I said they could be a big help steadying the ship and protecting Leah. “Do you know Bailee?” “Everyone knows Bailee.” And a couple nights later, right around bedtime, I got a text from “B&B.” They apparently formed a bond and are palling around together. Huh. Well done, Blair. That made me happy.
Speaking of Bailee, Leah was over for a visit. During this visit, she switched and Bailee came to the front. I didn’t realize the switch had taken place. “ We haven’t talked in person for a while,” she said. “Bailee??” She nodded. A little while later I was eating my dinner. I was on dessert; and I offered her a bite of pumpkin pie.
She made a face and said, “Gross.” I replied,”Have you ever had pumpkin pie??” Silence and a blank stare. “So, you do not like the food you have never had?—c’mon, try some!” I handed the fork to Bailee with a small bite of pie on it. She made another face and said yuck. “It’s not as bad as all that!” I protested. She then said, “Wait, this tastes like sweet potatoes.” I then replied, “Um … shit.” We both erupted into laughter, which brought Leah back. She was also laughing and asked, “So, which is it??” “I don’t know! They’re both orange!”
These updates are often lighthearted. And Leah and I do joke around a lot. But she is always in some kind of pain. She sent me this text the other night: “I don't want to have my recollection of each day split into pieces. I don't want to live in darkness. I don't want to be confused and distraught every day. I cannot do this anymore. It isn't a life.”
She frequently despairs. Talk of suicide is not uncommon; though she says talking about it makes it easier. The torment she suffered as a girl continues. The sadistic psychopath who tortured her as a girl does so to this day. The torment continues. She whimpers in her sleep. When I touch her—like to rub her arm while she’s taking a nap—she unwittingly and briefly convulses. (It’s the PTSD.) While sleeping she is not free from the pain.
Part of my job is to tell her I love her, remind her that there is much to do and therefore much to live for. The best I can do is be there for her. Tell her she is safe, remind her I am there. She’ll say things like, “Please don’t forget me.” This is hard to hear. She asked me to write her obituary. I said no, not until I have to, then I absolutely will do so. She replied, “You wrote yours!” “Yes, but that’s different: I just want my paperwork and affairs in order. You’re preparing, and I won’t help you do that.”
But I don’t want to end this update on a despondent note. A couple mornings ago, I called Leah on FaceTime. The camera was in the blankets, and I could not see anything. She said, ”I’m not sure what happened last night.” “How bad are we talking?” “You have to promise not to laugh.”
She adjusted the phone, and I beheld what can be described as Leah as a Star Trek character. Sometime in the night, she must have leaned or fallen into a paint palette. Because she touches her face a lot while she sleeps, she smeared oil paint—not water-soluble acrylic, mind you—all over her face. Yeah. One for the books.
We exchanged Christmas gifts right before Thanksgiving. I, gentle reader, am now the proud owner of an iPad Air. And Leah is fully ready for winter, including (but not limited to) a smashing scarf by Paul Smith. I felt it was time.
