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Me, Myself and I 

A Life Living with Dissociative Identity Disorder  

Living with DID is like existing in a fragmented reality. With time, support and self-acceptance, healing begins. Therapy untangles the chaos giving voice to parts within.

Marie McLoughlin

Marie  

My name is Marie, and I am the leader.  

Out of the three of us, I am the most present. When people meet me, ninety percent of the time they are speaking to me. I am the communicator, the mediator, and, to a point, the protector. Out of necessity, I have become the sanest of us all.  

I bore three children; only two survived. The loss of my eldest left a hollow space in my soul that no passage of time could ever truly heal. I wept for the loss of him. I learned to make do and mend, stitching the fabric of my life back together, thread by fragile thread. I am a grandmother now, blessed with three granddaughters whom I love to distraction.  

I am, above all, a survivor of childhood trauma. Survival is not as noble as it sounds. It is not triumph; it is endurance. It is waking every day and drawing breath when you are unsure why you bother. In survival, there is no glory – only the cold comfort of still being here.  

As a child, I knew too much, too soon. Alcohol and substance abuse were constant companions in my family. Neglect clung to me like my golden-haired teddy bear, dragged across the floor as I stumbled and fell. Yet even as I rose again and again, there was always that quiet, desperate hope that someday, someone would save me.  

Adulthood brought with it the consequences of such a childhood: deep-rooted inability to trust, a lingering sense of despair. Promises meant nothing. Safety was an illusion. I became hypervigilant, especially with my children and now my grandchildren. Always alert. Always watching. I have perched myself high on a self-appointed pedestal, standing between ugly gargoyles, my duty is to watch and protect.  

Maria  

Maria is the second of us, though she would deny belonging to anyone. I am writing for her now, as she refuses all communication with others.  

Maria is older than I am, and curiously, I am told that she stands taller, she does not recognise my children as hers; she insists she is barren. I respect this difference and do not push her. All I ask is that, on the days I cannot be present, she ensures the children are safe.  

She hates this arrangement, but we live by it – a fragile pact, stitched together not with trust, but with necessity and, at times, bribery.  

Maria lives in isolation. Maria is agoraphobic, and the presence of men terrifies her. Her mistrust of mankind runs so deep it is woven into every breath she takes. I manage her shopping errands, our communication flowing through the pages of shared journals. There, she lists her needs: new books, art paper, paints. I make these things happen.  

On rare occasions, she sends photographs of clothes – always from Marks & Spencer.  

“If it can’t be bought from Marks & Spencer,” she declares, “Then I don’t want it.”  

Her world is small, carefully controlled. It is both her prison and her comfort.  

Maria’s strong belief in the power of knowledge enabled all three of us to reach safety, as her intuition and education made us self-supporting and secure.  

We diligently undertook various forms of employment, accepting positions that did not inquire about our age. Despite experiencing homelessness, we were able to secure a modest bedsit. Ultimately, we achieved self-sufficiency and stability.  

Journals have strengthened our communication. Maria often writes to me and quickly notices when I dissociate. Her structured approach helps with raising the children, although her thorough educational methods sometimes cause friction – like when my son innocently asked about the word “mackintosh” and Maria had him research it, not through the means of the internet, but with a visit to the library.  

Upon my return, he expressed regret for his inquiry and made it clear that he wished he had not asked “that damn question”. This incident is still remembered among us with some amusement. I consistently offered reassurance and acknowledged his efforts to expand his understanding and that it made me so very proud.  

Mary   

Mary, also known as I, is the youngest of us, frozen between the ages of fourteen and fifteen. She is defiant, loud, and at times, unbearably reckless. Yet, she is also the bravest, and it is because of Mary that we are still here.  

Mary took the beatings; she endured the humiliations. She bore the fear when we were children. Mary lived through the despair of an abused child who had no rights over her own body and reached for whatever fragments of comfort she could find.  

For this, both Maria and I hold her in the highest regard, though Maria cannot stand to be near her. I do my best to stay neutral when the inevitable feuds erupt.  

Mary loves the children fiercely. To them, she is wild, wonderful and can turn ordinary days into adventures – sliding down the stairs on snowboards, feeding them sweets, filling the house with laughter.  

But Mary is also very dangerous. Recklessness burns in her veins. In our younger years, she would disappear into the night, leaving us to wake in places I did not know. When the children arrived, I locked us inside like a jailer, hiding the keys to keep her in. Mary retaliated with self-harm. Slashes with knives to our torso, bite marks leaving indents into our skin, when I returned, I would always have the repercussions of cleaning the blood away and mending our broken body.  

She doesn’t understand that killing me or Maria would mean her death too. She believes if we were gone, she could live a life of her choosing. I feel immense sadness for her pain and try to compromise often.  

Mary often devised methods to pick up the children from school, sometimes wearing my clothes to create the impression that she was me. She would take the children to different destinations, such as amusement parks and the cinema, selecting locations she thought they would enjoy. She provided them with an abundant amount of junk food which differed from my approach to their upbringing. I came to understand her reasoning; she aimed to create enjoyable experiences with those who appreciated her company. Something she had never experienced.  

Afterward, she always brought them home, tired, and dirty but expressing gratitude for their day.   

I soon realised that I could never compete with that.  

Despite it all, she protects the children with her life. For that, I am forever grateful.  

Living Together  

Maria demands knowledge; Mary demands freedom. Me, well I try to balance both.  

I have expressed my apologies to my children on multiple occasions, as I carry significant guilt regarding their experience of having a parent with Dissociative Identity Disorder. They consistently assure me that they enjoyed a positive childhood and did not lack for anything. At times, it is challenging to reconcile these affirmations with my own feelings, though I recognise and appreciate their understanding and compassion.   

I was concerned about the impact on their mental health and whether my lack of stable relationships as a mother affected them. Additionally, frequent moves occurred whenever noises of the past caught up with us. We cannot stay in one place too long, the fear of shadows of the past imprinting on the walls and memories that remain hidden and forgotten coming alive again.   

This is living a life of terror that engulfs you so painfully that you leave your own body. Whoever takes over is not your choice; this is whoever is the strongest at the time. This is what happens when a child is neglected and abandoned by the people who should have protected them the most.   

At forty-eight, I resumed therapy with a clinician who assured me that I would have support when confronting challenging memories and addressing long-standing concerns. Although I had doubted my capacity for healing, his reassurance provided comfort. He explained that should I choose to revisit these experiences, he would accompany me throughout the process, offering guidance and support to confront the sources of my distress. In fact, he used words I had never heard before, he told me that when I was ready to enter that attic, he would be with me, with pitchforks and lanterns, to shine a light on the ones that have haunted me. For the first time, this experience allowed me to place trust in another person, particularly a male.  

After some time, we met with another therapist who specialised in our condition. She provided persistent guidance and support throughout a challenging journey. After nine years, I left her office with a renewed sense of hope and well-being. Although Maria and Mary remained an integral part of my life, I found reassurance in our interdependence, achieving a sense of calm and peace. Knowing that the cycle concluded with me brought additional comfort. Now, I look upon my children’s beautiful faces, and the gifts they have given me, three little girls, who will forever just know me as nanny.   

I can see now how the children fondly recall Mary’s adventurous spirit and Maria’s disciplined teaching methods. They now look back with amusement at their tendency to quickly disperse upon noticing Maria’s presence, recognising her as a dedicated educator who contributed significantly to their academic development. I am proud that we collectively played integral roles in guiding them into capable and accomplished human beings.   

Today, they remain aware of which influence is present at any given time. My son-in-law holds Mary in high regard, and the grandchildren continue to respond promptly when Maria appears, scarpering so they do not have to write out their times tables.  

 As for me, I am known as Nanny – practically perfect in every way!