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Missing the mark: Dr. M. became fixated on that Before and After girls concept and no matter what I said I couldn't straighten her out. In fact, it only got worse. She'd say things like, "Now tell me more about Christina?" And I'd say things like, "Christina is ME, I just loved the name Christina, I thought it was such a pretty name, I even wanted to legally change my name to Christina when I grew up! So I used the name and my friends thought it was pretty too, so they called me Christina." And she'd look at me all bug eyed and flustered and ask something like, "Tell me how Christina is different than Casey?" And I'd respond with, "Christina and Casey are ME. There's no difference except that I'm sick now and my face is swollen and my skins dried out and my joints are all swollen and my ankles buckle all the time, etc.!" It would go around and around circles like that. She'd say, "When did you first know about Christina?" And I'd say, "There is no Christina, it's a name I liked." She'd continue with, "When did Christina first appear though?" I'd say, "What do you mean? I picked the name and I used it because it was a pretty name, I liked it better than my real name." Dr. M. couldn't see the reality. Eventually, Dr. M. decided that she needed some serious help with me. So one day when I came for my appointment there was Dr. M. and another doctor, a male doctor who was a psychiatrist. There was a very brief introduction. Then the next thing I knew they were both asking me circular questions again and I was answering the same way as I always did. I thought since the psychiatrist was new, I should explain it to him from the beginning. So I attempted to do that, just like I had tried to explain it to Dr. M. Well, it didn't take long before the psychiatrist had had ENOUGH and he started demanding that Christina come out and talk to him. At first, I didn't understand and I tried to explain again that Christina couldn't COME and speak with him because, like I had said already, there was no other girl. Christina wasn't a friend that I could invite over to the office, it was just a pretty name I used to use before I got sick and stopped looking and feeling pretty. Those kinds of statements flew right over the psychiatrists head and he'd repeat his request and then he'd say, "Is this Christina I'm speaking with now?" At first I'd say, "No, it's me. It's all just me! Christina was a beautiful name I like so much I wanted to change my own name when I grew up." At some point Dr. M. and the psychiatrist began openly commenting to each other about my multiple personality disorder and resistance and how I wasn't cooperating and how Christina wasn't cooperating either. Dr. M. started stating that she'd run into this problem with me before and then she'd thank the psychiatrist for coming to see me and helping her break through to Christina. Then I KNEW what they were driving at! I attempted to start anew, explaining the truth to them both as slowly and as simply as I could manage. That really ticked the psychiatrist off even more and the crazy questions and orders for Christina's appearance continued with increasing fervor. The demanding statements and questions came faster and faster, like they wanted to throw me off balance and then something promising would happen. Finally I got mad and mouthy and when he ordered Christina out for the umpteenth time I said something to the effect of, "Yes, sure, whatever makes you happy." Dr. M. looked elated, like this was the biggest, the grandest, day of her life. They'd finally probed Christina out! The psychiatrist proceeded to hammer "Christina-me" with more questions. I answered, well, pretty rudely and I was getting tired of this stupidity. To make matters worse and the psychiatrist angrier I'd slip up a lot and burst out with an "It's still ME, just ME, it's always been ME, it will always be ME, don't you get it yet?" On occasions the psychiatrist would snap at me and tell me that HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING, HE WAS A PSYCHIATRIST AND I SHOULD COOPERATE! As the session went on I became more and more flippant. The psychiatrist finally became so enraged that he leapt up and strode out of the office. I never saw him again and I'd lost all hope of ever reaching Dr. M. with the truth. My mom forced me to keep seeing Dr. M. With me in treatment with Dr. M. my mother was still a good mom, proving that it wasn't her fault that I was a druggy or pregnant or crazy or whatever I was. My mom didn't have to think about my face and swollen joints and everything, she didn't have to hear about it, it wasn't her concern, I was seeing a doctor. And I simply became increasingly more depressed and suicidal every endless hopeless day. I was trying to figure out how to kill myself without making any mistakes or failures at it. I wished I could buy a gun, but I still had no money and no way to get any money. I had such a horrible life, no real friends anymore, sick all the time and scared about how far this disease could go. I had no answers and no treatment and no hope for a diagnosis or a cure or even for anyone to care about what was happening to me. So I started using Dr. M. for release entertainment. I could tell Dr. M. stories about my reality and watch her stupid blank eyes pop open wider and wider. Eventually I began journaling for her, sending her dirty letters about whatever boy I had a crush on and wished I could date if only I didn't look like a dying hag. In the letters I could pretend that I wasn't always sick. I never said that I literally did anything with a boy, but I did use the stories my girlfriends used to tell me to describe what I wanted to do or what other girls were doing. I kept the letters interesting and I placed as many cuss words as I could think of in the letters knowing it'd pop Dr. M.'s eyes open that much more. This probably wasn't a very nice thing to do, but that's what I did. Dr. M. seemed to enjoy the letters too. I guess I was her most fascinating patient. She still believed that I was a multiple too, so I was the catch for her professional life-time. I gave up any ideas I ever had about her ability to ever help me -- I decided that Dr. M. was truly crazy. I was almost 17 years old. I'd been sick for a little over a year. |
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