Rapunzel! Rapunzel! What can the woman in your hair teach us about borderline personality disorder (BPD)? As a villain, Mother Gothel in Disney's Tangled is unique.  She's not motivated by revenge, greed, or lust for power. Gothel, terrified of growing older, is motivated by fear. As a result, she begins to display symptoms of BPD--to the point where she will literally die without Rapunzel and her magic hair.

It's no secret that raising children requires patience, particularly children with mental illness. Patience can be the difference between moving forward from conflict and escalating into a full meltdown. I have, however, discovered a quality even more important to raising a child with a psychiatric condition--compassion.

When we were children, for most of us, Christmas was magical. You got to tear into shiny wrapping paper and discover the most amazing and wondrous gifts inside. There was a Santa Claus who confirmed we had been good all year long. There was a Christmas tree reaching to the sky and cookies and candies abounded. Our four-year-old, six-year-old, eight-year-old minds didn’t see the faults, cracks, bills and squabbles. All we remember is the Barbies, remote-control cars and cookies for Santa. And so it should be. Those memories, even if mostly embellishments of imagination, are great to hold onto. The problem is, for some reason, we spend our entire adult lives trying to recreate the magic that never existed in the first place.

Prior to my Dissociative Identity Disorder diagnosis my alters existed and operated outside of my awareness. They affected my life in ways I had no explanation for, like invisible strangers living in your house and rearranging the furniture. Receiving the diagnosis was like someone turned on a light and exposed the multitude around me. Suddenly I could see and hear what had always been there. None of what occurred in the aftermath of that diagnosis was new. But all of it was severely amplified. And I felt, among other things, fear.

Many patients in eating disorder treatment describe their disorder almost like a friend, says Dr. Jennifer Nardozzi, National Training Manager of The Renfrew Center Foundation. As the eating disorder becomes their primary relationship, their connection to self and others diminishes, heightening a sense of spiritual emptiness.

My husband, David, left me in August. Because of my anorexia. He couldn't handle it, after more than three years of dealing with a wife who seemed hell-bent on dying. This past spring, I spent six weeks in a partial hospitalization program that did very little for me but crush what little self-esteem I had left. I spent the summer depressed and anxious, mainly about the size of my body. I immediately began restricting and purging (through laxative abuse) and soon lost all the weight I had gained while in the program. David soon lost all hope I would recover from anorexia. I had forgotten — again — that my eating disorder doesn't just impact me, but also my husband and loved ones.

The first couple of years after my Dissociative Identity Disorder diagnosis are heavily documented in my diaries. The entries tell a disturbing and, I now know, common tale. I wish I'd known that what I was experiencing, as unhinged as it made me feel, was normal for people newly diagnosed with DID. With that in mind, I've decided that rather than just tell you what the aftermath of that diagnosis was like for me, I'll open up my diaries and show you.

The holiday season is fraught with stress, depression, and money problems for so many people that I'd imagine dreading this time of year is more the rule than the exception. It's no wonder then, that staying sober during the holidays is difficult at best. Managing alcohol addiction is no easy task regardless of the date on the calendar. But holiday sobriety presents its own unique challenges.

Nobody can tell me precisely when I got ill, nor why. This seems odd. Shouldn't there be nice neat 'Before' and 'After' shots to go with this anxiety/depression thing? What I wouldn't give for something - for a point, a moment that tipped the balance. Thing is, we don't know enough. The best available treatment is all too often necessary, but not sufficient. Yes, it works. For some. But not for nearly enough of us: 1 in 4. High expectations? Absolutely! -It's my brain, not a jar of Playdoh sponsored by Pfizer.

As with any blended family, adding children adds potential for conflict. Babies and toddlers are needy and demanding---so is Bob, my son with a psychiatric illness. Finding balance in managing the needs of all family members can be problematic.