People afflicted with multiple personalities reveal that the idea of the self is a fiction.

The most sinister form of abuse is that meted out to a child by a parent. The young have a biological predisposition to “belong” — a duckling, for example, will instinctively snuggle up to a human leg if that is the first thing it sees — so it is particularly traumatic when this need for tenderness is met with systematic physical or sexual violence.

Pamela, the subject of a haunting documentary, developed a mechanism to cope with her sadistic upbringing: she created new selves. When the pain, squalor and ignominy became too much to endure, Pamela, as it were, “left it all behind”: while she was abused, she dissociated and departed to another place — leaving a new person in her place.

Rémy Aquarone, an analytical psychotherapist, has dealt with these disturbing cases of what is known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). “Dissociation is a primitive defence mechanism,” he said. “When something is unbearable to consciousness and cannot be cognitively processed, it is split off: quite literally dissociated.”

In many cases the various “alters” have their own memories and personality traits. When a switch is about to occur the patient often undergoes a temporary look of vacancy before the background alter “emerges”.

DID strikes at the heart of the most basic myth in our intellectual vocabulary: the self.
Since we first learnt to use language we have regarded the first-person pronoun as referring to something that existed in childhood, exists today, will continue to exist in the future and — for those of a religious persuasion — will survive bodily death. We fondly think of this self as the subject of our experiences, the instigator of our actions and the custodian of our morality. We are lulled into this idea by the seeming unity of our consciousness: our various thoughts and perceptions all knitted into a seamless whole.

This cherished conception is, however, a cruel fiction. It has taken extreme cases, such as DID, to ram the truth home. Take brain dissection. In these operations, the corpus callosum — a large strand of neurons which facilitates communications between the hemispheres — is cut to stop the spread of epileptic seizures from one half of the brain to the other. Under certain laboratory conditions, two “centres of consciousness” seem to appear in patients who have had this operation.

For example, suppose that we flash the word CANNOT on a screen in front of a brain-bisected patient in such a way that the letters CAN hit one side of the retina, the letters NOT the other and we ensure that the information hitting each retina stays in one lobe and is not fed to the other. If such a patient is asked what word is being shown, the mouth will say CAN while the hand controlled by the hemisphere that does not control the mouth will write NOT. So much for the “unity” of consciousness.

What about the notion of the self as instigator of action? We naively suppose that we consciously decide to move, and then move. When Benjamin Libet conducted an experiment on voluntary action in 1985 he found that the brain activity began about half a second before the person was aware of deciding to act. The conscious decision came far too late to be the cause of the action, as though consciousness is a mere afterthought. Many reacted to this with astonishment.

A more plausible theory is that which is emerging from both biology and artificial intelligence. As Daniel Dennett, the philosopher, puts it: “Complex systems can in fact function in what seems to be a thoroughly ‘purposeful and integrated’ way simply by having lots of subsystems doing their own thing without any central supervision.” The self, then, is not what it seems to be. There is no soul, no spirit, no supervisor. There is just a brain, a dull grey collection of neurons and neural pathways — going about its business. The illusion of self is merely a by-product of the brain’s organisational sophistication.

Seen in this light, DID is neither a philosophical absurdity nor a medical fantasy but a vivid demonstration of the infinite adaptability of the human mind in the quest for survival. Accepting the death of “self” is both strange and traumatic, bringing with it a profound a sense of bereavement. Except that there is nothing there to bereave.

Excerpt from www.timesonline.co.uk, 6/8/05