Pieces of Me, page 13
There’s a man standing next to a little girl. I think it’s a man, because of the short hair and how he’s dressed. The little girl has yellow hair and a pink dress. She’s crying. There’s something written beside her—circled in white, with a line pointing toward the man, as if he’s saying what’s written.
“‘Its our sekret,’” I read aloud. And beside that, “‘Dont tell.’” “Sekret” is repeated over and over in big red letters all around this otherwise innocent drawing.
But it’s not innocent. I sink to my knees in front of the drawing and press my fingers to that little girl’s face. She was innocent. She was until he got ahold of her. She’s inside me now, afraid the secret is going to be revealed. Afraid he’ll hurt her when it is. I feel her fear in the back of my mind. I want to respect it. I want to take it away from her, but I don’t know how.
Rage and pain cramp my stomach. Hot bile rises in my throat. This anger doesn’t just belong to me. It’s too much for one person. I pick up a piece of the broken red crayon and grind it over the man’s face until he’s obliterated into nothing but a waxy sheen of crimson.
I want to know who he is. I want to remember. And I want to make him pay for what he did to the sweet little girl I used to be. Because whatever I am now, whatever is wrong with me, or going on inside me—I’m what he made me.
ELEVEN
I have this image in my head of what a doctor is supposed to be. They’re professional and polished. They really take care of themselves and work hard to project a professional image.
Then Dr. Mueller walks into my room and I have to rethink my assumptions.
She’s maybe five feet tall, with curly red hair that’s piled up on her head and held in place with a pencil. She wears a red jumper with a marigold-colored turtleneck underneath and olive-green tights with marigold boots. She carries a battered leather backpack over one shoulder and smiles at me from the threshold of the door. Her nose crinkles.
“Dylan?” she asks.
I nod, too busy studying her from my bed to speak. She’s like a character out of a children’s book, and because of it, I like her immediately.
She sets her bag on a chair by the wall and offers me her hand. “Dr. Gritta Mueller. Dr. Zhao asked me to visit you this morning. Is this a good time?”
“Uh, yeah,” I reply, finding my voice.
She grins. “Awesome. Are you comfortable talking here, or do you want to go somewhere else?”
“Here is good.” It’s private, and it feels more like my territory.
She turns to grab the chair at the foot of my bed and stops, her attention focused on the wall.
“That’s an interesting picture,” she comments. “Who drew it?”
“I guess I did.” I twist my sheets with my fingers. “It was there when I woke up to go to the bathroom during the night.” I didn’t want to tell her about the blanket.
She glances at me. “But not before you went to sleep? Did you have any memory of getting out of bed?”
I shake my head.
“So, you didn’t draw this then. Someone else did, using your body as their conduit.”
“I guess so.”
She nods, her attention back on the image. “Who is the little girl?”
“Me, I think.”
“And the man?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. A voice in my head whispers, We’ll get in trouble if you tell. It’s the voice of a child that’s not really a child—if that makes sense.
“Dylan?”
“I don’t know who he is,” I tell her, blinking. My head still feels fuzzy—a feeling I’m beginning to recognize. I can’t quite seem to focus. I try to fight it. It’s like being pulled by invisible hands from my body.
Outside my body, I look at myself. My expression is angry—defiant.
“I don’t wanna to talk to you,” I say, but it doesn’t sound like me. It sounds like a kid. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
I don’t know how to get back inside myself. I try to shove my way in, but I’m pushed away.
“It’s all right,” Dr. Mueller says in a calm voice. “You’re safe here. Dylan, if you can hear me, I’d like you to name five animals that start with the first five letters of the alphabet—one for each letter.”
“Alligator,” I say, but my mouth says nothing. I scream it.
“Alligator,” my body repeats.
I push hard again. It’s like trying to find my way through thick fog. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I am determined to get there.
“Buffalo. Cat.”
I push harder. My head hurts and my vision swims. “Dog…”
Suddenly, I’m in the bed, looking into Dr. Mueller’s bright blue eyes. “Elephant.”
She smiles. “Thank you. You slipped away for a bit there. Do you know where you went?”
My head feels fuzzy, but at least I’m in control. “It felt like I was outside myself.”
She nods. “And the person who spoke to me, do you know their name?”
I shake my head.
“That’s okay,” she assures me. “Dr. Zhao told me that you spoke to her about the possibility of having dissociative identity disorder. I’ve seen the results of the tests she’s done. I’ve spoken to your mother already, and I’d like to chat with you now. Is that all right?”
“Yes.”
Over the next twenty or thirty minutes, she asks me a lot of questions I’ve already answered—some of them many times. A few are new, but none seem to freak out the people in my head.
“Since your MRI came back normal, with the exception of smaller hippocampal and amygdalar volume, I do believe you have dissociative identity disorder,” she tells me, finally. I don’t know whether to be relieved or panicked. She must see this, because she gives me a kind smile. “I know this must be overwhelming, but with therapy and treatment, there’s no reason you can’t have a happy, fulfilled life.”
“How?” I ask. “There are people in my head who make me do things I don’t want to do and don’t remember doing.”
“The people in your head were created by your mind to help you deal with trauma. They’ve hidden for years because that was their job—to stay hidden and quiet. That they are no longer hiding tells me that you’re ready to hear what they have to say and to get to know them. Once you start, they will get progressively easier to live and communicate with. Some of them might even integrate.”
“What does that mean?” Because it all sounds terrifying.
“It’s the breaking down of the amnesiac walls between alters, allowing their memories and them to blend together. Some people confuse it with fusion, which is the combining of two alters into a new one. There are therapists who support this as the ultimate goal of treatment—all alters fusing together, leaving only one.”
“Is that what you do?”
“I like to start with encouraging communication between you and your alters and letting your system decide the course of treatment. I’ve had patients who want to integrate or fuse, and others who are perfectly happy to keep their system intact. ‘System’ is the term we use for the collective personalities living in one person.”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting this sink in. The inside of my head feels like it’s been through a blender. “I don’t remember a trauma.”
“It’s likely one of your alters holds those memories so you don’t have to. You may never recover the memory, or you might. Once you begin talking to the others you may learn what it was and then we can work on how you deal with it.”
I look at the drawing on the wall. “I think it’s pretty obvious what happened to me.” It explains why I don’t remember losing my virginity—or at least, what I thought was the loss of it. Someone else took over. It doesn’t always happen, but I realize now that sex is something I tend to remove myself from.
“Yes,” Dr. Mueller agrees. She pauses a moment, as though she thinks I might speak again. “You are fortunate that you are surrounded by people who support you. Do you feel safe in your home?”
I nod. “It’s just me, my mom, and my brother. I have no idea who he is.” I gesture toward the drawing.
“Possibly a family member or friend. Perhaps even a stranger.”
My stomach lurches as I remember hands reaching for me. “Maybe,” I say. The memory is gone—snatched away by someone in my head. It wasn’t a stranger, though. I’m certain of that much.
“How do I communicate with them?” I ask. I’m glad for the meds they gave me earlier—one of the pams, I think. Something to keep me calm—all nice and floaty. It’s keeping the panic at bay.
From her bag, Dr. Mueller pulls out a stack of papers and a books. “One of the best ways to start is with a journal where you can all write to one another. You may have some alters who can’t write, but I know you like to draw, so that will be helpful as well. Dr. Zhao told me a friend gave you a journal, so I’d encourage you to write your feelings in that.”
“Okay.”
“Many people with DID also have what’s called an inner world. For some it’s a house or a building. For others it’s a town or a park. Basically, it’s a place where your alters gather or even live.”
“It’s a house,” I tell her. “A really cool house.”
She looks pleased. “You’ve already been there? That’s wonderful. Many hosts—that’s the person who has control of the body most often—have a hard time accessing their inner world. Were you welcome there?”
I nod. “I was. Mostly.”
“As you learn about your alters, you will probably come to identify many of them as having different roles within your system.”
I sigh, considering that. “This is a lot to take in.”
“Yes, it’s overwhelming, I imagine. I’m sorry if I’ve added to that. I brought you some articles and a book that I hope will help you.”
The book is by a doctor and someone with DID. Its focus is on learning to communicate and live with the people in your head.
My head—which has gone eerily quiet. I can picture them in there, in the windows of the house, peering out from behind curtains, waiting. Holding their collective breath.
It’s okay, I tell them. I’m okay.
I know you are, comes a reply, loud and clear. Lannie, I think. Hearing her voice validates all of this. It should probably freak me out, but it’s comforting.
Dr. Mueller watches me with a small smile. “You can talk to some of them, can’t you?”
“Yeah. Lannie. She seems closer than the others, if that makes sense.”
She nods. “It does. Very likely there will be some with whom you can easily communicate. Others may take some coaxing or require you passing messages via another alter. Some may resist communication altogether. Start slowly, go at your own pace. Don’t push yourself or them.”
“Are you going to read the journal?” I ask.
“Only what you want me to read,” she promises. “If you’d like, you can have a separate section, or even another journal, for personal, system-only communication. My only goal is to help you and your alters work together so you can live your best life.”
“My best life.” I can’t help the scoffing noise.
“You’ve done okay so far, haven’t you?”
“One of them tried to kill me.”
“A persecutor, and they failed. Now that you know, you can be better prepared for drastic attempts to protect your system. They won’t feel the need to take such measures. I know it may not be helpful right now, but that alter thought it was the best way to protect you and the others.”
I guess I have to take her word for it. I’m not sure I want to know Scratch any better than I do. Pretty sure she doesn’t care to know me either.
I need a nap. I want to curl up and go to sleep. Forget all of this and dream the rest of my life away. Just give up.
Don’t you fucking dare. It’s loud enough to make me wince. Kaz. Her voice is raspy and rough. I have to smile a little. It’s nice knowing she and Lannie have my back. Maybe I’ll survive this with their help. I didn’t even know they existed two weeks ago.
Maybe Dr. Mueller is right. Maybe my “system” wants to be okay as much as I do. Maybe they’re ready to heal. Well, maybe not Scratch.
“There are suggestions for how to set up the journal in the book and tips for encouraging conversation. It also suggests you make rules or guidelines for the others to follow, such as dating and signing entries.”
God, this is weird. I can’t seem to get past that. It’s so surreal.
“Our immediate concern is making sure you and your system feel safe and heard. We’ll do this together. I’m here for whatever you need. I also want to have a session with you and your mother to address any concerns you might have. I would like to begin that tomorrow if you’re ready.”
I blink. “So soon?”
She smiles. “You have somewhere else to be? The sooner we begin and get a treatment plan in place, the sooner you can go home. Probably within a few days. I’d like you to remain here a little while longer just in case your persecutor resists treatment.”
Fear tickles the underside of my stomach. “You mean she might try to kill me again?”
“She might threaten you or others within the system. A persecutor’s job is a strange one. They’re often tasked with protecting the system, but they do it using abusive tactics.”
“She looks a lot like my mother,” I reveal. “Why?”
“I have no idea, but we’ll work on figuring it out.”
I stifle a yawn. “Okay.”
“Looks like we’ve done enough for one day,” Dr. Mueller allows. I glance at the clock. She’s been here for over an hour. “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow morning. Read as much as you want of the information I’m leaving with you. There’s no rush. I will stress again that it’s important you do this at your own pace and not try to force your system into facing memories until you and your alters are ready.”
I have no idea what to say, so I nod.
Dr. Mueller stands. “This must seem like a lot. I can only imagine how you feel, but you will survive this, Dylan. You’ve already survived so much.”
I guess. But I don’t remember it. I’m not sure I want to remember anything bad enough to make my brain split up into new people. I mean, that’s gotta be pretty fucked up.
“How does it happen?” I ask. “A lot of people have horrible childhoods. They don’t all have this.”
“Between the ages of seven and nine is when your personality comes together as singular. Repeated trauma at a young age can inhibit that cohesiveness and cause alters to form. Each of your alters was created by your subconscious to protect your mind from what was happening. It’s an incredible defense mechanism. It means you were determined to survive.”
“Thank you,” I say. My voice is hoarse, but it’s still mine. Not Kaz’s or Lannie’s. I feel them with me, but no one’s trying to push their way to the front.
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watch her leave the room, then slowly start to look at the stuff she left for me. Most of the papers look like things printed off the internet, or photocopies of book pages. They’re a lot less intimidating than trying to read a whole book, so they seem like the best place to start.
The first page has the description of DID according to something called the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition. Reading the criteria, I realize it’s pretty obvious this is what’s wrong with me, but the next article discusses why it’s so hard to diagnose DID. Like Dr. Mueller said, the brain is good at protecting the body and hiding the disorder, so people who have it are often misdiagnosed. I’ve been there and have the paper trail to prove it.
Some of the printouts are from the blog of a woman with DID. As I read it, a sense of ease begins to take hold of me. The tension in my shoulders and stomach lessens. Someone else expressing the same concerns and fears I have makes me feel less alone. She says she was eventually so glad to have the diagnosis because she could work on getting better instead of spinning her wheels feeling crazy.
And then she says suicide is a fear she constantly fights against. Fucking great.
It also says it’s a fight she’s winning, Lannie whispers.
But I don’t feel much like a winner.
* * *
KAZ
At least I’m going to have some cool scars. And everyone knows how much chicks dig scars, right? That has to make staying in this fucking hospital worth it a little bit.
I trace the puckered line of flesh on my left wrist. It’s still red and tender, the stitches tight. I like it. Maybe I can convince Dylan to get a tattoo over the scar to make it look like this. That would get attention. Make everyone think we’re such a train wreck. Everyone underestimates a train wreck. Dylan hasn’t figured out the power in people thinking you’re delicate yet. Maybe I can teach her. Maybe she’ll listen to me now.
I lean back against the pillows. I like being out. That has a double meaning for me, but in this case, I mean out in the body. I like the body. It’s softer than mine, rounder. Sometimes, I like to touch it because it doesn’t feel like mine, but I can feel the sensations. It’s like synchronized sex. Whatever I do to the body, it does to me. And it feels nice.
Dylan doesn’t get laid nearly as much as I would like. She doesn’t take care of her needs like she ought to. I thought we were going to get lucky the other night on the beach with that pretty boy, but no. Doing that after cock-blocking me with Nisha was a real pisser. It’s become pretty clear that if I want to get any kind of action, I’m going to have to be more aggressive. It was a lot easier to persuade her when she drank.
“Hello.”
It’s Dr. Zhao. “Hi,” I say. Makes sense she’d show up when I’m looking like hammered shit. She’s gorgeous as usual, coordinated and polished. My thirsty gaze travels her from head to toe. I’m such a sucker for a femme.
Her heels click on the floor as she approaches the bed. She gives me a smile that reads as sincere. “Is it all right if I visit you for a bit?”
