My name is Alice. My family called me Crazy Lady for decades. It was supposed to be funny, but the words cut me like razor blades. After my diagnosis, I asked them to stop.

You see, I contain a multitude—others. I usually don’t know these parts of myself that surfaced to take away pain or power me through danger and abuse. I have always had them talking to me, calling my name, yelling, criticizing, or cheering; I assumed everybody did.

I tried for years to distance myself from the doctor’s label. A near-fatal traffic accident forced me to face the internal voices because they each had a different account of what happened. 

They replayed their version on my internal “movie screen” in rotation 24/7 for three days. I had no choice: I stayed in bed, hiding from my family, searching the internet for answers, and enduring the waves of emotional voices trying to make themselves heard in their fear. I thought I had lost my mind.

I call them Insiders. These “alters”—fragments, parts—have ideas, opinions, wishes, and preferences.

It used to bewilder me when I found articles, letters, and journal entries I supposedly wrote but had no recollection of doing so—email accounts in my name that my passwords couldn’t open, blogs I could read but not edit or delete.

I wondered why I was so moody—my Nana’s word. I’d begin writing stories, then let them languish. I picked up new hobbies and quickly dropped them. I once painted a sunset sky reflected on a river’s surface and left the canvas on the easel for inspiration; a year later, I put the easel away, unable to capture the “spark” that caused me to pick up a brush in the first place.

I have difficulty with menus and usually order something I don’t want because I feel rushed. I’m not too fond of the telephone and casual company at the front door (emergencies are okay).

I have long had (but who am I kidding? I still have) clothes in my closet that I didn’t choose. I have changed outfits as many as six times a day, along with hairstyles, jewelry, and makeup; when I have seen the occasional selfie (insiders seem to wish to communicate with me that way), some of my/our choices would have suited a much younger woman.

My shoes betray contradictions: sensible sandals for everyday wear, dancing pumps with three-inch heels that would kill me if I fell in them, three pairs of slippers for fall and winter, white wedges that barely fit, water shoes that have only seen the river a handful of times, muck boots for gardening in the rain, hiking boots that have never seen a trail, cozy flats for casual outings, orthotic flip flops, and men’s sneakers in my size because they are the comfiest.

As a Multiple—my self-descriptive term—I suffer from Complex Dissociative Identity Disorder (CDID). I never know what my day will bring, especially if someone else is fronting (coming forward). I try to hide from people who won’t react well if I’m suddenly “out of character.”

I don’t know my neighbors except to wave, chat over the fence, return a truant puppy, or share something from my garden. I have lived with varying degrees of abuse my entire life. People have called me crazy, a liar, and accused me of having demons—alters are NOT demons—and I have endured patronizing disrespect. Even my former best friend asked if I ever got tired of being multiple and just wanted to say STOP! As if I had a choice.

A relative used to say I was constantly reinventing myself; that was okay until the doctor labeled me. She couldn’t accept the implications of my diagnosis, so she withdrew her presence and relied on the USPS to carry her good wishes on birthdays, anniversaries, and compulsory Hallmark holidays. I think this is like being superstitious and knowing someone with cancer—you wish them well, but you’re afraid it might be contagious.

A forensic neurologist congratulated me for being alive and said most people with my condition had committed suicide. It was an ill-advised thing to say, but it was a watershed moment for me—his words became a purchase, a handhold on the otherwise sheer rockface of my shattered psyche—I was a survivor, and I would overcome.

I’ve accumulated nearly a decade of healing since I began this journey in earnest. My coach and I have been able to put some internal security in place, so it usually helps me remain present. Different insiders handle various aspects of my life, depending on the situation—especially potentially dangerous circumstances. I’ve learned how to ground myself if I feel dissociative—sometimes, I can catch it before the switch.

I’m an amateur herbalist with an impressive store of herbs and medicinal plants, tinctures, and extracts on the shelf beside my do-it-yourself migraine capsules and asthma tea. I’m educated and self-taught; my library contains Bible texts and tomes on natural medicine next to the Trauma and Dissociative Disorders section. I have learned of the most potent medicine no textbook can provide—the power of love to heal.

My favorite words are “Love covers.” I understand the power of love that covers a multitude of offenses, of acceptance that says, “I believe you,” and of total forgiveness that helps me dare to step out in faith to try again.

When I petitioned the court to change my first name, the judge asked for my reason. I nervously explained that my birth name triggered traumatic memories, so changing it was part of my healing journey. The judge said everyone should be on a healing journey and congratulated me. It was a momentous day.

I am not Alice “Crazy Lady” anymore.