This Thursday we have our first session with the new therapist. We’re nervous, and we know it will be okay. The past few days have been such a blur I don’t remember making our previous post. I mean, it’s there alright, and there’s a touch of “me” to it, but nonetheless it’s a blur. We’ve cried a lot these last few days. Their final words keep echoing in our head at night. I thought about writing about it here, and have decided not to. At least not in great detail. There are some things worth keeping private.

So, now we’re doing our best to look forward. The last day or so we’ve been working on a document to send to the new therapist. A sort of, “Hey, here’s me,” outline. Being transitioned mid-care is hard enough, but the idea of having to rehash a lot of our story just to catch the new therapist up to speed is…exhausting. We figured being transparent from the start is a good idea. After all, as they said, “I’m gifting [clinician] to you, and you to [clinician].” High praise from someone we admired.

That last session was hard, no doubt. Even still, we’re curious how Thursday will be. For now though we’ve been pondering how to write memoirs. It’s strange. I know in high school we wrote a few, but it’s as if that skill is purposefully being kept away. What would we write about either way? Every attempt feels like whining.

Truthfully, we’ve derailed pretty hard with this project as is. Our intentions at first were to compile everything we knew on dissociative disorders in one place. Maybe begin the process of getting our own story out. Funny, I just remembered once in high school we had the thought of:

“If I could write everything out, would any of it matter?”

I’d hope so. I know part of the issue lies in indecision on what to keep, what to leave out. Then there’s the crushing feeling of “it’s not that bad, quit whining!” And yet, we know deep down it was bad.

It was bad enough to cause a disruption in our ability to integrate experiences. It was bad enough that having any identity was moot until our late teens, early twenties at best. Our former therapist speculated that we began splitting in infancy, and due to being resuscitated once in infancy we essentially started out with a traumatized brain. Then there’s the understanding that we’re neurodivergent, and it’s possible that our cPTSD continuously clashed with that aspect throughout our life. Our parents lack of healing from their traumas only added fuel to the fire as well.

We’re still coming to terms with a lot of things. Part of us is stuck at the victim mentality, and we’re trying to adopt the survivor mentality. We’ve endured so much pain, betrayal, and hardship in our life. The least we can do is give voice to it all. The age old question comes to mind, “Where to begin?”

Maybe I’ll start as I did once before, when they said, “Start with whatever comes to mind first.”