If I think hard enough I can remember all the way back to my first blackout. I was in class; it was the eighth grade I was doing an assignment. When I came too, my hands were covered in blood and another student was on the floor in front of me.

I tried to help him, but he was afraid of me, the entire class seemed to share in this fear. I remember getting into a lot of trouble. When the truth finally came out the boy had attacked me and I simply defended myself, but I had no recollection of the incident.

In my early twenties during my dating and relationships of my life during that period. My partners would always say I did things or acted in certain ways which I did not recall, and I thought they were crazy.

I ended many relationships because I thought they were the crazy ones making things up. Throughout my life, people would tell fantastic stories about me to me.

It wasn’t until my thirties that I realized I had a problem, a huge problem. I started waking up in places I didn’t remember going to. These were the hardest years of my life. My family didn’t understand what was going on with me, I shut the world out and became reclusive.

I stopped dating, stopped having friends and even my coworkers began to hate me. I don’t blame them. How do you explain all the missing days at work you know? They just thought I was sorry, and I was sorry. Sorry I went to bed in Macon GA and woke up in Florida. It’s not like I could explain to anyone what was going on. I couldn’t even understand it myself.

The scariest place I ever woke up was in a hotel, butt naked covered in money between two perfectly made-up queen size beds. I walked to the sliding glass door opened it up and looked outside, all I could see was the ocean as far as the eye can see. I walked to one of the beds and sat down at the end of it, not knowing where I was or how I had arrived here.

Obviously, I had finally snapped robbed a bank, and escaped to Cuba, my only guess at the time. I had no idea where my clothes were or where the money had come from. I was alone or at least I thought I was until I heard the bathroom toilet flush.

That was the scariest moment of my life, I had to ask myself does my butt hole hurt, no. who could be in the bathroom, what the fuck. I was in a panic and seconds seemed like hours waiting to see who would emerge from the bathroom.

A young woman came out of the bathroom. I asked her who she was and she seemed surprised that I did not know. We had a long conversation. I explained to her that who I was when she went into the bathroom is not who I am when she came out.

It was the first time I had to actually explain this to someone, and she seemed to understand. She told me about the events the night before, that gambling is where the money came from, and how we wound up where we were.

We spent two more days in Florida, I was supposed to be at work, but I didn’t know how to tell them what had happened, so I didn’t tell them anything. Over the course of another five years, this became the normality of my life.

When I turned thirty-five I started seeking out doctors and psychiatrists trying to get a better understanding of myself and searching for a cure if there even was such a thing.

I started keeping a journal, writing myself notes, trying in any way I could to keep track of myself and my actions. After years of therapy and lots of medication, I wouldn’t say there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but I would say the tunnel does not look so bleak.

What I once viewed as a curse, seems to be the opposite. My many sides have many talents. I’m trying to learn how to accept myself and incorporate my best attributes into my everyday life. One of me likes to paint, one likes to write.

Nothing like reading something I wrote, disagreeing with it and instant regret, lol. I can write something find it later and read it for the first time as if I never even wrote it.

There is a dark side. From what I understand I did not do this to myself. I’m like a mirror, someone took a rock too. This life of mine was born from trauma abuse stress. The current stress I’m under will dictate who takes over after the switch.

I don’t know if I will share this piece. But I think if anyone can relate or find it helpful, maybe I should. Idk.

This is just a brief overlook. Does not go into detail of the suffering and the depression.The tries and failures of mental illness. Does not go into detail of the cycle of switching, just meant as a brief summary.