#about that social phobia thing: first she showed me the term on her phone during a seminar (when she couldn't talk loudly)

[tardis--dreams]

To summarize today's day in university:

- got diagnosed with social phobia by a class mate (bitch?!)

- heard a Very cool lecture/presentation by a guest lecturer

- our lecturer said she kinda liked our idea for our presentation

- had lunch with friends in the uni canteen which was nice but evoked some existential despair

[carolinenicolettes]

MEET CAROLINE ESTELLE NICOLETTE ! 

(IN)CORRECT QUOTE -

“ this is taking too long ! i’m going to miss the farmer’s market ! ” —scary terry or scary caroline? who knows

“ she liked messy beds and movie nights without any lights on. she liked the quiet company of a few good friends. her idea of love was gentle and silent, like a whisper of a touch. some things are magical and magic, contrary to popular opinion, is often found in the most ordinary of places. ”

BASIC

NAME: caroline estelle nicolette NICKNAMES: n o p e it is caroline or NADA  AGE: 21 BIRTHDAY: may 1st SPECIES: starchild  GENDER: cisfemale PRONOUNS: she/her

FAMILY

MOTHER: amelia nicolette — born into money, massive name in the fashion industry, only wears fashionable power suits and celestial themed jewelry, drinks expensive whiskey neat FATHER: unknown PARENTS: raised by her mother, kind of. had a nanny named maggie growing up whom she loved dearly and was very good friends with a doorman named robert as well. it takes a village, you know. FAMILY: direct relation to the nicolette family that you all know and love aka odette. caroline’s mother is odette’s father’s sister. SIBLINGS: not at all.

PHYSIAL ATTRIBUTES

FACE CLAIM: scarlett leithold NATIONALITY: american HEIGHT: 5′7 WEIGHT: 139lbs BUILD: slender, and a bit insecure about that HAIR: long with a subtle wave , nearly down to her waist for now  HAIR COLOR: golden blonde with a few summery platinum highlights EYE COLOR: baby bluuuue DOMINANT HAND: left ANOMALIES: during warmer months, and nearly year round since moving to california, there are little freckles dusted across her nose  SCENT: seasalt, cocounut, sunscreen . . . . and occasionally mon paris by ysl ACCENT: she fought against that new york accent tooth and nail so none ALLERGIES: cats but also bullshit DISORDERS: dbd — dumb bitch disorder FASHION: an odd mix of vintage. corduroy dresses, plaid skirts, ribbed turtlenecks, velvet headbands, doc marten boots. a lil 60s, a lil 70s, a lil 90s. despite having quite a bit of money, she’s always wearing at least one thing that looks hand-me-down and that’s because her mother never threw anything away, so it likely is.  NERVOUS TICS: rocks back and forth from her toes to her heels, death grip on a camera strap, tucking her hair behind her ears QUIRKS: collects enamel pins, always has a camera on her, closes her eyes when trying to focus on listening

LIFESTYLE

RESIDES: east side, victoria BORN: new york city RAISED: new york city VEHICLE:  black 1969 chevy camaro, rarely ever drives it though as she bikes/skates most places PHONE: iphone 11 pro :\ COMPUTER: mac desktop collecting DUST PETS: too busy sneezing bc of odette’s cat

HIGH SCHOOL EDUCATION: graduated COLLEGE EDUCATION: senior MAJOR: museum studies, photography MINOR: film studies CAREER: freelance photographer, current waste of space living off of that family $$$ EXPERIENCE: apprenticeships in fashion photography, internships in museum curation  TRAINED IN: photography and classical ballet (reluctantly) OTHER: literally just .... she’s had a camera of some sort in her hand since she was like 12

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: liberal RELIGION: worships the ground stevie nicks, cher, and debbie harry walk on but that’s about it BELIEFS: you have to be really careful when buying sweaters from thrift stores because 80% of them are absolutely haunted MISDEMEANORS: none FELONIES: none  TICKETS AND/OR VIOLATIONS: NONE  DRUGS: once or twice but she’s strung out enough on her own  SMOKES: weed, on occasion. cigarettes are gross. ALCOHOL: leisurely, mostly socially. Queen of Beer Pong™ DIET: fairly healthy, not at all picky, a little bougie.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: labels are stupid SEXUAL ORIENTATION: and sexuality is fluid MARTIAL STATUS: never going to happen CHILDREN: *nervous laughter* AVAILABILITY: not at all LOOKING FOR: she’s actually legally blind so

LANGUAGES: english, french

PHOBIAS: fuck spiders SPECIFICALLY. might cry but also doesn’t want you to kill it just... take it out and awaaaay HOBBIES: photography, film — the act of and the watching of, hiking, live shows, bothering odette. literally has/had 3294328049 of them but is really only good at photography/film TRAITS: + adaptable, loyal, charismatic, clever, playful, adventurous ; - flighty, forgetful, cynical, unforgiving, disorganized, impatient SOCIAL MEDIA: the works - snapchat, twitter, instagram

FAVOURITE

LOCATION: photo pit at small venue concerts, anywhere within 10 feet of the pacific SPORTS TEAM: whomst  GAME: playin w people’s HEARTS ...... jk ....... kinda MUSIC: haim, fleetwood mac, the aces... any band with a female lead singer SHOWS: ghost adventures, big little lies MOVIES: frances ha, almost famous, bob dylan: don’t look back RADIO STATION: anything that strictly plays oldies FOOD: loves baked goods BEVERAGE: cold brew coffee, cinnamon spice tea COLOR: a nice dusty rose :\

CHARACTER

MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic good MBTI: isfp — the adventurer ENNEAGRAM: type 7, the enthusiast  ZODIAC: taurus HOGWARTS HOUSE: hufflepuff TAROT CARD: the empress TV TROPES: max mayfield, serena van der woodsen, ainsley howard, donna sheridan and honestly? eloise  SONG: summer girl - haim

IDEOLOGIES: shove it down shove all the emotions DOWN do not feel. you can tell a lot about a person based on the music they listen to when they’re sad. three is the luckiest number.

THE RUNDOWN 

amelia nicolette never intended to be a mother. she was freshly 21, inches from a moment that could launch her career in the fashion industry, and she hadn’t been in love or even interested in the idea since she was seventeen. so when a one night stand with a wealthy older man, left her with morning sickness and an odd appetite for two, she was less than thrilled. 

he was even less thrilled, insisting that she terminate the pregnancy. i’ll drive you, he’d said in a hushed tone. only then did she see the tan line wrapped around his ring finger. a married man. a one night stand. and a complete bastard . amelia decided, then and there, to carry to term and then put the baby up for adoption.

until may 1st at 3AM on the dot when the most obnoxious scream split through the air. a baby, just slightly too small, kicking and screaming relentlessly was born in manhattan. a baby who wouldn’t shut up until she was placed in the arms of her mother, where she fell quiet and calm and she slept. 

amelia nicolette never intended to fall in love, but holding her tiny baby girl, she knew then and there that she was a goner. caroline, as a song that sounded like joy played from a radio at the nurse’s station. estelle, for the stars. nicolette, the only family name she’d ever need. 

for three years, it was just the two of them in a new york penthouse, and amelia learned quickly that she was good at being a mother. but that didn’t change her free-spirited nature or the way her heart had a tendency to yearn for more. she had the resources, and caroline was old enough — . . . and she’d been sketching for years, sitting on top of a portfolio that piled a mile high.

along comes nanny, maggie, and thus began the life she’d lead for the rest of her childhood. mom spent a lot of time at work, building a fashion brand that went international by the time caroline was 6. because of this, she was gone more often than not, leaving caroline to grow up under the watchful eye of a nanny.

but she called every night. made it home for every big holiday, every recital, every birthday. in the summers, caroline would spend her time split between visiting her mother, visiting odette, and visiting a beach house in victoria. there was a certain lack of permanence that caused her to be adaptable, allowed her to be comfortable with change and give into the whims of a free spirit like her mother’s.

but people filtered in and out, came and went, and on the flip side of the same coin, there was a sense of detachment , a fear of getting too close to people who would move out or move on.

despite this, caroline never found herself to be lonely. she was a friendly little thing with bright eyes and a sparkling curiosity, picking up hobbies instead of toys, but never quite being exceptional at any of them. she made friends with doormen and caused problems for the people behind the desk. she became good, early on, at keeping herself busy, making her own fun – . . . all things that have very much carried into adulthood.

she was lucky, and she’s fully aware of it which is why, from a young age, she always did her best to find ways to give that luck to people who seemed to need it. 

things had a tendency to be tumultuous, what with her mother coming and going and her very best friend being in and out of the hospital, but she tried to go with the flow as best as she could. things were good but never truly exceptional.

until she met jude. he’d been in the same children’s wing as odette, and they’d known each other for a little bit before caroline met him. the three of them were inseparable, at first, simply best friends. but as they got older, feelings shifted and two friends became more than that.

our girl was in love for the very first time. and it was sweet and gentle and everything a first love is supposed to be. over time, that love grew, just as they did, and it was visible to anyone with eyes that they were in love. for two years, it was good, he was good. 

and then he wasn’t. despite two years of remission and a healthy life, he fell ill again. there was nothing to do but stand by and watch as six months passed by, far too quickly, and he slipped away into nothing. ultimately passing away just a week before his 20th birthday. 

caroline didn’t allow herself to feel it, for a while, lingering in the denial stage of grief for far too long. new york felt empty without him, without odette, without her mother, and it didn’t take much for her to pack her things and join her mother overseas, taking a gap year from school and focusing on herself, on her photography.

she spent a lot of time with a press pass around her neck. fashion shows and fashion shoots. major events and sports games. concerts and festivals. but there was one thing she loved more than anything else, and that was capturing the off-guard joy of life in candids of strangers on the street or in the crowds of bars and concerts. she found her own style, her own way of storytelling through a lens, and slowly but surely she began to heal.

still, there was no way around the way her heart felt a little heavier, a little darker, and how smiles from strangers at the other end of the bar made her stomach churn. she developed an aversion to new relationships of any sort, anything deeper than surface level becoming a bit too close for comfort. 

and while life traveling was fun, she missed having a sense of home, so she went to where the only other person who felt like home was, finding herself moving into a house with odette in victoria.

she’s been around for a couple of months, coming out of a gap year and looking to finish her degree in the spring. victoria, for now, is home.

these days she’s a little bit more cynical. a little bit less likely to let people too close. a little bit lost but also who isn’t when they’re 21

[dinosaursindisarray]

I haven’t posted anything recently, partially because I was a little overwhelmed by simultaneously the best and worst week two weeks ago, and also because I got transferred from the short-term care team to a long term one.

TW/CW: hospital mention, self harm mention, cuts mention, scars mention, flashback mention, trauma mention, school mention, depersonalization, suicidal ideation, mother mention, nephew mention, negative thoughts, false thinking.

After being in the hospital, I was referred to a couple of programs that were supposed to help me - two of my diagnosis's on the discharge papers were ‘Family problems’ and ‘Financial problems’. I had no idea what to expect or what I was going to be offered. I vaguely remember having a social worker before, during my teen years, but only because she shared the name of my sister. I don’t remember anything she did, but I feel like I didn’t see her very often.

So when the team I was referred to said that I’d be going into a short-term program, as they didn’t want me to have to wait for the long term one in order to receive care, it felt kind of nice. Like, oh, someone wants to help. And, weeks ago, the first meeting with the woman from the short-term care team, W, went really well! She was really kind, and despite me dissociating, I was able to explain things fairly well and go through with the meeting.

W listened to what was wrong with my life and offered solutions, everything from housing, education, income, even cooking classes and a way to get discounted bus fare. It was unbelievable, I was ecstatic! Where had all these things been all these years I’d needed them? All these years I’d been stuck? I left the meeting with paperwork to fill out and the beginning of hope.

The next meeting was a week or so later. I went to sit with W and try and fill out the form for housing, and plan some things. During it, a child began co-fronting, and I kept slipping in and out, coming back to my chest being tight and tears in my eyes and on my cheeks, forgetting where I was, a small, panicked voice in my head. W didn’t seem to notice; when I grounded myself enough, we began talking about plans for her to go with me to apply for SSI and what sort of support I’d need. She asked about triggers, I think, asked what had caused me to go into the hospital before.

I tried to explain that flashbacks had lead to switching, which had lead to a child alter harming the body in a warped survival method, but I didn’t get past mentioning the child alter. She rejected it, somehow, saying that she didn’t want to hear about alters or anything like that, she just wanted to know what happened with me. I tried again to explain that it wasn’t me - I lost an entire week of time before it came to that flashback and switch, and I had no control over it. She didn’t listen, cutting me off and insisting that ‘So, you hurt yourself?’

Confused and still dissociated, I agreed. I woke up with more parts of my life gone and dozens of injuries that scarred on my body that I had no say in, but sure, I ‘hurt myself’. She went on to say something about well, her job was to make sure that didn’t happen again, so that if I felt bad while we were out, I needed to let her know. I tried one last time to explain that it doesn’t work like that, but she didn’t listen then either. Looking back, every time I tried to bring up DID or alters, she refused to listen, not wanting to hear anything about it - how to help me, how to handle it, nothing. She gave me a paper that was an outline of my ‘treatment’ with her and that team, and under my ‘problems’ she’d typed “Disassociate Identity Disorder.”

I pointed that not only was the terminology incorrect, but that it was also misspelled, and she laughed, chiding me not to judge her spelling mistakes. Looking back, it really feels like she didn’t care about what was actually wrong with me. Maybe it wasn’t allowed for her to actually say that she didn’t believe in DID, but that’s the message that came across. I didn’t realize it at the time, because I was so enamored with the idea of someone actually wanting to help me and maybe even being able to.

There was only one meeting after that, and if was very short. I was supposed to bring in some documents that she’d told me to bring the last meeting. Because of the child rapid switching with me before, I’d only remembered her telling me to bring one thing, forgetting the other 4 that were needed. I left, after we made plans to go to social security later that week, and I had her write down what things I would need for that.

At home, I went through a few huge stacks of files that dated back to pre-preschool, in order to try and get a timeline of treatment that W wanted for social security. I found report cards from kindergarten, state test reports, old exams, hospitalization records, medical records... I sorted through all of it, despite how it destabilized me. Too many reminders of childhood, and of school; several previously dormant alters began fronting as I obsessed over the little bits of trauma I had accidentally recalled from school, all of it painting a worse picture than I’d thought. I got the paperwork I needed though, so that W could take me to social security.

The day came and I called her office in the morning, because she was supposed to come pick me up and I wanted to make sure she came to the right place. The person in the office told me that she wasn’t in, she wasn’t supposed to work that day. I had her cell phone and called, asked her about our meeting. ‘Was that today?’ She asked. I answered yes, and she apologized, saying that we’d do it next week instead.

Already for this meeting, she hadn’t been clear about what the time meant; was it when she was going to pick me up, or when we were going to go to SS? And now all I had was ‘next week’. Did that mean a week from that day? Any day next week? What time? Would she call me and let me know? Would I have to call her again? Considering I have severe anxiety about talking on the phone and also missing appointments, the whole things was unnecessarily stressful.

The next week, 6 days later, she called me and said that I’d been accepted into the long term care group and was being transferred over to them. She said that they were trying to get ahold of me and couldn’t, and after a lot of nonsense in which I got the wrong number, then the right number, called and got no answer, and finally called W back, I asked if there was any way she could just set up the meeting between me and the new group. She said yes, and I asked if she would be there too, as she said that she would during our first meeting and she’d made it clear that I’d be transferred eventually. She said yes.

She didn’t show up.

My meeting with the new group went even better than the meeting with W. I was horrifically anxious at first, but after signing about 30 papers, I sat down in a meeting room with 3 other people. J, who was the leader of my new care group, L, who was part of the team that advocated for me that I was referred to from the hospital that made it so I got this care group, and another member of the care group.

After everyone introduced themselves, J asked me about myself and why I was there; they let me talk, and everyone took notes. I explained my troubles, what brought me to the hospital, that I had DID, and a brief history of my mental health issues. The whole time, they paid attention to me and didn’t interrupt or rush me at all; I actually felt fairly comfortable talking. I explained what I need - a different living situation, income, education, support, etc. I explained my social phobia, agoraphobia, difficulties and problems very briefly.

J explained the care team - it’s 10 people, each of which I’ll interact with, and each of which specialize in different things. J is the leader of the team, and all of them are there to help me. She said that they’d be meeting with me 3 times a week, and I thought I’d misheard. 3 time a week?? Not like, every month? Not, they check in on me every so often to make sure I’m not dead, and they’re there for me to call if I need to, like a suicide helpline, but when I call I’m made to feel like they’re already overworked and stretched thin and I lie to them to stop feeling bad about bothering them until I eventually just slip through the cracks? That’s what I was expecting, or, at best, something like with W.

J said that, well, for me, giving my social anxiety and things, they’d introduce the team to me little by little, so I could adjust without getting overwhelmed. I’d be able to form a relationship with 1 or 2 of them at a time before meeting someone new. And, she said, they’d probably start with less than 3 times a week and ease into it for me for the same reason. It was honestly so considerate to me as an individual that I cried in the car on the way home. I cried at home. They were actually tailoring this program to try and fit me better, fit my needs better?

And that’s not the only reason I cried. J let me ask questions, as many as I wanted, made sure I had time to. I asked what all of them knew about DID, and how much I was supposed to share or not share. I was thinking of W, honestly, because it wasn’t until writing this that I thought that it wasn’t just how things worked, rather than her just being against DID or something. J said that this group had been chosen for my case, and that she’d known about it for a few months, even if he hadn’t known my name yet. It had been heavily talked about who would get my case so that I got the best people to help, and J was the best for it. She said that she’d done some research into DID, but that it was going to be working with me and my therapist, learning from me, and building a relationship, that would help her learn more.

L said that someone else had actually been assigned my file, but that she had volunteered for it, because she’d worked with clients with DID before. She had a few years of experience and wanted to help. It felt good to know that I wasn’t just constantly dumped on people. J made an appointment with me to come to my house a week later on Friday, in order to get to know e better and find out more about my alters, triggers, trauma, and things like that.

I left feeling exuberant and excited; the weekend was actually hard, because I had nothing to do during the next three days. I decided to make up a more detailed alter list than the one I have on the system page, listing what triggers I know for everyone and more about their personalities, as well as signs that they’re out. That helped, helped me feel productive, but it was hard to think; I didn’t know how to handle good news. I kept waiting for it to turn sour or explode, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I guess I’m just really really used to disappointment and broken promises - aftereffect of trauma.

Therapy helped me get through the week as well, and then it was Friday, last Friday. J was supposed to get there at 12:30; I was ready early, and called her to try and double check things. No answer, but I left a message, then spent some time trying to figure out how to use the printer to print out the document I’d written up. Most of the cats were corralled back into a bedroom, and my mom left me in the living room.

12:30 came and went. Around 1pm, I wondered if I’d gotten the time wrong and she’d be there at 1:30 instead; I texted her, remembering her saying at the meeting that her number was call or text, 24/7. At 1:30, I tried calling her again. At 2, she texted back, asking who I was, and I said who I was and that we’d had a meeting. At 2:50, I texted again, asking her to call me, and at 3:30, I tried calling her again. 

This time, she answered, and I said who I was and that we’d been supposed to meet at 12:30. She said that she was sorry, she’d been at the hospital with emergencies all day; she was about 15 minutes away from her office, could she call me back when she got there? I said yes, of course, and thanked her, and hung up.

She never called. I sat in the same spot for 5 hours, blendy and weird and dissociated. I know I was there at some points, but I don’t know who else was. A child discovered a new online game and almost everyone around got really into it. There was too many emotions though, and everything stayed staticky and numb and distorted, to the point we didn’t know if the reactions we were having to various things were warranted or if they were skewed perceptions.

To top things off, my nephew came over for the night. My mom was supposed to watch him, but asked if it’d be fine if I watched him for an hour once they got here, as he’d been talking about me nonstop and also she was tired and needed a break. The mishmash of people out agreed, and an hour an a half passed before she came out again; she didn’t take over though, she went right back to her room and we were left with the nephew the rest of the night, until we got her to put him to bed finally. Like. That’s the same kind of broken promises, let down, betrayal, disappointments, etc that we’re used to. It just kinda happens everywhere it seems. We got the closest we’ve been to feeling suicidal in a long time.

It feels really stupid to get upset over not having the meeting when there was an emergency. J couldn’t help that. She probably didn’t think to call or text me because she was busy helping someone. She probably forgot to call me back when she got to the office because I’m new or something, slipped through the cracks. I shouldn’t have called her at all, programs like this are for other people that really need it, not people like me that are just bothersome. She didn’t call today because she’s still busy; I’m not her only client that she helps and I need to not be selfish.

It still hurts though. Like, it feels like the other shoe fell. I’m hoping not, but, as corny as it sounds, hoping is really hard after a while.