You grow up shell-shocked and dissociated or, as it is popularly called, "moody". Dissociation is confusing, like living in the House of Mirrors at the fair. You may be happy and, without nothing changing in your environment, a few minutes later, you may be plunged into darkest despair. You may find yourself in a room or store and not remember how you got there or why. You may find clothing in your closet that you don't recall buying. People know you but you don't know who they are. You may endure, most days, tremendous psychical pain that makes you wish longingly for death as a relief, a rest.
It is genetic, a hereditary trait and, in its own odd way, it is also a gift, a means of staying alive under pressure/stress that the self finds unbearable. It is unbearable so there is a fracture of the self and, if the pressure continues, another and another. Those that don't dissociate may end up with permanent personality distortions or commit suicide (experts think that a small albeit significant percent of childhood accidents are actually suicides).
Unlike other psychiatric illnesses, dissociation can be treated and the person healed. It does take an awful lot of self-examination, of stamina, of determination but it can be done (I made these sculpeys during this time). It is not easy to confront that which shattered you; it means going through the agony again. Most importantly, it takes forgiving and not hating those that have harmed you because hate is a great lead weight that keeps you stuck in that Hell.
Mamita went through this too but I don't know if she found her way out. One night when she called me (we talked 2-3 times a week), I told her that the therapist had told me that I had PTSD and was dissociated. (Post Traumatic Stress Sydrome is the new label for Shelled-Shocked, a term used widely during World War I).
In a soft confiding voice, she told me that she was also dissociated, that she had become unstable during the last few years of abuela's life (abuela had become unable to take care of herself). She told me that she had wanted to keep it hidden and had gone for therapy somewhere around or North of Pompano Beach ( I can'r recall clearly); that she had been receiving therapy several times a week and medication. The purpose was to keep her functional so that she could continue her life apparently alright and continue taking care of abuela. That night, mamita told me that her diagnosis was DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). I can't recall if she realized that DID was the current label for Multiple Personality Disorder. And things for me finally clicked in place as to the way she had behaved since I was a child.
Mamita told me that night about finding herself recently in the parking lot of a shopping mall - no idea of how she got there or why - and of how frightening it was. We talked about all the disorientation and confusion that came along with dissociation and all the fast scrambling one had to do to cover up and try to explain one's behavior. We talked like friends - sometimes we could do that - and, the conversation ended, we hanged up.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was mamita but now her voice was harsh, very angry but familiar to me. The first thing I heard after answering was "What did SHE tell you??" I realized that a part of her that was my friend had confessed the DID. This other part, a dominant and angry part of her, was seething because the secret of the existence of a system of parts had been revealed. It was after this revelation that mamita's dominant-hostile part told me that she would no longer talk to me. And so it was for years until, right before her death, her part that was my friend phoned to say Good-bye.
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