Career
The Bumpy Path of Healing
I gave in to the pain of the past and took too many pills.
Posted November 10, 2011
Robin Williams recent death by suicide reminded me of a time when my depression was so bad that I attempted suicide. As I read the countless news articles and social media posts, I thought I'd repost this post from a few years ago. I hope it's helpful.
Like many others, I've been healing from the trauma of child sexual abuse my whole adult life. In this journey of piecing myself back together, I was fortunate to have the help of one of the best psychiatrists in the field. I have been blessed with good care and wonderful support from friends, my ex-husband and my current partner.
My work both personally and professionally has been to help others understand the impact of trauma and, more recently, to help people understand Dissociative Identity Disorder. I have stood before thousands of people-law enforcement officers, prosecutors, judges, social workers, doctors and nurses, lawyers, advocates for battered women, advocates for abused children, and mental health practitioners-and told of my experience.
One of my goals is to give people hope, to let them know that lives shattered by child sexual abuse and incest can be pieced back together. I've sat with groups of other survivors as someone who knows the pain of healing, one who has been through what they're struggling with. I have met with parents and witnessed their pain and helplessness as they tell me about the children they are fostering or adopting.
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Over the last couple of years, I have been writing about this experience. When my memoir, The Sum of My Parts: A Survivor's Story of Dissociative Identity Disorder was released, I realized an accomplishment I had never thought possible. Writing the book was both healing and painful. The attention to detail that I gave the writing process opened up new memories, and infused old ones with more painful detail. At times the memories rocked me, but the ultimate integration of parts that came after writing a chapter or a section was amazing.
I knew I still struggled with aspects of DID, but I felt a sense of wholeness like never before. When I had finished writing, I reached a new level of calm and my confidence was steadfast.
As it happens, writing the book and watching it enter the wide world were two very different things. My friends have given me nothing but love and thoughtful reflection into the pain I endured. I am hearing from many who work with other survivors of child sexual assault, and hearing from others who have DID. The outpouring of feedback is wonderful and intimate in a way I didn't expect. It has overwhelmed me in its kindness and compassionate understanding.
Despite how wonderful all this is, suddenly I am an open book. Literally. It sounds silly because what I want is for everyone to read it and understand a little more about DID, child sexual abuse and resilience. As someone who has developed DID as a way of surviving violence, situations can feel threatening to me that seem benign or even good to others. I should not have been surprised that the book's release has left me with an alarming sense of exposure.
Not recognizing this fear for what it was, I've been walling myself off from those closest to me. With this heightened sense of alarm, I instinctively called on old survival techniques to protect myself from all dangers--both real and perceived--and spiraled into a fear of exposure and a lack of trust in those around me. I ended therapy with my psychiatrist and distanced myself from my partner and friends. The pain of the isolation, anger, and panic was so unbearable that one night several months ago, I gave in to the pain of the past and took too many pills. The number of pills could have killed me but for the intervention of my partner.
In the hospital, the shame of what I had tried to do penetrated my shell of protection and distrust. But still stunned and not completely coherent, it took about five days before I really understood the gravity of my actions. I was filled with even more shame. I cried for the fear and pain I put my partner through. Pain she still feels today. What I had never once done in all my years of healing I had just done: I tried to kill myself. What had never been an option in my healing process all of a sudden became a reality.
I will never forget that very painful day. The consequences of taking so many pills were not in my mind when I made the decision. I didn't understand that I could survive the pain, just as I had survived all the agonizing memories and experiences that had come before. It didn't occur to me that by taking pills, I would erode the trust I had in myself as well as the trust my partner had in me. I shook the confidence that close friends and colleagues had in me, the few I would tell.
It never occurred to me when I decided to take those pills that it would be my partner who would find me if I had succeeded. It never occurred to me the despair I would cause her. It never occurred to me that the ambulance and emergency room would be so expensive: a cost our household was not ready for. Who would have paid for my funeral?
The thought of the consequences now helps me counter the fear of knowing that I'm capable of trying and leaves me wanting to never do anything like that ever again.
The past several months have been incredibly difficult and very humbling. With the work I have done around the country, in writing my book and writing this blog, I thought I was past the pain. I thought I could always take the broad view. I became complacent, thinking I'd never do anything to hurt myself. I didn't pay attention to the power of unexpected pain and the memory of the past. As happy as my life is now, there are still painful memories that can take over, triggers that fill me with the pain of the past.
I remind myself now-as the holidays approach, memories surface and emotions run high-that I am far from perfect; I may always struggle. I take preventive measures: I remind myself that no matter how painful a memory may be, I've already survived the experience once. I ride out the pain and embrace it as best I can. I cry. I yell and I hang in there, breaking my day up into the smallest increments I need in order to make it through. I give myself permission to be depressed but not to hurt myself. I remember how painful it was for those who love and care about me when I took those pills. I don't ever want them to experience that again. And I remember the dogs and cats that I love so much. No one would care for them the way I do.
Finally, if I feel like the suicidal feelings are getting so strong that I am developing a plan, I tell someone-my partner, some friends who have agreed to have me call them, or the suicide hotline in my area. Once I can say it out loud, the power of it goes away. The thoughts aren't so compelling. Then I let myself feel the pain.
The Sum of My Parts: A Survivor's Story of Dissociative Identity Disorder was released this month by New Harbinger Publications.
To learn more about Olga and her work visit her website at www.olgatrujillo.com