They talked about how DID isn’t a disorder when it first comes into being. It saves a child’s mind from unendurable strain; it performs a life-saving function. It’s only later in adult life, when it’s no longer necessary, that it becomes a disorder. They talked about one of their alters, “Legs,” who doesn’t talk. Legs’ only function had been to get them back to bed after the abuse. They described how, while the abuse was happening, they would send all the different parts of their body away. All they held onto was the big toe, which they used to draw the body back together again afterward. They told me that some alters used to despise the parts who experienced the abuse. Some of them don’t understand why they’re in a body that doesn’t reflect who they are in age, gender or appearance. It makes them angry. Some of them have tried to hurt the body. Other alters try to maintain a distance, “vacuum-packed,” sealed off from the rest of the system. They want to live a separate, parallel life. The purposes of the different alters are clearly defined. The alter who goes to work will be cold toward family or a partner if they ring or come to see them during the day. The work alter does the job, just that.

They described how differently memory works for them. Each alter holds certain experiences. Memory is not linear, but nested in a series of compartments. “I will never know what it feels like to remember things like you,” they told me. It can make seemingly simple tasks difficult. When following a recipe, for instance, they can’t remember more than four ingredients at a time. Retaining too much information is dangerous because it means they might have to remember other things too. Sometimes they leave a gap between switches, leaving the body vacant for a moment, so that alters don’t have to share knowledge. They described how difficult it is to pack for a holiday; remembering to put everyone’s different things into the suitcase, clothes for all the alters of different ages. They described their own inner worlds, where their alters convene: a farmhouse at the center of a crossroads, where approaching enemies can be seen from any direction; a playground guarded by armies; a beach.

They told me that they were healing. The alter who used to rip up photographs, trying to destroy the past, has stopped. After years of therapy and with a family of their own, they are learning to live together as one.

Toward the end of our meeting I asked, “What would you like people to know about the disorder, that you don’t feel is understood?”

“I’d like people to know that we are always striving toward the good,” they said. “We are always protecting the child.”