“What? Yeah. Wait.” I look down at my hand and notice the bandage. “What happened to my hand?” I try to flex it, but the ache is too bad and I wince in pain. I search Mom’s averted eyes, and I’m taken back by her silence. Suddenly, I remember. I remember everything. My heart beats like crazy as I try to make sense of the memories flooding me.
“I don’t understand,” I say as I desperately search for answers.
“Doctor Morgan is on her way to see you,” Mom says.
“Tina? Please tell me that was a nightmare.”
Mom’s eyes fill with tears, she lowers her chin and shakes her head. I see tears drip to the top of her shoe. “Preston’s been arrested,” she replies while choking on the words.
I lift my trembling hands to my face. The ache of my hand is unbearable, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the misery in my heart.
The door opens, and a short woman walks in. “Hi. How are you today?” she asks me.
Wiping the tears away, I nod once. “My hand hurts and I don’t know why. Who are you?”
“My name is Amelia Morgan. Maybe I can help with that. Do you mind if I sit and speak with you?” I shake my head. “Would you like your Mom to stay?”
“Don’t go, Mom,” I beg.
“I won’t,” Mom says offering me a slight smile.
Amelia drags a chair over to sit beside me on the bed. “I’ll properly introduce myself. My name is Amelia Morgan, and I’m a psychotherapist. I specialize in dissociative identity disorder. Or, as it’s more commonly known, DID.”
My head whirls. What and huh? “Dis… huh?”
Amelia smiles. “Dissociative identity disorder.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is that? Is it bad? I don’t…” I shrug, trying to form a coherent sentence.
“No, it’s not that bad.”
“Am I like, crazy?”
“No, not at all.” She takes a recorder out of her bag, and holds it up to me. “I’m not a fan of taking notes. I find it distracts me. Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
“I’m okay with it,” I say in a weary, softer tone. “I think.”
“Paris, would you mind?” Amelia asks.
“Not at all.” Mom turns to me, and says, “It’s okay, Molly. She’s here to help all of us.”
I trust Mom with my life. “Okay then.”
Amelia starts recording our conversation. “Can I have a look at your hand?”
I hold it out to her. “I don’t know what I did. I can’t remember.”
“I was here yesterday, and I spoke with AJ.”
“AJ?” I turn my head, and furrow my brows together. AJ. I know that name. Closing my eyes, I try to place where I know AJ from. “Wait. You spoke with AJ?” The fogginess is lifting, and I’m regaining clarity.
“I did,” Amelia confirms.
Opening my eyes, I’m unsure of what to think. “I thought he was a figment of my imagination. He’s not real. He’s like an imaginary friend. I think.”
“He is real. And he lives inside of you.” She pointedly looks down at my hand. “Do you remember how this happened?”
I try to flex my hand again. The ache is still there, like a new wound. “I don’t.”
“AJ was frustrated with himself, and punched a wall.”
I blink rapidly for what feels like hours. I’m trying to come to terms with what she’s saying. My hands tremble, and my breathing elevates. “I don’t understand. How can this other person live inside me? What’s wrong with me?” Hysteria seems to be taking over all of me. I hit the side of my head with my fist. “Get it out, get it out of me.”
“Molly, calm down. There’s nothing wrong.”
“Sweetheart.” Mom flies to her feet, and comes over to me, embracing me. “Shh, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.”
“Molly,” Amelia’s voice is strong, and authoritative. I peep out from under-Mom’s arm. “You need to focus on me, okay?”
I take several deep breaths, trying to calm my inner tsunami of mixed emotions. The overwhelming fear of being crazy is the strongest one.
“I’m focusing,” I say as I close my eyes and calm my breathing.
“Okay. That’s good. Breathing techniques can really help.”
“I do yoga, so I can do that.”
“Perfect.” Mom steps away, and I can hear the squeak of the plastic chair as she returns to her seat. “Open your eyes for me, Molly.” Amelia is standing in front of me. “What do you know about AJ?”
I turn my chin to look away, unsure of how to answer the question. “I don’t know anything.”
“Do you remember the first time you met him?”
I strain my memory bank, but everything is fuzzy. “I don’t know,” I say again.
“Molly, there’s no right or wrong answers. And I’m here to help the best way I can.”
Instead of me struggling with memories I can’t focus on, I change direction. “You said you’re a psychologist?”
“No, not a psychologist. I’m a psychotherapist and I specialize in dissociative identity disorder.”
“What exactly is that?”
“Have you ever heard of multiple personality disorder?” I nod. “Dissociative identity disorder used to be known as multiple personality disorder.”
“So I’m like, schizophrenic? I have a split personality or something?” What the actual fuck!
“No, you’re not schizophrenic at all. Schizophrenia is something altogether different. What I think, and I have to have more sessions with you to be sure, is that you have DID. The difference is, DID is brought on by trauma in the younger, formative years.”
“Trauma?” Mom asks the question I’m thinking.
“What kind of trauma?” I ask.
“When the mind is faced with an overwhelming, life-threatening situation, it can create what we call alters, or other personalities, to deal with that particular trauma. It’s a survival mechanism we have when we have to deal with certain events before we’re emotionally mature enough to do so.”
“But what could’ve brought this on?” Mom asks.
“In Molly’s case, I don’t know yet. AJ was as open as he could be, but he did indicate I had to ask one of the other alters.”
“Wait? I have more than one? This isn’t normal,” I screech. “It’s not normal!”
“Tina’s death.” Mom brings her shaky hand to her mouth. “Molly said her name wasn’t Molly, it was Neve. Could it have started then?”
“I did?” It’s all so vague. I’m struggling with all of this.
“I can’t know for sure, but I highly doubt it. I need to speak to the other alters first before I can confirm anything.”
Amelia can’t tell me why I’ve developed these voices in my head. “Will they go away?” Maybe they’ll leave me, and never come back. If I try hard enough. Ignore them if they try to talk to me, then maybe they’ll leave.
“In my experience, alters are here to stay. Locking an alter out can do more damage than learning to embrace them, and live with them.”
“You’re talking about voices in my head. How the fuck am I supposed to live with this?”
“Molly, please,” Mom begs. “I know this is a lot, but you have to hear her out. We all do.”
“I’m being told I’m fucking psychotic. How the hell do I know if one of these assholes in my head won’t turn nuts and go on a killing spree? Get them out! Get them out now! I don’t care what you have to do. Shock therapy. Drugs. Take part of my brain out. Just…Get. Them. Out!” A frenzied madness takes over. I’m screaming and yelling, while crying and trying to hit my head my non-injured hand. “Why? Why me? Why can’t you leave?”
In my panicked state, I feel a prick on my arm, unsure on who or what just happened. All I’m aware of is that my is mind becoming quiet, and my eyes droop shut. Order and peace quickly replace the out-of-control delirium.
“What’s happ…”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Mom whispers. Her cheeks
are wet from tears; her eyes red from crying.
I’ll take care of you.
“Who are you?” I slur as I lose the fight I had in me.
I’m AJ, and I’ll always care for you.
Closing my eyes, I’m forced into a place where my mind is tranquil.
All I’ve done is cry. Amelia cleared me to go home, and I’ve been here since yesterday. Thankfully Mom’s called Sky at work to tell her what happened with Tina, and Sky has given me as much time off work as I need. Dylan has been here with me. Well, by with me, I mean he’s down stairs while I’m in my room. I don’t want to see him.
I can’t deal with anything.
I can barely think about the funeral in two days. I’m a damn mess.
Amelia is coming for home visits too.
I’m in zombie-robot mode. All I want to do is lock everyone out, and not talk to anyone.
My best friend is gone. Tina was always what I could only hope to be. She was happy, and energetic, and fucking sane.
Unlike me.
M, it’s time we talk.
“How can I talk to you when I can’t even see you? I made you up, and now I want you to go.”
I’m sorry. That’s not how this works. I think it’s time you talk to Neve.
“No, I don’t want to talk to any of you.”
You need to know why we’re here.
“You think I don’t know?”
Do you? Do you really know? Because there’s a part of your life you buried.
“Buried? Is that what Amelia was talking about? Trauma and stuff?”
Zhen moves on the bed, laying on his back, and gives my nose a lick before he closes his eyes again and falls asleep immediately.
Yep. M, you need to talk to her. She wants to talk to you, fill in some of the blanks. She’ll be able to explain why we’re here.
I sit up in bed, disturbing Zhen’s sleep. He lazily jumps off the bed, and sluggishly walks over to my bedroom door. He sits, thumping his tail. He needs to go to the bathroom. Pushing back the covers, I get up, and open the door for Zhen so he can go out the doggie door to the back yard. Happily, he trots off down the stairs.
Taking a deep breath, I turn to go back to bed. But Tina’s door makes me stop. It’s closed, and for a split second, I wait for her to come happily bouncing out of her room, busting with excitement, and eager to tell me about what she’s doing.
I hold my breath, anticipating. Praying.
I slowly walk over to her room, and place my palm on her door. Leaning my forehead against it, I hold in the tears. “She’s never coming back, is she?” I ask in a whisper.
No. The voice is soft, almost childlike.
“Who are you?”
I’m Neve.
“Great, another one.” I roll my eyes.
Please, don’t say that.
I have to give her the opportunity to talk to me and tell me about why she’s here. “I’m sorry. This is all too much for me. I’m not sure I can deal with…”
Me? Us?
“I don’t know how…” I can’t complete a sentence. I’m struggling with everything.
Let me explain why.
I take several deep breaths, open Tina’s door and go to her closet. I sit at the bottom, surrounded by all her clothes. I breathe in; Tina’s smell clings to her clothes. Fresh summer breeze straight after a light rainfall. It’s the subtle perfume she wore every day.
Curling into myself, I lean my head on my drawn-up knees. “Okay, why.”
I was the first.
“You were the first what?”
I came to you first.
“Why?”
Because of what he used to do to you.
“Who? My biological father?”
No, not him. Your father was careless, nothing more. He couldn’t cope with you. He tried, but he lost his way after your biological mother left. No, definitely not him.
“I don’t remember anything before I came to live here. Wait, you mean Dad?”
No, not him either.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Or who it is you’re referring to.”
No, you wouldn’t. Because I saved you. I took all the abuse. Every time he came into your room, every time he looked at you, I’d come forward and let you sleep while I took on what he did.
My breathing intensifies. I don’t know… I…
The foster family you went to live with after your biological father surrendered you.
“I was given away?” I say slowly. “I thought the authorities took me.”
They did. But authorities want to keep families together, so they asked him what he wanted. He said he couldn’t care for you, and told them not to return you.
“How…” I gulp. “How do you know this? They would never have told us this.” Would they?
They told the foster parents. They were talking one night, we overheard them.
My father didn’t want me. I take several moments, trying to come to terms with that. But something so huge can’t be dealt with in only a moment. “Tell me about the man who hurt me.” I think about that for a moment before adding, “Who hurt us.”
He was a foster boy. Sixteen when you went to live with them. You were nearly three. He started to touch you soon after you arrived. He warned you if you told anyone, he’d kill you.
I notice my breathing is short and shallow, though fast. My mouth is open and dry. I can’t comprehend anything. “How long did he…” I can’t bring myself to say the words.
Until he aged out and was told to leave the foster home.
“Months?”
Nearly two years. It started as touching, then it became more. He would play a song so no one would hear you crying. Neve’s voice becomes small. So no one would hear our cries.
I feel sick. I haven’t eaten more than a few mouthfuls of food, and I want to bring it all up. “You took all of that burden?” I ask.
I did. For you.
“You should’ve left me. You allowed him to hurt you?”
We didn’t know, M. None of us knew. We were all scared of him. I took the hurt, because I love you. Because I need to protect you.
“Neve, I don’t think I can hear you tell me any more. I’m sorry.”
Will you let me talk with Amelia?
“I think we all have to talk to her.”
M, please, go tell your family. We desperately want you to heal.
I stand from my sister’s closet, and head out. Standing at the top of the stairs, I’m overwhelmed with everything. I was sexually abused as a child. I look down to the foyer, and suddenly the thought of ending it all becomes appealing. Inching closer to the railing, I grip it with the hand not in the bandage. I can push myself over, and hopefully end it all here. I’m struggling though. A part of me doesn’t want to die, but another part just wants silence, peace. A peace I’m not sure I can find while I’m alive.
With tears streaming down my face, I lift my leg and hook it over the railing.
Woof.
Zhen’s bark is loud, and frightens me. He’s standing beneath, looking up at me, dancing and barking.
Woof.
“What is it, Zhen?” Mom asks, coming out to see what he’s barking at. She looks up, and sees me ready to jump. Ready to end this absolute shit show of a fucked-up life. “Dylan!” she yells.
Dylan runs out, and sees me. Without any hesitation, he runs up the stairs three at a time, grabs me around the waist, and pulls me down to the floor. “You can’t do this. I love you,” he pleads into my hair as he holds me.
“You can’t love me. I’m damaged.” I burst into tears as I grip onto his shirt.
“We’ll get through this, Molly. Whatever it is, we’ll get through this together.” He lays kiss after kiss on my forehead while stroking my hair.
“Sweetheart, why would you do that?” Dad asks coming up the stairs, Mom right beside him. They’re both sobbing.
I stare at them, unable to tell them. I’m hurting so much. I can b
arely breathe. It’s going to ruin them. I can’t talk. I close my eyes, and lower my head, weeping.
Everything about me is a lie. They got a dud of a daughter. “I wish you could give me back,” I wail. “I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s bullshit. We’re the lucky ones,” Mom says. “We’ve always been so fortunate to have you, and your sister. We couldn’t have asked for anyone better. We got two girls who are our girls. It doesn’t matter to us if your father and I didn’t create you. What matters is you belong with us. We love you so much.” Mom steps toward me, Dylan steps back and Mom takes over with a hug. Dad joins in.
“Family is not about blood, Molly. Family is the people we choose to have a bond with. And we choose you,” Dad whispers. “Please, don’t leave us.”
I have to tell them. I can’t let this go on. I have to find strength. What are they going to think? What are they going to say?
We’re here for you. We’ll always be here.
“I know,” I whisper.
“What do you know?” Dad asks.
I shake my head. Pursing my mouth shut, I nibble on my lips as I try to find courage. “I need to tell you all something.” I look to Dylan first. He’s the one who’s going to leave when he finds out. Why would he want to stick around? I’m defective. I can’t function properly. I have these other people in my head, I was sexually abused as a child, my sister has been brutally murdered, and I’m never going to be a whole person again.
“What is it?” Dylan asks. Mom and Dad hold hands as they all stare at me.
“I um…” I’m furiously attempting to hold back the tears pooling behind my cracked dam walls. “When I was young, nearly three, I went into foster care before I was adopted here.”
“Okay,” Dad says, not knowing where I’m going with this.
“There was a boy who lived in the house. Another foster child.”
“Okay,” Dylan says even slower and lower than Dad. “Why are you telling us this?” His shoulders straighten and he pushes out his chest. His jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow. Dylan suspects my next words.
“He…” I look away, a lump sitting like a hot coal in my throat. I can’t meet any of their eyes. I just can’t. “He… um.” No, I can’t say it. Closing my eyes, I shake my head. Unable to tell them the truth. It’s obscene, and horrible, and unspeakable.
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