I saw my CPN this morning. (Our appointment was at nine and she arrived at half past eight. There are advantages sometimes to sleeping in your clothes!). We talked a bit about our usual things and then I gave her (I oh so nearly didn’t) the letter from the Pottergate Centre with the results of the dissociative experiences screening instruments, and sat there nervously while she read it.
I don’t know quite what I expected, and I don’t think she knew quite how to react. She didn’t say much – something about hadn’t my psychologist done scales with me, and something about who was this writing the letter, because it needed to be a psychiatrist to diagnose. I said I wanted further assessment. Then she asked if she could take the letter away with her, and said she would talk to my consultant. I’m trying not to think about that conversation, I can’t imagine what my consultant will say. It’s not that I don’t like him, just that I have no kind of connection with him. He gave me a lecture once on receptors in the brain, so god knows what he will make of this.
But, it’s done. Now I have to wait to see what happens. My CPN said last week that my psychologist and my occupational therapy aide wanted to come to my next review with my consultant anyway, so I imagine that’s the next step. I dread the thought because it will be confusing – I am a different self with each of them, having different conversations, with different degrees of revelation, so the idea of being in a room with all of them at the same time is terrifying, I just don’t know how I will be. I *think* my psychologist gets it, I also think my occupational therapy aide kind of gets it – at least, when discussing the stopping of meds that happened recently she asked “Was that you or was that someone else?”. So I guess that all of us getting together is what needs to happen.
But whatever comes of all of this, I’ve decided that I want (and need) clarity, I want someone who knows about these things to tell me whether I have DID or not, and I will save up to pursue assessment privately if necessary (it’s ££££’s). It’s been twenty years since someone first suggested I had a dissociative disorder, and it’s been nine months since I started thinking they might be right. It’s time to deal with it. It’s more than time.