Describe how Helen turned into an isolated and tormented child
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Less than seven years ago Ruth Dee, aged 50, was the head teacher of a large special-needs school in the Midlands, chairing meetings, managing a staff room and troubleshooting the stressful problems that come with educating children outside the mainstream system.
With years of experience behind her, she was respected for her clear thinking, for her ability to be both decisive and considered, and for the way she found it easy to form a connection with and control the often severely disturbed children in her care. She had a husband, three almost grown-up children, stepchildren, friends, a house. Ruth Dee had a life, although all that was about to end. As she recalls now, she came to see her catastrophic mental break-down in 2002 as a "time for her to pay the bill" for the fact that all her life – all 50 years of it – her body had found an extraordinary, almost unbelievable way of allowing her to survive the trauma and abuse she had suff ered as a child.
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Not all severely abused children develop MPD, but those who do are considered the lucky ones. "It saved my life," she says. "I was there during that attack but not there. I was watching that little girl on the bed, but it wasn't me. I can remember I had lacy socks and a silver buckle on my shoe, but nothing of the emotions and terror. Nothing of the feelings. That little girl on the bed, who I came to call Jenny, took all the hurt from me, that was how I coped. I came 'round' much later, sitting on a stair." Dee notices the look on my face, the tears of horror and sadness filling my eyes. She reaches over calmly and says: " Would you like a break?" The situation is bizarre and deeply embarrassing. I've heard such stories before, but never like this. Dee is devoid of any emotion. Perhaps I am weirdly compensating for her.
No, I don't feel emotion about that," she says. "When I did have to start talking about it, all sorts of professionals would say: 'You are very matter of fact,' and I was. That little girl was me, but not me. I haven't got a me," she pauses. "I don't know what I am, I don't know what is me because I am made up of everybody, all my alters. There is no logic to it – when you have this, you do not question it, you do not even have the language to explain it or question it."
"Jenny" was one of nine recognisable "alters" who were both visual and aural hallucinations. This is unusual for MPD sufferers. Dee saw – still sees – every one of her alternative personalities as if they were sitting round the face of a lock, and as she moved through her life new ones appeared, although the little ones such as Jenny and two babies would remain stuck in their own periods of time, often shrieking inconsolably in times of stress. This is very difficult to understand, but, unlike a schizophrenic, she knew they were both real and unreal: there was six-year-old Liz, who comforted her and dealt with her siblings when Dee's mother was absent; Alexis, the angry teenager; Kathy, the loving mother who arrived when Dee had her three children with her first husband; and Jean, Carol and Val, who helped her do her job and become such a respected head teacher.
Whenever Dee "became" one of the alters, she experienced massive lippages of time, unable to account for where she had been or what she had said. The rest of the time she was in constant dialogue with them, bargaining, second-guessing them, trying to shush them down. What is so amazing is that she managed 50 years without being found out. "Yes, I am very lucky," Dee says
The younger ones wouldn't appear when anybody else was there, and it was difficult for me to even know the difference in all the adult alters, so that neither of my husbands knew." How exhausting, I tell her, being all these different people and bargaining with them the whole time to keep quiet. How could she do her job? "Yes," she sighs, "I am permanently tired. My immune system is shot to pieces. It is very difficult for me, very difficult, because I know I am an intelligent woman and I know my alters are not real, but my therapist who I have been seeing for six years has made me talk to them. I say to her: 'You want me, an intelligent woman, to talk to people I know and you know are not real? ' And she says: 'They are real to you.' People at work could not believe it when I became ill. Others say: 'Of course you're not mad.' I say to them : 'Look, I'm on the highest level of mental healthcare that you can get – I must be mad.'"
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I think my 1 hour work will be helpful for you
With years of experience behind her, she was respected for her clear thinking, for her ability to be both decisive and considered, and for the way she found it easy to form a connection with and control the often severely disturbed children in her care. She had a husband, three almost grown-up children, stepchildren, friends, a house. Ruth Dee had a life, although all that was about to end. As she recalls now, she came to see her catastrophic mental break-down in 2002 as a "time for her to pay the bill" for the fact that all her life – all 50 years of it – her body had found an extraordinary, almost unbelievable way of allowing her to survive the trauma and abuse she had suff ered as a child.
..
.
Not all severely abused children develop MPD, but those who do are considered the lucky ones. "It saved my life," she says. "I was there during that attack but not there. I was watching that little girl on the bed, but it wasn't me. I can remember I had lacy socks and a silver buckle on my shoe, but nothing of the emotions and terror. Nothing of the feelings. That little girl on the bed, who I came to call Jenny, took all the hurt from me, that was how I coped. I came 'round' much later, sitting on a stair." Dee notices the look on my face, the tears of horror and sadness filling my eyes. She reaches over calmly and says: " Would you like a break?" The situation is bizarre and deeply embarrassing. I've heard such stories before, but never like this. Dee is devoid of any emotion. Perhaps I am weirdly compensating for her.
No, I don't feel emotion about that," she says. "When I did have to start talking about it, all sorts of professionals would say: 'You are very matter of fact,' and I was. That little girl was me, but not me. I haven't got a me," she pauses. "I don't know what I am, I don't know what is me because I am made up of everybody, all my alters. There is no logic to it – when you have this, you do not question it, you do not even have the language to explain it or question it."
"Jenny" was one of nine recognisable "alters" who were both visual and aural hallucinations. This is unusual for MPD sufferers. Dee saw – still sees – every one of her alternative personalities as if they were sitting round the face of a lock, and as she moved through her life new ones appeared, although the little ones such as Jenny and two babies would remain stuck in their own periods of time, often shrieking inconsolably in times of stress. This is very difficult to understand, but, unlike a schizophrenic, she knew they were both real and unreal: there was six-year-old Liz, who comforted her and dealt with her siblings when Dee's mother was absent; Alexis, the angry teenager; Kathy, the loving mother who arrived when Dee had her three children with her first husband; and Jean, Carol and Val, who helped her do her job and become such a respected head teacher.
Whenever Dee "became" one of the alters, she experienced massive lippages of time, unable to account for where she had been or what she had said. The rest of the time she was in constant dialogue with them, bargaining, second-guessing them, trying to shush them down. What is so amazing is that she managed 50 years without being found out. "Yes, I am very lucky," Dee says
The younger ones wouldn't appear when anybody else was there, and it was difficult for me to even know the difference in all the adult alters, so that neither of my husbands knew." How exhausting, I tell her, being all these different people and bargaining with them the whole time to keep quiet. How could she do her job? "Yes," she sighs, "I am permanently tired. My immune system is shot to pieces. It is very difficult for me, very difficult, because I know I am an intelligent woman and I know my alters are not real, but my therapist who I have been seeing for six years has made me talk to them. I say to her: 'You want me, an intelligent woman, to talk to people I know and you know are not real? ' And she says: 'They are real to you.' People at work could not believe it when I became ill. Others say: 'Of course you're not mad.' I say to them : 'Look, I'm on the highest level of mental healthcare that you can get – I must be mad.'"
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.
.
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I think my 1 hour work will be helpful for you
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