Baa Baa Black Sheep, Herding Multiple Personalities

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Baa Baa Black Sheep
Herding Multiple Personalities
By E. B. Byers

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Text copyright © 2013 E. B. Byers
All Rights Reserved

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For my daughters who have suffered the most and
whom I love deeply.
Caveat: Should I repeat myself in this book, it is the
nature of the beast.

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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen

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Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty

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Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine

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The Curve—
You can find Dorothy next to their creative degree.
The most cryptic message left for me by my alters.

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Do I hallucinate or am I seeing ghosts and images left by
time? Don’t we all have many parts of ourselves? When does it
become DID?

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Chapter One
I cannot tell you when it started, only that it did. One of
my earliest memories is of being in one of the tobacco fields
at home in the summer and hearing my mother call my
name. I was far from the house, but I didn‘t question it and
ran immediately to the house because if my parents called
you, you were expected to show up immediately if not
sooner. At four years old I understood this well. While this is
one of my earliest memories, the very earliestwere for my
mother. I was about two years old, she said, and my father
was the disciplinarianfor the three of us. One day he cameto
herand told her she would be the disciplinarian from now
on because he had spanked me and Ihad notbeen the same
towardshim since. More middle child syndrome.
But my mother had not called me that first day I was in
the warm, sunny tobacco field. It was late afternoon and I
found her in the kitchen looking surprised to see me. I didn‘t

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try to figure it out. I just went back outside, back to the
warm clods of earth around the splashy-green infant tobacco
plants and resumed whatever it is a four-year-old does in a
tobaccofield on a caressing June afternoon. But it was not to
be the first time I was to hear my mother call my name when
I was out on the farm somewhere playing. It became so
frequent that I heard her call my name and then find out she
hadn‘t, that I began to slowly ignore it. I would cock my
head and if I heard her call just once, I learned that it meant
nothing and she had not in fact called for me. That was the
litmus test. The number of times I would hear her. If it was
more than once, it was worth checking out because, as I said,
my parents had zero tolerance for lack of respect shown in
any way, most of all that which they conjured themselves.
And because they conjured much of it themselves, you were
always in the dark, which left you at a distinct disadvantage.
The next thingIremember isasmallchartreuse plastic car
on the second step of the areaway. The areaway consisted of
steps of cementandpebblesleadingdown, enclosedonboth
sides, darker, darker totheonly basement door leading to the

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outside. I was stillabout four and it wassummer. I
waswearing one ofmy favorites: seersuckershorts with
different pastel vertical lines with a matching sleeveless top.
And barefoot. Wealways wentbarefoot in the summer. We
were not permitted to walk barefoot on tarred roads or any
pavement. My mother and father regarded these places as
dirty and youmight even catch something from them if you
walked on them barefoot. But it was OK to go barefoot on
the farm. After all, you were walking on God‘sownearth.
There is nothing dirty or threatening about that.I remember
squeezing my toes in the sandy floor of the tobacco barns
where the dust of hanging tobacco mixed with the sandy
ground and the oasis of the barn were cool enough to
alleviatethesummerheat. We would play in these barns,
squirming on our stomachs beneath the lowest tier of
hanging drying tobacco. No, we weren‘t supposed to be
there.Itwas alright to playthere whenthe tobacco wasgone,
butwhat was the fun in that? It was like the corn fields. We
weren‘t supposed toplay there either, but itwasjust too much
funchasingeach other through the rows of corntall enough to
hide smallchildren. And the silt. Mixed with your
perspiration, it itched like the devil.But it didn‘tstop us.

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Why Ichose to leandownto pick up that little green car
instead of going to the step below it,I will neverknow.
Perhapsitwas justthe foolishness of a child. Had I not beena
child, it would have been just plain stupid. Anyway, I leaned
down—and kept going. DownI tumbled on the unforgiving
pebbled, dank stepsto the basement dooritself to land in the
damp leaves surrounding the drain. The miasma was
dankand musty. Idon‘tremembercrying orany pain. Iamsure
another came out tohandle what musthavebeen a harrowing
experience for achild that young. It is the only possible
explanation. And when I look back now I can see the lapses
of time and that someone had comeout to deal with
asituation I could not as a child.
My mothertold me later that she and my father decided
to take me to the doctor after Ihad beenwalking around for a
weekwith one shoulder higher than the other.

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We lived on a tobacco, corn, and soybean farm in
southern Maryland. Idyllic in so many ways, it was a child‘s
dream—until it turned into a nightmare.
I keep falling whenIwalk Dylan. I cannot tell if I trip
over something or slide my feet rather than lift them up. It
has been going on for years. I cannot trust my own feet.
Always on the right side,my elbow andknee. It goes on and
on. As soon as the wounds have healed it begins again, so
thatis about every two weeks. The scrape on my elbow is
deep and swaths my entire elbow.
Now I am looking out of my own eyes down at my
right arm. I see nothing else because I am looking from the
inside out , because my eyes direct my vision. I am small.I

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am looking down at my right arm, which is scraped deeply
and covers my elbow and forearm. It looks angry. Time spits
on me.

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Chapter Two
I have been switching all day long. How do I know
sincewhen you switch you don‘t know you‘re switching?
Well, here‘s the laundry list and I‘ve saved the best for last.
First, if it was the first—it‘s impossible to know because
you‘re switching and you don‘t know you‘re switching
because it is the nature of the beast that you are always the
last to know. Now, where was I? Keys. Yes, I‘ll say the keys
were first. No, wait a minute. It wasn‘t the keys. They came
later. It was Dylan‘s training goody pouch. After much ado, I
found the dog treat bag in my purse. No, it is not a place I
normally keep it. Then came the keys. Actually, it was the
cell phone and the keys. The keys turned out be on the
kitchen counter. I usually keep them in my purse to avoid
such situations as this.
The cell phonewonthe prize. I looked everywhere. Even
the dishwasher, where I found it once before. So I checked

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all major appliances: microwave; oven; refrigerator; in,
under , around and on top of my computer.
Then I saw it. No, not the cell phone. That would have
been easy. I had, in the spirit of the season, put out for
decorationonly a new green taper candle in a cut-glass
holder.
I now have half of a green taper candle. It had been
burned halfway, wax drippings frozen in their tracks.
And I have no idea when I lit that candle or blew it out,
but somebody did and no one is talking. As I have my Advent
wreathe out, I hope nobody decides to light those candles as
well .
As for the cell phone, I leave that to your imagination.

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Now every time I pass that Christmas card on the
lady‘s desk, it‗s at a different angle.

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Chapter Three
One of the truly exasperating aspects is the lack of
human interaction. The aloneness is unbearable. Yet, you
cannot expect people to be at your beck and call—you must
learn to exist by your ownself, notrelying on any other.
Others are living their regular, normal lives. They even in
their best moments just cannot give to you what it is you
need. Who or what can? An unanswerable question. It is not
loneliness. It is aloneness. And thank God for all those
people who do not have to piece this puzzle together. Maybe
it is why I have always hated puzzles.
I remembergoing to kindergarten. It was a co-op then.
Preschool did not exist. Kindergarten was the preschool
oftoday. I remember my mother helping metake offmy
raincoat and galoshes in the basement of the Ebyn
Elementary School. It was raining that day, and raincoats,
hats, and galoshes smelled of plastic.

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I was afraid. I was always afraid, afraid of everyone
and everything and I was the only one who knew it. My
parents were just not available for dispensing that kind of
comfort. My mother would often send me into the bank to
get this or that slip—refusing was not an option. Terrified,
statued, I did as I was told. A harrowing experience for a
five-year-old. Why couldn‘t she have parked and gone in
with us?
The bank,one ofseveral in Ebyn—Ebyn then consisted
of only banks and lawyers with asmall public library thrown
in(it was the county seat, after all) and could boast a main
street the length of a projectile stone.
The bank was tall and marbled and cool andblank with
mirrored windows that stretched from ceiling to floor. It was
mammoth. The clattering heels of female bank employees
click-clacked in and out of the yawning vault that held an
endless number of lockboxes and the cash substitutes that

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stood for money. Cool, long, drawling, and empty—that is
how I remember this impressive singular and most
important bank of Ebyn. Hushed voices, rope-ringed
lollipops, whispers, coolness that bordered on cold, high
ceilings that echoed all that went on beneath them.The only
bastion of the middle class in Ebyn was the Ebyn Savings
and Loan, a quarter the size of Suburban Bank, a little lonely
at the far end ofEbyn. My parents started a savings account
for each of us there when we were born and my mother later
used that money to take each of the three of us on a trip
overseas. My brother, the antique expert, she took to
England and Wales; my sister, the glamorous and talented
night club dancer, on a Caribbean cruise; and me, the
genetically prone Latin student of a mother who taught
Latin at the University of Maryland, to southern Italy,
mainland Greece, a cruise of the Greekislands,Istanbul, and
Ephesus. The Ebyn Savings and Loan took my brother and
sister and me across the waters and then went out of
business. Suburban Bank, meanwhile, swallowed up yet
another smaller bank.

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Another point of interest was the ten cents store. There
you could find a little bit of everything: It was the embryonic
drug store of today. You couldn‘t fill prescriptions. You had
to go to the grocery store for that. But its shelves were
brimming over with a child‘s dreams: marbles; jacks; slinkys;
diminutive plastic World War II soldiers, bridges (my
brother blew them up with marbles), Indians (more
accurately Native Americans now), covered wagons, horses,
machine guns, cars, trains, railroad tracks; tiny little plastic
dolls with plastic clothes; china tea sets (plastic was not as
prevalent then as it may seem). All in little bins and
everything five or ten cents.
Attached to the ten cents store and part of it was a
bridal shop with cheap mannequins dressed in flowing
gowns and invitationally posed. I often wondered why the
ten cents store had a bridal shop. I mean, were there really
enough brides in Ebyn to warrant one? Didn‘t wealthy
Southern Maryland brides go to Garfinkle‘s or Lord and
Taylor for wedding and bridesmaids‘dresses? Apparently
not because Ebyn‘s bridal shop was not only a part of my

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childhood but young adulthood as well.The store also sold
clothes—mostly women‘s and young children‘s. Since my
mother did some shopping at Woolworth, I really couldn‘t
see much of a difference between its inventory of clothes and
that of the ten cents store. But I alwaysnoticed how
mymother studied any garment she boughtat Woolworth,
going over itwith a fine tooth comb, looking for holes and
loose threads and loose or missing buttons before she would
decree that she would purchase it. It seems that Woolworth
was a step above the ten cents store but a lot further away.
The back bone of our wardrobes came from Woodward
and Lothrop. At that time it was the median of the major
department stores. You had Garfinkles‘ one step above it
and Hecht‘s one step below it.
My mother dictated our wardrobes. When we tried on
clothes, we were not asked if we liked them. There were no
options. We wore what my mother liked. She would not buy
anything pastel or white because they were colors that
would show dirt and little ones get dirty. And nothing was
dry clean, even winter coats. I remember in particular a

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green jumper with a matching paisley blouse. I hated it. I
hate it to this day. My school picture when I was ten was
taken in that infernal jumper. It was one of my mother‘s
favorites so I wore it far too often and not at all would have
been too many times for me And paisley. I hate paisley too. I
still hate it too. But it was one of my mother‘s favorites. It
crept intomy wardrobe until I had lost all control overit.
We had pants to wearat home. They werenot quite
denim and notquite not. Who knows what they were; they
came from Woolworth‘s. ThepairIhated the most was a
reddish pink. They had a waistband and buttoned at the
waist.They never seemed to fit quite right. But I said nothing
as we were not permittedto comment on our clothing.
There was a host of things we were not permitted to do.
We were not permitted to sit on the furniture as my parents
felt we were certain to somehow damage it. We were not
permitted to play in the house; that was strictly an outdoor
activity no matter what you were doing. We were not

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permitted more than one glass of milk a day (my father
decreed that milk is not a thirst-quencher). We were not
permitted to snack between meals. Wewerenot permitted
todrink sodas. We werenot permitted to have more than one
piece of chicken when that was the evening fare, although
we were permitted to say what piece we would like. We
were not permitted tohavethe chicken breasts. My parents
feltwe could not appreciate the white meat. We were not
permitted to have any of the white matter that cooked out of
ground beef, referred to as ―the essence.‖ Nor could we
appreciate orange juice (It was frozen only back then.),
grapefruit, shad roe, eggs, bacon, sardines (they came plain
in oilthen—no mustard or hot sauce, certainly no water),
slices ofcheddar cheese from the block as there wasno such
thing as already sliced cheese then, cheese or peanut butter
on crackers, bread at dinner.
We were allowed toast and soup—Campbell‘s (
because it was the day before food brand competition),
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, applesauce, apple butter
(imagine that), grilledcheese sandwiches, hostess cakes and

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girl scout cookies (the number was strictly monitored),
cereal (there wasn‘t much to choose from in those days, but
generally my mother bought the cheapest), boxed Russell
Stover candy at Christmas (the box went around the dinner
table at dessert three times and that‘s all you got and you
didn‘t ask for more), cream cheese and olive sandwiches (I
feel nauseous just thinking of it.) My sister loved them and
so we frequently got them in our lunch boxes. I tried a few
times to trade sandwiches at lunch with the fewfriends Ihad
(They always had tuna sandwiches and to this day I love
canned tuna fish.), but noone would. AndIcertainly can‘t
blamethem. It was awful.
We were not permitted tojoin in conversation atthe
dinnertable. Only my motherandfather did that, very
formally. When my brother went through his ―Why?‖ stage
and brazenly asked a ―Why?‖ question once at the dinner
table, he was abruptly told by my father that he did not
carry information like that around in his head. Itwashard
tobelieve. My father carried everything around in his head.
He had anational reputation in colonial medicine, life, and

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architectureand founded the American Studies department
at the University of Maryland, remaining its chairman for
twenty years. This was a man who definitely carried
information like that around in his head. As far as I was
concerned, I staunchly believed that he knew everything to
the day of his death in 1977. And I still believe it today.
Letme say here that dinner was a formal affair.
Whilewedid not have to dressfor dinner,the sterling
silvercandelabra onthediningroom table was alwayslit by
my father, and we were expected to observe the etiquette of
the day: napkins in laps;no elbows on the table; no objects
brought to the table;no asking to be excused when you
wanted to leave the table until everyone was finished eating;
placing your knife, fork,andspoonatfive o‘clock on your
platewhenyou werefinished eating.A dour ancestor lorded
over the room and the tablein particular. I still
havethatportrait. He‘s asgloomyas ever but he is, after all,
my ancestor, and he still sits proudly inhis huge gilded
frame and now surveys my singular comings and goings
with great panache.We ate with sterlingsilverware—my

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parents‘set monogramedwitha‖B.‖ It was a full set fortwelve
with alltheserving pieces: tablespoons, tea spoons, soup
spoons, knives,forks for salad,forks for main dishes, cake
cutter, butter knives, large slotted spoons for foods that
needed draining. Andwewereexpected touse each andevery
oneofthesethings appropriatelyand always. We ate frommy
parents‘ chinaset shipped from England, also a setting for
twelve. The set had all the appropriate pieces: dinner plates,
breakfast plates, salad plates, bread and butter plates, tea
cups with saucers, chocolate cups with saucers, espresso
cups with saucers, a creamer, asugarbowl with a top,egg
coddlers, twoside serving dishes, two platters ofdifferent
sizes, a gravy boat.
Should we go on with the glassware? Tumblers, old-
fashions, orange juice, liqueur, wine, coasters, shot glasses,
brandy, cognac, water, tea.Salt was in what has
alwayslooked tomelikelittle glassbaptismal fonts with atiny
sterling silver spoon to administer the spice to your food.
Plates were passed first to ourfather, who alwayshelped out
the meat, and then around to my mother,who alwayshelped

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out the vegetables. We were not asked if we wanted moreor
less than they gaveus. Sometimes there was enough food for
seconds, but rarely so of meats and never of desserts.
The three of us were expected to set the table, pour iced
tea into glasses, clear the table, clean it. The only anomaly in
all this was that my fatherwashed the dishes. Yes,that‘swhatI
said. My father always washed the dishes by hand (although
we had adishwasher) and fed the dog and we all dried and
put away the dishes. It is truly to our credit and amazing
that notonce did any one of the threeofusbreak aplate or
dent a spoon. We were trained seals.
Our entire lives were enclosed in parentheses.

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Chapter Four
Calling it a black out is misleading because it intimates
that there was time there to begin with. Lost time is more
accurate because it was never there in the first place. Not for
someone with DID. I have lost whole months and years of
my life.I can look for it all I want, but the time simply is
notthere. People will tell you things that happened and you
have absolutely no memory of anything even close. I
remember when my daughter, in conversation, referred to
when I was in the psychiatric ward.
‖What?‖I said.
―When you were in the psychiatric ward.‖ She began to
look at me with confusion in hereyes. She paused.

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―What?‖ I couldn‘t believe what I was hearing. ―No,
I‘ve never been in the psychiatric ward. I went three times to
the Psychiatric Outpatient Program at Deering Hospital.
That must be what you‘rethinking of.‖
―No, Mommy. You were in the psychiatric ward for
twenty-four hours.‖
―I was once in the psychiatric emergency room, but not
the psychiatric ward.‖
―Mommy,‖ she repeated. ―You were in the psychiatric
ward for twenty-four hours.‖
I remembered how in the Psychiatric Outpatient
Program, people would appear and disappear. If they
disappeared, we were told that so-and-so ‖chose a different
level of care.‖ That level of care was on the second floor, and
you could just feel everyone slowly turning their eyeballs

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upward. It was no man‘s land. Could I have requested such
a change in care and not remember it? If so, what was the
last thing I remembered and when did I re-enter the present?
It was impossible to know.
I was stupefied. I simply did not believe it. I had no
memory of such a thing, none at all. How could it have
happened if I had no memory of it? I asked her to write it
down so I could show my therapist. And I asked her to sign
it as the person who witnessed this phantom stay in the
psychiatric ward.
Lost time. Imagineitlike this: Get an8 ½‖ x 11‖ pieceof
paper. Draw a vertical line down the center of the paper and
label it ―Present.‖ To the right of that line draw another,
leaving some space, and label it ―Past.‖ To the left of
―Present,‖ leaving some space again, draw another vertical
line and label it ―Future.‖ Now bring the future line so that it
meets the presentline. Fold. What do you see?Twolines
nowinstead of three, and the ―Present‖ linehas
beenobliterated by the fold and only the ―Past‖ line and the
―Future‖ line are visible. In other words, the ―Present‖

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simply is not there. It does not exist. You leap from ―Past‖ to
―Future.‖ That is lost time. Maybe they should call it ―folded
time.‖
They sit immobile around a circular table because
everyone is equal there, like King Arthur‘s Round Table.
That doesn‘t mean they respect that equality.The table hangs
in ethereal darkness, yet they are all sittingin
chairsnevertheless.There are ten to fifteen of them—I think,
at least at this point. I do not know them all and they have
no faces. If they had individual faces equality could never be
achieved. Sometimes they are calm and quiet, other times in
disarray and confusion. They can be cantankerous,
pugilistic, aggressive, demanding, angry, petulant, critical,
unempathetic, unsympathetic. But they can also be happy,
gentle, conversational, protective, understanding, serious,
compassionate, cooperative, andmore. And all of this
without end.

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Chapter Five
Oddities. It took me awhile to understand the terms
associated with DID. I am still not comfortable with them,
and I don‘t know why. Allofthese personalities are called the
system and the system has a name. The name of mine is The
Land of the Hungry Ghosts. They arenot really ghosts,
although Ihave seen ghosts. There is a gatekeeper, a sort of
intercessor between you and the system. My gatekeeper is
Jacob. He is somewhere in his twenties, stoic, overworked,
and underpaid. He triesto keep them all at bay whether
things are going well or badly, because matters can change
on adime. It is usually at those times that they manage to
slip through and come out. They can come out asa co-
presence or they cantake over altogether. They can stay out
for hours, months, years, or a few seconds or minutes. They
can come out completely and keep me up all night. This is an
ongoing battle that has required me to establish and follow
to the letter a daily routine so that they do not come out and
keep me up. But sometimes when I‘m lying in bed around

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9:00 p.m. I will begin to feel restless. Even my body will jerk
around. They will keep me up all night that way, too.
Insomnia, restlessness. So I sedate them. Yes, I sedate them. I
go into the DID Pharmaceuticals, Tonics, and Perfumes,
takeamed, and knock us all out. It‘s worth it for a night‘s
sleep. It occurred to meonce that maybe Reagan in The
Exorcist was afflicted with DID not a demon. She jerks
uncontrollably as I do. And I knowthat the physical
attributes of a person with DID can change according to the
alter that comes out. Their voice can change. Their facial
expression can change. The sizeoftheir hands canchange.
One of the nights Ididn‘tfollowmyroutine,someone very
strong cameout. I don‘tknow whoit was, but I wasable toput
a ringthat was onmylittle finger onto my ringfinger. It was
always far too small for that, hence the little finger. It was,
infact, my mother‘s wedding ring. Her engagement ring fit
my rightring finger perfectly. Anyway, when I more or less
cameto, Icould not get that ring off my ring finger. I had to
soap it and pull on it and do a fair amount of swearing. I got
it off, but the night before it had gone on and come off with
ease. On another all-nighter, I remember looking down at
mylittle finger of my left hand. At the knuckleit was bent 90

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degrees. I popped it back. It didn‘thurt at all,but that finger
never healed quite right and I cannot stretch it out all the
way. It looks arthritic but I know the truth.I asked the
system, ―What‘s up with the little finger?? You‘ve tortured
them both.‖Then there are the mysterious afflictions that
show up in the morning for which I cannot account: big
bruises, little bruises, bruises even in private places; sore
lumps on my head as if I‘d hit it hard on
something;stretched aching muscles; magic marker lines on
my body. Andeverything meanssomething.
How amI aware that one ormore have come out and for
how long? After the first night in my townhouse in Deering,
I came downin themorning to find the kitchen plundered. Or
when I was unpacking after deciding notto moveafterall
coming downto thebasement inthemorning and finding
boxes thrownall over the place as if someone in a great
tiradehad hurled them helter skelter. So sometime in the
night I have switched, analter or other has come out, and
done as heorshe pleased. I gettoclean it up. Nor isthereany
guarantee that the exact same thing won‘t happen again.

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Sometimes it is objects thatbecomeafocusrather than an
action. Once each of my pairs of glasses disappeared one by
one over aperiod of months andthen reappeared oneby one
over a period of months. Bythat time I had replaced the
glasses at great expense—four pairs, botholdand new
prescriptions.We play the glasses game a lot with
prescription glasses, transitions lenses prescription glasses,
magnifying glasses from the drug store. AndI find them in
the oddest places, andyet in places I am sure to look sooner
orlater or places I frequent often.It isas ifthe object has
purposely been left in a place I will be sure to find it.One
popular way of returning objects, apparently, is to
placethem inanarea where I always go, and my foot will
hititanddepending on what it is, it will skitter across the
floor, usually the kitchen floor, and Iwill find it that way.
ThingsIconsciously don‘t even knowwhere they were have
appearedthis way: earrings, rings, bracelets—a lot ofjewelry.
Andall of itmeanssomething. Every little
incidentmeanssomething. Most of the time Ican‘t figure
itout. Sometimes with the help of my therapist I can.A few
times Ihave actually figured it out on my own.

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The candle is a good example of another coming out for
a relatively short amount of time as gauged by how far
down the candle had burned. ButIhave had split second
switches, too. They are the most unnerving. Once I was
cleaning up the sink in my bathroom. There was a bottle of
nail polish on the sink, and I put it in the bathroom cabinet.
Then, I turned to see if there was any more nail polish
around on surfaces in the bedroom. WhenI turned back
around, the nail polish I had just put in the cabinet was back
on the sink. I remember telling this tale tomy psychiatrist
because I found it frightening.
―It was just a split second,‖ I told him.
―And it will happen again,‖ he responded. Little
comfortin that.However, there is a general dearth of comfort
when it comes to DID anyway, and I was grateful for his
warning.Other objects—about anything you can think of—
disappear for long stretches of time: pens, pencils, rubber

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bands,umbrellas, combs, medications, purses, pajamas,
lipsticks, electric heaters, shredders, books, CDs, shoes,
rakes, shovels, notes to myself, food items,brooms, bracelets
(I had a beautiful multi-colored sapphire tennis bracelet that
has yet to reappear and it has been two years.), computer
equipment large and small—laptops, Ethernet cables,
keyboards, mouses, mouse pads, computer ink, all-purpose
computer paper, photo computer paper, speakers, computer
equipment cleaners, extension cords, surge protectors, cables
of all kinds. The list is breathless andI could never name
them all oryou would stop reading this book rightnow.
Sometimes, when things disappear, I have to negotiate
with others sothey will return an item. Not too long ago I
had to negotiate with Jason. Jason is a jack-in-the-box. He
took my favorite and prettiest pair of prescription glasses
and kept them in his box with him. He liked them too,
thought they were pretty too, and wanted them. So he took
them. I finally agreed that he could keep them but he
couldn‘t have any of my other glasses because I needed
them myself. One day when I was ―uncluttering‖ my house
to stage it because I thought I was moving at the time, I was

39
giving my bedroom a general good garden variety
sweeping. I unearthed more dust bunnies than you can
believe, and from behind a chest my broom dragged out two
dusty and dirty black trash bags that looked like they had
been there forever. With the glasses on top. Nor were the
glasses dusty or dirty. I thought about this for a long time
because I knew how much Jason liked those glasses and how
pleased he was to keep them in his box with him. In away he
had something pretty the others did not.So why would he
return them? I told mytherapist that I thought he returned
them because he knewonly Icould pack them to move to a
new place. And hehadtaken a hugeleap of faith in returning
them to me. I could have reclaimed them right there
andthen. But I didn‘t. Instead, since I did not move after all, I
putthem in a case in a hidden drawer in the piano desk with
my other glasses, and I havenever wornthem.
Ah, but Ilovethose glasses, too. So I bargained again
with Jason and asked him ifhe would accept an arrangement
in which I could wear the glasses inside and when guests
were in the house only. Ithink he doesn‘t mind, but I have

40
not yet had the occasion to wear them.If he decides he does
not like the arrangement, the glasses will disappear again
and the negotiating process will begin all over again. After
all, we all have to live together in this body. We have no
choice but to get along with one another somehow.
Otherwise, alters come out willy nilly whether it is
appropriate or not (Is it ever appropriate?). People report to
me things I‘ve done or said that I don‘t remember or of
which I may have only a very hazy memory. Sometimes the
memory is only a feeling, let alone any specifics.
Then there are the books, CDs, and DVDs that showup
thatI‘ve never seenbefore. The books are always pristine, as
if they had just been bought. And a lot of them are
uncharacteristic of me. They run the gamut: I Never Promised
You a RoseGarden (JoanneGreenberg), Sacajawea(Anna Lee
Waldo), The Mambo Kings Play Songs ofLove (Oscar H‘ijuelos),
Middlemarch (George Eliot), Daughter ofFortune (Isabelle
Allende), The Other Boleyn Girl (Philippe Gregory), As Nature
Made Him: The Boy Who WasRaised as a Girl (John Cola pinto),
The Historian (Elizabeth Kostova), Never Look Away (Linwood

41
Barclay), 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl, Edgar Allen Poe:
Complete Tales and Poems (Castle Books).
CDs? This Christmas Ifound a sealed CD called Holiday
Magic stamped ―Pier I‖ above the price. Do you know the
last time I was at Pier I Imports? When I was a teenager.
Eons ago. Epochs ago. Jurassic-dinosaurs ago. I don‘t even
know where a Pier I is. Somebody likes Pier I, and, truth be
told, I had always liked it myself but couldn‘t afford it. But
Pier I with Christmas CDs? What‘s up with that?
As for the DVDs some had never been opened; others I
just did not recognize, but they had been viewed. It is
impossible to keep straight which ones I don‘tremember and
which ones I never watchedand which ones were still sealed
once unsealed after their discovery. These unfamiliar ones,
newand old, includeThe Mirror Has Two Faces, You Know My
Name, Nights in Rodanthe, Shadow Boxer,The Ghost and the
Darkness, Abominable, Black Rain, Snap Decision,
MotherGhost,Domestic Disturbance, Star Trek, School Ties,

42
Citizen Cohn, Man of the Year, ThePlague, Final
Fantasy:TheSpirits Within, Ring Around the Rosie, Harry Potter
Years 1-3, three copies of The Wizard of Oz, and two of I Am
Legend. Somebody wanted to make absolutely certain I
haveThe Wizard of Oz and I Am Legend.And the most baffling
of all, three Tartan Asia Extreme films that arenoteven in
English (???): Whispering Corridors, Wishing Stairs, and The
Maid.
Also among the DVDs are those I just can‘t watch
because they will trigger a switch. Among them are Identity,
Secret Window, The Three Faces of Eve, and Sybil, all movies
about multiple personalities. I couldn‘t watch the series ―The
United States of Tara‖ for the same reason. It would make
me switch. And I was flabbergasted when a ―Golden Girls‖
episode included a character with two different
personalities. I felt ambushed. I would never have watched
the episode had I known. Both of theseseries seemed to
make light of DID. I found that deeply disturbing because
having DID does not make a comedy of your life: It makes a
shambles.

44
Chapter Six
When I was still very young, at night I would hear a
voice calling my name. It was deep, brittle, raspy, broken,
and husky, like the voices of people who are in their
seventies or eighties and have smoked cigarettes all their
lives. I would pull the covers over my head andhunkerdown
in the bed,burrow a tunnelfor air, and wait for itto stop.It
came from underneath the always-closeddoor from my
roomto the old servants‘ stairs. Wewere not allowed to use
thosestairs. They were very steep and covered in a crimson
carpet. Its walls were a shrinetothe ancestors,covered with
old pictures of those who had gone before.
There were portraits of ancestors in the rooms of the
house as well, brooding from their costly frames looking still
disgruntled over the long, watery trip to the New World.
One lorded over my father‘s desk and watched his comings
and goings. These portraits seemed to me somehow still

45
imbued with a kind of life or awareness andI felt
asthoughthey were always castigating me for being a
descendant, a sense that I didn‘t measure up. Then there was
the Wall-Eyed Man. That portrait was just as huge as the rest
but it was of someone my family didn‘t even know. He
surveyed from his gilded frame my brother‘s life.It was my
mother who labeled him The Wall-Eyed Man because no
matter where you went in the room, his eyes followed you.
My father said the portrait had been in a fire and the artist
who restored it had painted one eye a certain way so that
they both followed you. I took him with me when I left the
house because my mother did not want him anymore and,
after all, he was a nobody. But for me he was a surrogate
ancestor and I treated him accordingly. I talked to him,
chided him, laughed with him. He was alive.
Valuable oil paintings from all kinds of periods of art
also hung in the house. My father could tell you when a
picture was painted, how it was painted, the materials used
to paint it, its age,and from whatperiod it came. In the living
room over the harpsichord, which we were forbidden to

46
touch, hung a huge oil painting of apastoral scene.
Originally, it hung at the dark end of ahallinEaglesmere, a
vacation spot in the Pennsylvanian mountains. Eaglesmere
did notknowwhat it had,but my father did. And it was
signed, too. My father bought it from the resort.
Iwas afraidat home in my room, even in the daytime
sometimes. It was all the way at the end of the house. My
parents at one point had made an additionto the house that
enlarged the bedroomofmy deceased grandmother, my
father‘s motherwith whom he renovated thehouseandlived
there with her until her death. This became my sister‘s room
and the addition included anew bedroom, mine, and
anenlarged formal livingroom where myfather had his desk
and would grade papers; write articles; and type, hunt-and-
peck.Thehouse was anold one, so structurally there was no
hallway off which bedrooms and bathrooms were. It was
just one room after another. Our bathroom wasjust
off,almost in, my brother‘sroom. Hisroomwasthe largest and
hadtwo beds, one twinand adouble rope bed. Hisbureau was
gargantuan: wood and marble carved and heavy. To get to
the bathroom frommy room, I hadto begin in my room,

47
gothroughthe door that led intomysister‘s room—she got the
canopy bed—, and fromthere through the door to my
brother‘s room to the bathroom at the end. He took great
pleasure in shooting me with rubber bands as I tried
tonavigatetothe bathroom. The only hallway, if you can call
it that, was a short one from the door to my brother‘s room
to the main staircase that led down into the dining room.
The only modern aspect of this hallway is that you could
reach from it my parents‘ bedroom and their
bathroomwhich was acrossthe hall from the bedroom. Their
bathroomandours were backto back. The space had once
beforethe daysof plumbing been another bedroom that my
father andhis mother split in half to make twoupstairs
bathrooms, one for us and one for our parents.
Downstairs was what was supposed to be the
equivalent of the half-bath. It tried hard to liveup to its name
but it was so small that you had to open the door
completely, shimmy through the door and radiator and then
close the door before you could use the facility. Toleave, you

48
just did everything backwards, a statement on my family in
general. But, as I said, so much for that.
So much for bathrooms. The lay of the land is
important, at least to me it is.
I really can‘tremember for howlongIheard the voice
beneaththedoor to the servants‘ stairs, but it did go on for
quite a while. WhenI was in my twenties,I asked my brother
if ithad been him because he used to sneak backinto my
room at night in the dark and scare the bejesus out of me. In
general, he spent a greatdeal of his time torturing me in one
way oranother—our behavior cementedus together for years
and years and the love-hate relationship became one of love.
He told mehehad not done it, andI believe him. He was just
a child himself then and couldn‘t possibly make his voice
sound likethat.
From thispoint on Icannot besure if the things that
happened were dreams or hallucinations, which were aural

49
as well as visual. The aural kind pestered and scared meto
noendlaterin my life. The visual onesbegan early, thatis, if
they werehallucinations andnot dreams. And I wonder
about that because in SecretWindow (yes, one of the movies I
can‘t watch because it will trigger a switch) Johnny Depp
turns out to have DID and switches when he sleeps, and he
sleeps a lot to escape his failed marriage andhis writer‘s
block.The question becomes, when he sees this stranger who
seems to hang around a lot, is he dreaming or is he
switching when he thinks he is sleeping?
One of the worst nightmares I have ever had occurred
at this point.Inthe dream (?) it is night andIwalk into my
lamp-lit room;by my bed on the rug my aunt hadsentme
from someforeign country made from the fur
ofsomeforeigncreature,six hairbrushes just like mine were
standing straight up on their handle ends on the rug. They
each had a differentcolor of hair in them—I remember how
brilliant the bluewas— and one had myhair in it. There was
a nude arm and leg lying from under my bed.
Icannotexplain the arm and leg, which terrify me to this day,

50
but I was always gettingin trouble for not cleaning out my
hairbrush. Ijust didn‘t see the importance of it.Or maybe I
did but just didn‘t care. That changed after that dream.
Such events as this did nothing to comfort the constant
fear I felt in my room. Not only was my room at the end of
the house, it was also a constant fifty-five degrees in winter
because the furnace just didn‘t have the umpf to properly
warm the one radiator in my room. Nor did it help that that
one radiator faced straight through the doorway into my
sister‘s room. The story ofairconditioning units parallelsthat
of theradiator.Myparentsforalong time hadtheonly
airconditioner in the house in theirbedroom. It was another
case of the children not being able to appreciate something.
With time, however, my parentsinstalled aunit in the far
corner of my brother‘s room. It cooled his room and my
sister‘s but could not navigate the last corner into my room.
And the windows stayed closed since the airconditioner was
running.But Inever understood why my parents shut the air
conditioner off when they went to bed and decreed that we
were to do the same. When you do this, you wake up in the

51
middle of the night sweaty and uncomfortable. But there
was no leaving it on at bedtime. Finally, my parentstook
mercy onme andinstalledanairconditioner in my room. The
only problem wasthat they didn‘tputit in the windowat the
far end of my room; they put it in the window that faced
directly into my sister‘s room where the one radiator was.
Consequently, you cannotsay that my room was air-
conditioned. So I lived inthat room either in arctic coldor
equatorial heat.None of this added to the allure ofmy room.
I truly could not appreciate the privacy of having my
own roombecause it was so uncomfortable, decked out in
pine antiques—bureau, mirror, bed frame,bedside table, and
a longtable with leaves where I did my homework. I was
constantly in trouble for the mannerinwhich Iopenedmy
bureau drawers because I tended toscratch the wood
beneath the handles. But there wasnootherway of opening
the drawers. So Ibegantoleave them partly open with my
clothes sort of hanging out. This way I did not havetouse the
handles. Then I gotintrouble for not foldingmyclothes
properly andkeepingmy bureau drawers closed.I was stuck.

52
Another truly irrational fear I had was that in the dark
of night Iwould wake up to see my dead great aunt sitting in
the ladder back chair facing my bed. I suppose it was
because she became such a duty for the three of us. She was
my father‘s last living aunt from a family of eight girls. He
saw his duty and he did it. She was a tiny woman living in a
Georgetown townhouse as diminutive as she was. And she
was the nastiest, meanest little woman you could ever know.
My father took us to see her every Sunday and every Sunday
he would check in the cabinet beneath thesinkonly to find
anapocalyptic supply of Nutriment from the previous
Sundays. Emmy didn‘t eat much and should have, but she
could not be persuaded to do much, even eat. She ruled her
own roost.
We were permitted to sit on only one couch facing the
chairs in which she and my father sat. Therewereno cookies
and juice. We were expected to sit silently without
fidgeting,a realassignment foryoung children. Emmy had
asmall backyard of ivy and stone with a white garden

53
tableand chairs with white leaves swirlinginand out of the
wrought iron crisscrosses of the skeletons of the chairs and
table. Wewerenot allowed to go out there. I was neverquite
sure why but generally when wewerenot allowedto go
somewhere it was because the adults thought we would
somehow adulterate the area. Likewise, I never saw her
bedroom which was at the top of a steep crimson staircase.
In it was a fabled sleigh bed worth its weight in gold. I never
saw it, even after she passed away because my father alone
took care of everything and thus ended our obligation to
visit our great aunt, but not before she spent some time in a
nursing home.When we would come to visit, we could hear
her yelling at the nurses from the front door.
My mother told me that when she first married my
father and knew Emmy that Emmy was one of the sweetest
women she had ever known. Her demeanor changed after
the death of her sister, my father‘s mother, who was unkind,
dictatorial, and uncompassionate. She became like her sister,
and my mother told me that sometimes when one person
with a strong personality dies in afamily another will take

54
over that person‘s characteristics. She left my father
everything she had.
And so I quivered at night in horror that she would
somehow resurrect in the ladder-back chair in my room. I
would pull the covers over my head. I spent a lot of my time
then under the covers at night.
The house was full of sourceless noises. My father
would always say it was just the house settling. Ifthatwere it,
it wouldhave settled into a pit long ago. Two of those noises
were my only comfort at night because I knewwhat they
were.One was the sounds of mice running in the walls from
the basement and the other was the sound of the bats behind
the shutters, jockeying back and forth for space and flying in
and out. Many, many years later, after my father‘s death, my
mother,because so many bats began to findtheirway into the
house, discovered that the attic was a roost. And indeed in
the summer when at duskwewould go outside to catch
lightening bugs, we could see theirsilhouettes dart back and

55
forth from the house to the trees and back again. Pete, who
took care of just about any contingency on our and the
surrounding farmland, drovethem out with abillion boxes of
moth balls whose odor filled the house from top to bottom.
Fewwindows were open, if any, because so many were
painted shut.I don‘t know how mymother stoodit, but it
worked. If I were a bat, I‘d have left too.
Then there were the noises for which there was no
explanation. It is true, the house was nearly one hundred
years old but the foundation dated back to the seventeen
hundreds. The house burned during the Civil War in
eighteen sixty-five. A tenant house wasbuilt on the original
foundation. It was this house that my father and his mother
renovated in Williamsburg style. Everything creaked. The
steps. The upstairs hallway. The servants‘ stairs, the butler‘s
pantry (which became the telephone closet), the basement
stairs, the kitchen floor, parts of some rooms but not others,
even doorways. As I got older and my parents wentto
partiesin the evening, I always heard footsteps, not just
onthe stairs but in the rooms above. I could hear doors open

56
and close. And doors I left closed wouldbeopen and vice
versa when I went upstairs. The original front door to the
house had been converted into awindow in the dining room,
and it always seemed to me that there was a lot of
comingand goingfrom the vicinity of that window. It was a
house with doorsthatwere oncewindows and windowsthat
wereonce doors. And keys. Every door had a lock but none
of them had a key that worked. Nor did any of the old
skeleton-like keys, and they were myriad and stashed in tiny
hidden drawers of antique desks and bureaus, open or lock
any door in the house.So it was also a house of doors
without keys and keys without doors.
Thebasement was a dungeon. Its walls had been
literally hacked out of the rock of the earth, then white-
washed. It was cavernous with the hunks of white stone
casting shadows among themselves. The floor was cement
painted gray. There was one drain as this was far before the
sump pump. It was divided into three parts. Actually, it sort
of twisted around underneath thehouse so that it appeared
to have three parts that we labeled as the first part of the

57
basement, the secondpartof the basement, and theback
basement. The first part had an old couch quietly
deteriorating, a glass garden table with chairsthat later
became my father‘s second desk, a long bookcase of
paperback novels and Shakespeare‘s plays, an oak
credenzasortofinthe middle ofthings,andtwo farmpieces
builtby slaves on the antebellum tobacco plantation. One
was a corner cupboard with the backsof the shelves painted
adark green and the other was amilk safe ,also painted
green,with the tinsall on the outside instead inside where
they belonged. Mice had burrowed with time a small hole in
the drawer at the bottom ofthe safe and the millionaire acres
of mouse nests wasinside.The furnace washuge, mammoth,
gargantuan, pentagrulean, colossal, and unrecognizable
asany kind of heating unit except that it clicked on and off
with a lilliputian dial that measured the temperature as set
onthethermostat in the dining room above. Many
decadeslater when it gaveup the ghost andmy motherhad
toreplace it, she couldn‘t getanyoneto touch it untilthe
asbestos was taken out. So they came lookinglike astronauts
with bio-hazard head gear and took it allaway. Weused to
play inthat basementallthe time…

58
Lighting was sparse in the basement and consisted of
naked light bulbs with chains. There was one in each part of
the basement. The housein general was litby lamps with tiny
chains, the only ceiling light beinginthe kitchen.
The door to thebasement, which wasinthe tiny hallway
between the kitchen and dining room and across
fromthebathroom, was old and worn and locked with aneye
and hookfor a lock. Its door knobwas dark, dented metal.
The wooden stairs were steep—all the stairs in the house
were steep—and slotted. Every winter my father had Pete
come and plugup allthe mouse holes from the inside of the
basementanddothe sameevery summer for the snakeholes.
But they all gotin anyway. Now andthen you would see
what looked like a leather belt draped over one of the
bottom steps only to realize it was a black snake on his way
to the dusky coolness beneath the stairs.

59
The scariest part of the basement was the back
basement because the light was not at the partition but
inside and you had to walk in the dark to get to it. The pump
to the surface well was in there as were burlap bags and
tobacco sticks and white wooden garden chairs and benches,
huge ball mason jars ofwater for when the electricity went
out or the well went dry, the tools myfatherneverused,and
an old and beleaguered chest piled high with any manner of
things in the middle of everything.
It was out of this part of the basement that I
sawmyself.I was about five or six and the three of us were
playingin the basement. I had wandered into the second part
and out of the darknessof the third part cameanother me.
She was identical to me right downtothe clothing and
carried a shopping bagover her left arm. My brother and
sister weretalking and laughing in the first part of the
basement. She put her finger to herlips to signal my silence,
andI knew she wasgoing topassherself off as me to my
brother and sister. I was horrified. I was paralyzed.And I
remember nothing after that.

61
Chapter Seven
When I reached the bottom step this morning, I did
what I always do. I unplugged my cell phone from the
charger;punchedin my code;and checked the weather,
notifications, text messages, and phone calls going in or out
through the nighttime hours. Then I went into the kitchen
and putthe phone on the counter as I always do in the
morning before I begin making Dylan, my sheepdog-mix,
and Elvis, my cat, their breakfasts. Then I was ready to pack
up a little for my therapy session and went for my cell
because I always carry itwith me anytime, anywhere,
because my life is so unpredictable. But the phone wasnot on
the counter whereI leftit. Generally, I have to be mindful of
my phone and where I put it. I went part-way into the living
room to see if I had left it on a table instead of taking it with
me to the kitchen, but it was not there either. I turned
around and went back into the kitchen. The first thing I saw
wasthe cell phone right where Ihad originally put it and
from which it had disappeared.A split-second switch.

62
Someone took the phone and then returned it. Unnerving.
Ghostly.
I always leave my cell downstairs at night, even
thoughit means if someone needs to urgently getin touch
with me, I will nothear itring. Butif I take it up with me, all
manner of things could happen and have. If I take the phone
up with me, I will switch and make all kinds of calls and
sendall kinds of text messages. I find out what I had been up
to by checkingthe phone log andwaiting for people tocall
and, if witchy Carol has been out, ask me what my problem
is.
Witchy Carol, a chapter in herself. Her state of mind
always one of anger. She is the one who trashed my kitchen
the first night I was here, and she was the one who threw all
the empty boxes around in the basement. She is unrelenting,
venomous, conniving, selfish, manipulative—in short, she
has no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

63
Chapter Eight
What ahorrid day yesterday was.I woke up with a bad
sinus headache—migraine but not typical migraine was the
diagnosis years and years ago—and it pursued me
throughout the whole day and into the night. I have no idea
how many ExcedrinMigraine, Advil, or prescription Midrin
pills I took. I wanted to head the switch off at the pass. My
psychiatrist says a headache like that means someone is
trying to come out and ultimately come out they did. I
finally went to bed at 3:00 a.m., early for an all-nighter like
that. I don‘t remember much, but I know I watched ―Sister
Wives,‖ a show about polygamy that I didn‘t know existed
until the wee hours of the morning.
I changed the alarm time on my clock—actually
purposely did it instead of another doing it behind my
ownback—to 10:00 a.m. and woke up around 9:00,
paralyzed. My mind was working andwouldn‘tletmego back

64
to sleep, so I got up around 9:45, wentdownstairs to the
kitchen, inhaled three clementine oranges, and drank
pomegranate seltzer water. I was so incredibly thirsty. I had
every idea to stay up eventhough, frankly, I felt like shit. But
the switch was notyet over and a panic attack began. I
managed to make it up the stairs to my room where I
opened the DID Pharmaceuticals and took a med. Then I
collapsed on the bed and called Dylan, who came bounding
onto the bed. I lay there for at least an hour holding onto his
paw. My breathing was fast and shallow. My fight or fright
kicked in . Itried to measure my breathing by Dylan‘s
because his was slower thanmine.Again, I felt paralyzed. I
couldn‘t move.
After about another hour the worst of the attack ended,
and I could moveagain. So in hopesof salvaging someofthe
day, I dressed, fed Dylan, and brought Elvis up from the
basement where he spends his time in extremes of weather
and fed him. Then I actually took Dylan for his hour-long
walk. I hate it when my own infirmities impact him.It isn‘t
fair whether or not it‘s my fault.

65
I still felt awful. Out of it. Just about totally dissociated,
somehow stubbed my toe and fell, scraping my right
elbowandknee through the layers of clothing to ward off the
cold. Butthey got scraped anyway. I often fall like that when
I am walking Dylan.I don‘t know what it is, but my feet
sometimes slide alongthe surface of the cement, or I
somehow stumble over a crack in the walk. Or at those times
is someone else doing the walking, not me? Or are we both
trying to walk at the same time—a recipe for disaster?
As thewalk proceeded I felt a little better. Generally
speaking, coming out of a switch is a lot like coming down
off acid. You can‘t hold onto anything and youfinally crash.

66
Chapter Nine
No one knows the horror and terror that goes on
among these walls and halls. The closed eyes of statues
open. The open eyesof others blink. Ancestral paintings leer.
Everything is alive. A light blinks on andoff only whenI
amaround it. Watches stop andrefuseto continue their task
of marking time. Gold crosses melt on my neck, bent and
concave as if some great force had depressurized them. A
small black creature sits by me out of the corner of my
eye.Another races up and down the stairs, then evaporates
when I turn to look. Echoes of tears and wailing reverberate
down the hallways and bound off the ceilings. I open my
mouth and exhale a trillion tiny black figures that
desperately race toward freedom, leaving me to
wonderwhatwill happen when the exhalation ends. Will
some be left behind inside of me? Or is one gasping
exhalation enough to exhume them all? Where did they
come from? Were they already there or did I somehow
acquire them? There are so many they are almost a black

67
cloud spewing from my wide openmouth.They dancewith
their freedom and creak along the stairs and through the
walls.Friend orfoe? They are neither. They are themselves,
unaware of anything beyond themselves. They are
androgynous, featureless, clipped out of the swarming cloud
as a child cuts snowfall flakes from a piece of paper. A bang
as my eyesopen in the morning, loud and simultaneous with
the opening of my eyes. I awake to the sound of a
whispering voice whose words I cannotunderstand. I crawl
along the floors wailing for mercy but always, always
denied that grace. I cannot escape from those within me.
They see the tiny slit of a closed window and slip through
with deafening silence. My body is their body, but they do
not realize it. What damage they do to me, they do to
themselves. They do not understand; they do not hear; they
do not listen; they rarely speak; they know nothing; they
know everything; they are unruly, contentious, without
conscience, pity, or shame; they dance on tables; they slip
beneath doors, demonic and maniacal. Promises drool from
their mouths as they turn a crooked eye and resume their
tortuous activities. Hissing and shivering, they crawl on all
fours along the etherium itself. Chaos reigns.

68
And they are all part of me, and somehow, somehow, I
must find an advocate among them.

69
Chapter Ten
timothy timothy come
out and play the
sun is shining the
butter cups
say and the
daisies are
giggling
at the
very thought and
i promise i promise you
wont
get
caught

70
—E. B. Byers
When I first saw Timothy, I was about 24. He was
standing, a hilly run down from the house, by the two old
slave quarters, one of
whichhadbeenconvertedtoaplayhousefor the three of
usandthe other used as storage for a rusty collection
ofunidentifiable farm equipment, long abandoned. Bothwere
little white one-room structures with heavy screening on the
doors and the two windows, but no glass. Itwasimpossibleto
tellifany glass had ever been there. The insidesofthesecabins
were not painted and the floors were God‘s own earth. The
doors had eye and hook locks but both sagged wearily. The
windows followed suit and had to be lifted slightly to close
them.We decorated our playhouse with two framed
prints,one of a little girl and the other of flowers, crookedly
hung from the rusty nails we could find on the floor or from
among the beleaguered farmpieces in theother cabin. We
pressed that structureintoservicethatonetime only because it
wasso fullof stuff and junk andbitsand pieces and parts of
anything imaginable orunimaginable, you could barely open
the screened door.In our playhouse we ran bric-a-brac with

71
steel thumb tacks and more rusty nails along the edges ofthe
insidesof the windows.
Its furnishings included a child-sized sink with a pink
cabinet below that harbored two or three large green plastic
teacups and saucers, a child-sized metal spatula with a red
handle, some plastic bowls of varying colors, and a few
plastic forks.One of its other furnishings consisted of avery
small trunk, made for children, with a woodentray at the top
and a larger space beneath thetray. This is wherewe kept our
dressupclothes and doll clothes. Whilethe cabin itself
belonged tomyfather,itseemed to me thattheinside belonged
tomymother. Our dressup clothes were two of
herdresses,one a black satinevening gown and the other a
flowered dressin which shehad had a photo of herself taken.
I nolongerhavethe dresses, butIdohavethe framed picture of
mymother fromtheshoulders up in that lovely, romantic
dress.She was a beautiful woman. My favorite of the two
dresses, however, was the evening gown. I would put it on
and swish about and hold it up so I didn‘t break my neck
trying to walk in a gown made for a woman, not a child. It

72
had spaghetti straps, a bodice of layered black satin, and a
waist from which the glamour of the dress gracefully
flowed. I would pretend that I was going to a dinnerclub—
like the Tropicana (I Love Lucy was fresh and new then) and
loiter about the cabin in carefully choreographed poses I‘d
seen movie stars emulate.
The last of the cabin‘s furnishingsincluded asmall iron
stove sized for a dollhouse that had belonged to mymother
as a child. It had astove pipe, a little door to open for coal,
iron burners whose tops could be lifted by handles to see the
fire below.Another play piece of my mother‘s in there was a
doll-sized wooden cupboard with tiny china tea cups and
saucers, china plates, a fragile round blue vase, and a china
platter with a popular Chinesedesigninblueon the white
surface.It looked very much like one mymother actually had
and thatsheused on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter,
and for the annual leg of lamb, the whole shad and rockfish,
and a Smithfield ham. The last four were not associated
withany particular holiday. They were annual fare.

73
As we grew, we abandonedtheplayhouse and thefield
mice found it.Thetwo dresses wereruined as they slowly but
surely became part of their nests, the iron stove rusted asdid
the sink—a reminder of aChristmas long, longago. In
summer the mice returned to the fields and the black snakes
tenanted the cool earthen floor. Theyall couldvery easily get
in, not because the door sagged, but because there was atiny
door at the back of the cabin that seemed never to have
served any useful purpose. It had no lock and so we were
forever closing it, but this didnotdeter mother nature‘s
denizens.
I say I saw Timothy there becauseI did. If Iwas
dreaming or he was anhallucination, Icannotsay. He
seemedrealenough to me.He was standingby one of thetrees
from which my motherstrung her clothesline, the line from
which the freshly washed, spring-cleaning voile curtains
hung to dry. Helooked about three years old, wearing a shirt
and pants straps to the shoulders, black shoes, and socks. He
was tow-headed, so blonde was he, and this he inherited
from my mother who as a child was tow-headed herself but

74
whose hair as her life progressed turned totally black. But
Timothy will always be three and tow-headed. Nothing will
change for him becausehe serves avaluable purpose. I just
don‘t know whatitis. And that is thehardest part. Who is
here for what.I myself was always frightened as a child and
early adult. Perhaps he represents that part of me, butit
isbaffling asto under whatcircumstances hemightcome
out.As I said, Ihave never seen him since that summer day,
butIknow ascertainly asI do for theothers that he ishere.If
this sounds confusing and contradictory,that‘s because it is.
A strange realization came over me as I stood at one
tree and he at the other that he was the son I would never
have—at least on this plane of existence. I never saw him
again quite that way. He is afraid that if he comes out, he
will get into trouble, the kind of trouble a child gets into:
disobeying parental commands, playingin the mud and
making a generally good mess of it, pulling grass from the
front lawn (forbidden, being as it was the front lawn that
people could see) to put in teacups with water. Myself and

75
the others—we try to protect him, but he is afraid of us too.
He spends his time hiding inside,the motherless child.
But I know he is still in there because he likes to color and
lets me know when. Then I reach for one of my many
coloring books and crayons and begin to color. I can tell
when it is Timothy coloring, not me or another, because he
cannot stay within the lines.

76
timothy
works
with
his
hands
and
his
eyes
are
filled
with
colors so
many
colors
he
can
not

78
Chapter Eleven
There has to be a better way than playing musical
chairs with the termshallucination, dream, and reality. I find
it frustrating and frustration can easily make me switch, so I
will coin a word to cover all three, a sort of ―pick the one
you want.‖ That way I won‘t get frustrated and neither will
you.I christen this trilogy―halludreality,‖ as in ―an
halludreality‖ or ―halludrealities‖: hallucination, dream,
reality. And this is in good keeping with English as a living
language. I break no rules.
I had such an halludreality just last night. No, I‘m not
24 anymore. I am 57. I walked to the bathroom mirror which
is large enough to see yourself from the hips up. Only the
image I saw in the glass was not me. At least it was not the
me I was accustomed to seeing, although something very
strange (as if all of this is not strange enough) happened a
few weeks ago. I happened by chance to look in the mirror

79
and I saw someone else‘s eyes looking back at me. It was a
male, and he was seeing me with pure, unadulterated
objectivity. Do you know how sometimes you see a picture
of yourself and you wonder, ―Is that what I really look like?
Is that how other people see me?‖ I know howthis
personsees me becausewe were boththere in front ofthat
mirror and I could seewhat he sawand he could see what I
saw. Such a situation is usually called a ―co-presence‖ in
which you yourself are conscious and present but you
sharethe space, so to speak, with another. I have felt such a
co-presence with only one otherperson, but I amsure several
could share your space at the same time.
I do not know who it was. It was not one of six I was
aware of at that time and it truly was as if he was taking a
peek at me, maybe when he could because I do not linger in
front of the mirror looking at myself unless I am putting on
makeup which I was not at the time. I don‘t know why I
looked in the mirror then. Maybe it was because the alter
wanted to look in the mirror which could be accomplished
only if I looked in the mirror. Co-presences, even though

80
they are not all the way out, can effect changes—what you
say, how you look, what you hear. I heard, ―You‘re pretty.‖
I turned around and left immediately.
Last night I looked in the mirror and saw a whole
different person. No part of me at all. She was tall with
smooth blonde hair to her shoulders, blue eyes and long,
gracefulfingers and arms. She was dressed in a short night
gown of sorts with a tie at the waist making the top look
blousy. It looked like a Roman tunic.
A friend of mine was with me and I turned to her and
asked, ‖Is this what I look like?‖ And she said, ―Yes.‖
I did not look back again because how on earth could it
have been me? Because it wasn‘t me. It was another—new—
alter. I do not know her name, what memories she holds,
how she protects me in situations I cannot handle on my
own. But she had about her feelings of compassion and

81
strength. And no one had to tell me shewas pretty. Here is
someonewhocamecompletelyout and whatismore surprising
is thatI was fully conscious of it. Usually if someone comes
completely out, I lose time. I can‘t remember at all whattook
place or I may havea spotof memory littered here and there.
I must stop here to describe one of those split-second
switches that just took place as I was writing. It is a ―real
time‖ switch and the only reason I am aware of it is that on
the outline for this book I have listed the gatekeeper and the
six personalities whose names I know:Jacob (the gatekeeper),
Joshua, Jillian, Gretchen, Timothy, Emily, Shakira,
Carol.Another name has appeared in the list, and I did not
add it. The name is ‖Shaker.‖I knownothing about Shaker
except that I think he is a male. Those who come out
regularly and will answer my questions are Joshua, the jack-
in-the-box, and Emily who is about eleven or twelve and
came up with the idea of a suggestion box in an effort for us
all to co-exist. She is enthusiastic and eager. The others than
Timothy and Carol I really know very little about. I know
that Gretchen likes to sit next to Emily; I know Shakira is a

82
little black girl about six who was once a slave on
aplantation; and I know that Carol is a tornado of rage and
destruction and greed, but I don‘t know why.
Anyway, I always find these split-second switches
especially unnerving because of their swiftness. I have no
memory of writing that name, but there it was and I live
alone and no one touches this computer but me and I have
not given a hard copy to anyone (who might add a name)
and no one even knows that I keep track of personalities
listed in just this way or how many personalities there are or
who is the gatekeeper. No oneknows thatbeyond thislist are
those whosenames I do notknow sothey donotappear in the
list.SonowIhaveseven—a mystical number—personalities I
canname. Another refuses to give mehis name, hidesin the
shadows and watches and waits. For what I do not know.
I must stop here for now. I have already switched once,
that Iamaware of,while writing this. It‘s a cue to me to leave
well enoughalone for now. And something that puts me in

83
danger of switching can trigger a switch atany time of the
day or night. It is 2:30 p.m. now, but a full-fledged switch
could come tonight before I have a chance to getupstairs into
bed to avoid switching. Bedtime is at 8 p.m. and don‘t play
with fire. Oh,they can be crafty. Very crafty.
Well, it happened—a long, deep switch. I was up until
4:00 a.m. watching ―Sister Wives‖ about polygamous men.
As if that‘s something that would normally interest me. I
remember only bits of it.
And I remembered that the plumber was supposed to
come at 9:00 a.m. to fix an apparently contagious condition
among my three toilets. I was pretty deep in the switch
when I called to cancel. I knew I could not have anyone over
to observe me for any reason, most distressingly because I
would not have any idea what I was doing or saying. I know
I cancelled becauseI don‘t remember cancelling, that is, I
must have because he called around 9:00 a.m. to ―confirm‖

84
the new date and time. Not only did I cancel, I set up a new
appointment. I thought I was out of the switch because I had
sleptfrom 4:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. Usually aftersome sleep I
ammyself (whoever that is) again. But I was still in a switch
and didn‘t realize it. I can see it now but I didnot see it then.
I barely remember the phone call, and I had not written
down the confirmed date andtime. Whatto do? This was the
firsttime Ihad communicated with someonelike a contractor
while in a switch.I mostly felt depressed because I knew I
had to call himand ask him the day andtime. I disguised my
debacle as the existence of a possible ―conflict‖ of which I
was unaware when I made the new appointment and
wanted tomake sure I did indeed have the right day and
time. Hedid callme back andleftamessage. I missed his
phone call because I was still switching. As a matter of fact, I
discovered when I was myself again that I had several voice
messages but no memory of any calls.
And he sounded a little odd in his message. Had he
heard something untoward in my voice? I have no idea.
Didmy voice sound different? I have no idea. What did he

85
hear me say? I have no idea. How did I sound? I have no
idea. Did I say anything inappropriate? I have no idea.
Having seen me to give an estimate, did he see something
different now? I have no idea. Was he alittle miffed with all
this calling back andforth? Ihaveno idea. Did he decide I was
ratherstrange? I haveno idea. Was he having second
thoughts about doing the job? I have no idea. This could go
on forever.
The ignorance of my own self is ahallmark of DID. It is
frustrating, upsetting, depressing, confusing, uncontrollable,
frightening, befuddling, unnerving. And it is the way I live.
Mentally and physically totally exhausted. When a switch
ends, I feel as though someone has indeed used my body for
their own purposes and left behind just the husk when they
have finished. It takes two or three days to fully recover.
And if within those two or three days I switch again, then it
cantakeup to a week to recover, to feel less depressed, to
have some energy, to clearly understand what people are
saying to me—it sometimes sounds like a foreign
language—, to feel connected to therestof the human race

86
again. I often go to the Weis grocery store in the plaza where
Ilive just to bearound otherhumans, justto havethechance
tosmile at someone ortomakethem laugh. I can get quite
chatty.Weis is one of the few places I feel safe. It caters to the
residents of the planned community in which I live. Their
employees get used to seeing youand smile when you pass.
They may even stop their work and hold a conversation
with you. No, theirpricesare not the rock bottom ones you
findat Aldi‘s or Wegman‘s or Walmart. But price has little to
do with why I go there.Nor aretheir prices jacked
up,andthey run sales all the time and frequently freeze
prices for 90 days. I know my older daughter is a little
baffled as to why I don‘tfind anAldi‘s becauseshe tells me
about theirlow prices and examplesof how much food she is
ableto get there for such a reasonable if not downright low
price. But that is not why I avoid goingto Aldi‘s: Aldi‘s isn‘t
safe. It‘s anew place in anew place. It‘s big andbustling. The
parking lot isway too large with far too many carsin it. And I
wouldn‘t dareleaveDylan in the carwhile I went in. It‘s not
safe and he knows it,too, because hebarks and barksif I leave
him in the car inanunfamiliar place. At Weis he quietly lies
down on the back seat for as long as it takes me to do my

87
business. There is a pharmacy there, too, and a bank;
accommodations to pay your utility and charge card bills;a
Red Box;gift cards; greeting cards; DVDs and CDs; books;
magazines; bubble gum machines;a ‖try-and-pick-up-a-
furry-plaything-with-our-hook-that-is-designed-to-prevent-
it‖ machine; a community board;large, long black shades
toblock the sunfrom customers‘ eyes; andan ATM.
Asfarasthe ATM goes, I hadto turn my card over to my
daughter long ago becausesomeone kept pulling too much
money out of my bank account. I also had to relinquish all
my credit cards because someone spent far too much money
online. I have a CareCredit card good at about eight specific
placeslisted by name in the brochure: the vet I go toand the
dentist Igo to. Itisnot carte blanche. That ship has sailed.
I do not try to make new friends anymore because
sooner or later they begin to notice something is odd,
something they can‘t quite put their finger on, and they
begin to avoid me. I don‘tknow, either, what the oddity is
that they pick up on. Some people see me coming tenmiles
away. Some former close friends wander off and never

88
come back. And that hurts. It is better not to try. It is better
to find a safe way to live in this world of strangers and
strange places.
It is better to go to Weisthan to Aldi‘s.

89
Chapter Twelve
At one point my parents decided to take me to a child
psychologist. Why, I am no longer sure nor is there anyone
left living to ask, but they each had their own battles with
mental illness. A life-long curse, a genetic predisposition, a
hallmark passed down from generation to generation. And
all three of us inherited it though that did not become clear
until we were much older.It is to myparents‘ credit that they
were open-minded enough to take their child to a
psychologist in a time when that kind of treatment waslittle
understood. I attribute it to their extensive education and
therefore open-mindedness. I don‘t know if the psychologist
helped me with whatever was amiss, but take me they did.
My father‘s experience with mental illness was a
debilitating depression. He told my mother before he
married her—to his credit—that he had been
psychoanalyzed when he fell into a dark pit of depression

90
during which he did not even get out of bed. My mother
fought her own demons as well. I can still see the
prescription bottles all in a line—maybe seven or eight of
them—on the top shelf of her closet, far from reach. She
suffered from depression and anxiety and regularly saw a
psychiatrist, but other than talk therapy the only available
medications were tranquilizers.Anti-depressants were
decades away.
I remember what seems like only one appointment, but
as I said, there is no one left to ask about it. I remember a
sprawling development with sprawling houses and
sprawling trees. It was fall and the ground was covered with
large, brittle leaves that swished about your feet as you
walked. It was a cloudy day. It sounds as though it must
have been in November, and I was probably six or so.
The story of the appointment was actually rather
amusing. My parents waited outside while I went with the
psychologist into his home office. He invitedmeto sitas

91
heclosed the door—or attempted to. Hekept pushing it and
waiting for a click that stubbornly would not happen and
finally gave up leaving the door a tiny slitopen. He sat down
then and began.
―This room is completelysound-proof and anything we
say in here can‘t beheard by anyone.‖
I remember looking over at the door that refused to
close completely and decided right then and there that I
wasn‘t going to tell him a thing. My visit or visits consisted
of lots of ink blots, I guess since I wouldn‘t talk. It wasjust
one after another until my creative abilities were exhausted.
The diagnosis, apparently, was that Iwaslonely, not
much of a stretch of the imagination since we lived on a
remoteSouthernMaryland tobacco farm surrounded by other
tobacco farms as far as you could see. He suggested a
pet,andmy parents must have asked me what petI would
like. I said a cat. My father, however, did not like cats. He
was strictly a dog person. So we wentthrough anumber of

92
―pets‖ until my mother put her foot down. There wasthe
requisite hamster (with a nasty bite) andthen acompanion
hamsterso the firsthamster,likeme, would not belonely. Then
came thebirds. Parakeets for me and finches for my
sister,who apparentlybenefitted from mypsychological
problems. In summer we werealways catching lightening
bugs in jarsand then letting them go. Summer also brought
the undulating tobacco worm,bulbous with its redhorn on
its head, forever chomping the tobacco. Tobacco is alabor-
intensivecrop, and tobacco wormsdon‘t help as they haveto
be picked off by hand, even if you have to get down on your
knees to check the lower leaves near the soil. Otherwise,
they are capable of ruining an entire field of
tobacco.Mankind has yet to construct a machine ablepick
tobacco worms for him. The worms themselves were rather
fearful, but we‘d capture themtoo and keep them in jars with
grass (I guess no one told us that tobaccoworms eat
TOBACCO), and foil twisted about the top punched with
holes for the ill-fated worms to breathe. But generally, wedid
notkeepthem long—surely to my father‘s chagrin,being ashe
was atobacco farmer.

93
And so we wentonthrough the parade of pets, natural
and otherwise.And I remember blowing the shells of seeds
from bird seed cupsuntil Igotdown to what seed was truly
left. Then you couldrefill the cups. I‘m sure this was my
father‘s training in the care of parakeets. I found it laborious
to cleanthe cage as itcalled for a lot of scrubbing off of feces
and I was not so fond of the birds to begin with. And the
feces were everywhere—on the perches, on the sides of the
seed cups, on the bottom of the cage.
Then one dayI came home from school and found one
of my two parakeets dead on the bottom of the cage.I
remember crying. I remember notunderstandingthe concept
ofdeath. I remember how stiff its little body was and
howblue its feathers. It wasthe first timeIhad held either of
those birds because they were, well,hostile and bit me a
number of times when I put my handin the cage in an effort
to teach them to sit on myfinger. I was also confused
concerningthe matter oftalkingbirds and was told that
parakeets, like parrots, could be taught to talk. Mine never
said a word.

94
When my mother told me the story of the
psychologist‘s diagnosis and the fact that no cat was
anywhere on the horizon, she confronted my father after all
the failed attempts at other pets.
―Richard, the child wants a cat. Get her a cat.‖
And he got me not one cat but two. Tom and Miss
Tabitha wenamed them until the vet pointed out that Miss
Tabitha was not a Miss, and so we called him Tab after that.
He was askittish cat andTom justthe opposite and was later
cornered in a barn and killed byoneofmy father‘s German
Shepherdsthat was half wild and spent most of his time
tryingto getout of the back yard. The firstattempt to tame
him was to chain him withalong chain inside the fence. Then
one day we looked outthe kitchen window that overlooked
the fenced backyard to see him strandedontop of one of the
posts, unableto move up or down. When that didn‘t work,
he tried to squeeze himself through the squares of the wire

95
fence and gothishead caughtthere. My father had to resort to
clippers to free him.Finally, in requiem,heand the post to
which he was chaineddisappeared altogether.The consensus
was that he went feral because there were a few
sightingsafter that. His name was Major, and there are all
kinds of jokes you can come up with over that.

96
Chapter Thirteen
Between my psychological pursuits and a horse
accident, thebusiness of life carried on.School;searing
summers;arcticwinters; the snow storm of the century;
record highs; record lows; drought; summer storms; flash
flooding; the tail end of hurricanes; Christmases come and
gone; birthday cakes from The Rolling Pin Bakery and
peppermint ice cream;backyard birthday parties using the
long, white folding table from the basement with the paint
chipping off;dry wells;burning barns; no water;
laundromats;swimming pools of the rich and famous in the
circles of Ebyn society; swimming lessons in Ebyn where the
teacher held my head under the water for so long I thought I
would surely expire.
And the parties. My parents saidthey operated on the
fringes of Ebyn society, but it seemedtomethatthey notonly

97
hosted a hostof parties themselves but wentto a host of
parties as well.
In this pocket of tobacco farms, a whole other way of
life was being lived. No one would ever believe that in the
sixtiessuch an opulent and genteel society still existed
anywhere in a changing psychedelic, war-torn, and
protested world. Surely my father knew full well how
riotous a change in society was taking place. I‘m sure he
witnessed it every day that he went to work to teach at the
University of Maryland. But he never brought it home to us.
Out of it all what he allowed to siphon off to us was the civil
rights movement. I can remember my mother rolling the TV
to the doorway to the kitchen so she could watch the news
as she cooked dinner. I remember that it was a full year
before we went into Washington, called ―town‖ by Southern
Maryland society. The remnants of the upheaval blared out
to us into the car windows and a pall hung over the entire
city as it licked its wounds. Whole blocks of stores were
boarded up with black graffiti still trying to send a message.
The black denizens of Washington slinked along the

98
sidewalks, looking frequently over their shoulders as if they
did not really believe it was all over, that a President, an
Attorney General, and a powerful civil rights leader had not
died in vain.
But Vietnam? Veterans blamed by a misguided society
for a war they were drafted to fight in? Psychedelic drugs?
Marijuana? Woodstock? Tie died T-shirts? The awakening of a
society spread through a renaissance in music? No, we never
heard of Cream; The Yard Byrds; Bob Dylan; Joan Baez; Jimi
Hendrix; Janis Joplin; Jefferson Airplane; Iron Butterfly;
Procol Harem; Seals and Crofts; Simon and Garfunkle; Todd
Rungren; The Troggs;Arlo Guthrie; Deep Purple; Jethro Tull;
The Rolling Stones; Jonathan Edwards; Peter, Paul, and
Mary; The Mamas and Papas—an endless, breathless list to
which I was not introduced until the mid-seventies. In the
sixties the closestwe got to this monumental shiftinmusic
embracing an entire world was the Beatles, ―Laugh In,‖ “The
Monkeys,”“The Sonny and Cher Show,‖and transistor radios
that couldn‘t lock on to a radio airwave for all the batteries
in the universe. One Christmas in the midst of the British

99
Invasion we three each got Beatles‘ wigs. I think it was the
same Christmas we each got Mexican jumping beans and
slinkys. I buried myself in Nancy Drew Mysteries and my
mother‘s old books she too had read as a child: PollyAnna,
Plain Jane and Pretty Betty, Sunny Farms.
I also took my first excursion into Latin. My mother
taught Latin, and I asked her one summer to teach it to me. I
was seven. Now I‘m 57, and I stillstudy itonmy own. I
remember once when someone foundout that one of my
majors was Latin they asked with a belly laugh if I read
Latin before bed. I kept my mouth shut because the truth is I
did and I do. I pull out my Wheelock’s Latin and the Jenny
series First, Second, Third, and Fourth Year Latinat
regularintervalsbecause ittook too longto learn itto forget it
now.
The backdrop of this was a genteel Southern Maryland
society, rumors of whichreached even the highest of
Washingtonsociety. The parties could not be equaled. When

100
we were youngadults,we started getting invitations to
parties,but most ofour experience in Ebyn society was our
parents‘own parties.Sometimes there were overone
hundredguests. Fences were taken down so that guests
could park in the fields and walk to the blue stone circle in
front of the house. Farmhands directed traffic.
In summer it did not matter how many guests you
could fit into your house because you could hold your party
outside on the lawns, serving guests hors d'oeuvres and
drinks from outdoor bars.
The cocktail hour was well over an hour because you
never arrived at a party at the time specified on the
invitation. You came a good twenty minutes if not a half-
hour later. It simply was not good manners to show up on
time (and I wonder why we were always late for everything).
But even this leeway was not enough time for my mother to
get ready. I remember oncestanding in the little hallway off
which my parents‘ bedroom and bathroom were in my pink-
flowered crinoline party dress, white anklets, and patent
leather shoes. Suddenly, my mothercamerunningoutofher

101
bedroom in her slip. She stopped abruptly,looked at me, and
said, ―I don‘t know what it is! I always start getting ready on
time!‖ My poor mother. She was destined to belate
everywhere allherlife. Is that karma?
Anyway, to stop the gap she always sent the three of us
to the slate walkway to greet guests whose names we could
never remember, we were so young. I was terrified of all
these strangers who seemed miraculously to know who I
was, yet I did not know who they were. So we just smiled
and shook hands and said, ―How do you do?‖ and generally
exercised the mannerswehad beentaught with the rigor of a
marine sergeant. When my mother finally came out,
ourmaidCoral was tasked with guiding us through the
crowd tosay ―hello‖ to guests, after which she took us
upstairs to go to bed soonafter. As we grew, we were
allowed to stay longer and evenhavesomehors d'oeuvres.
The caterers in their black dresses and white aprons bobbed
through the crowd with silvery trays of biscuits with
Smithfield ham, biscuits stuffed with crab meatand melted
cheese on top, tiny circles of mayonnaised crustless bread

102
with cucumber slices. Women in short white cotton gloves
and netted pillbox hats of pastel hues stood in chattering
circlets as they fanned their bosoms with white
monogrammed handkerchiefs. Men in summer suits and ties
carried totheir wives drinks from the outdoor bars where
black caterers in black suits and white bowties stood behind
tables covered in white linen cloths. Ice clattered into glasses
to make highballs, scotch and sodas, manhattans, old
fashioneds, martinis, bourbon and ginger ales, whiskey
sours, and white wine. Bowls of peanuts lined the corners of
the bars next to piles of white linen cocktail napkins.Guests
stood jovially in line for their alcoholic beverages.
After a while a white-aproned black woman would
emerge to announce that the food was ready, and everyone
headed slowly for the house or tent.And whether the food
was lodged in a house or beneath a tent, the same tables
groaned beneath the weight of their fare: steamship rounds
of beef; crab fondue; ham; beaten biscuits and rolls; blocks of
cheddar, limburger, brie, swiss, blue, colby jack, gruyère,
and gouda cheeses with sesame seed, water, Ritz, Club, and

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Townhouse crackers; curried egg, French onion, clam, crab,
and artichoke dips; bowls of macadamia, cashew, and pecan
nuts. Confections stood on their own: macaroons,
shortbread, sugar, and chocolate cookies; peanut butter and
dark or white chocolate brownies; petit fours and a host of
pastries; mounds of fresh strawberries dipped in
confectioner‘s sugar and chocolatePineapple chunks, grapes,
and berries tumbled from watermelon fruit bowls into
dishes of whipped cream.
Guests filled fine china plates and gathered sterling
silver dinner forks, knives,teaspoons, and linen napkins
before proceeding to the main fare. Small flowered flat china
plates were stacked beside the cookies, cakes, and fruit along
with argentine dessert forks. Conversations and laughter
echoed and droned as those who were finished eating stood
at the indoor bars for brandy, cognac, and liqueurs.
And as dusk settled,guests began to leave slowly at first,
then faster. It was not considered good manners to be last to

104
leave (as indeed the first to arrive). Their tires crunching
down the driveway tookthemback to their owntobacco fields.

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Chapter Fourteen
A yawning chasm looms before
meonwhoseprecipiceIteeter with the conniving strength ofa
tight rope walker. I do not remember coming here.There is
nopath behind norleft norright. It isas if a hand throughthe
heavens and ether placed me in a reality called earth.The
next moveis mine for I am both game piece and player. Do I
go right? DoI go left? Or do I step forwardonto that
mystically invisiblebridgecalledfaith,beneathwhich
thechasm like a volcano sputters and boils?
It is not my fault. I found myself this way.
When I lived in the trailer park, I had a rough collie
named Ireland. I would walk her each day along the same
route, and onthis route one day Imarveled at an unfamiliar
large corner lot with adouble-wide, clean, and new. The

106
driveway wasof bricks, the grass was mowed, three little
Oriental children laughed and played on a swing set. It was
the picture of an American dream. Oddly enough, though,
they had afledgling corn stalk growing at the base of their
paper box. I say oddly because it wasthe Spanish
contingency that tended to placewithout discretion plant
life—tomatoes among the hastas: cucumbers amongthe
azaleabushes; vines of summer squash withthe gladiolas and
dahlias and daffodils; and, yes, corn by the paper box along
with petunias.
The next day I took Ireland again on our walk along
our route,and as we approached the corner lot, I stopped.
The grass was overgrown. It grew amongthe bricks where it
held them in a stranglehold. There was no swing set, but the
trailer was still there. And so was the stalk of corn, only it
was grown to maturity, brown, brittle, and ready for
harvest. Corn is planted in the spring and harvested in
October. And we were having an Indian summer. The next
day of walking Ireland was not the next solar day. It was my
next day.

107
I had lost at least five months of time.
It is not my fault.
I spent my internship as the black sheep of the family at
theMiddletown Mobile Home Park,called by the adjacent
residents of Elderbury Woods Stringtown. Family members
began to disappear at a breathless pace. Meanwhile,
IrelandandIcontinued our walks and I would see crossing
the path aheadpeople Iknewwere not there.SomeI knew,like
my chiropractor, and some I did not.Butthey continued their
parade before me day afterday. They would suddenly
materializeby the side of the path ahead, cross it, and vanish.
I still livewith such hallucinations andothers. I never asked
for anyone‘shelp, did notbother anyone with the details of
my daily life.They shunned me just the same.
It is not my fault.

108
My daughter tells me that I have only six years of
money left andthatI must get a job. She tells me that I am not
facing reality and amallowing my alters to handle asituation
I can‘t.
It is not my fault.
She doesn‘t tell me; she yellsat me. Shesays she yells
becauseshe wantsme to wake up and for all the alters
tounderstand the situation. She says that if I donot get ajob
andrunoutof money, then she cannottake care of meand I
will haveto sellmy house and live in anapartment in avery
badpart of town, although she does notstipulate what town.
It is not my fault.
She tells me I have spent $8000 this year on Dylan, my
service dog, and that I should get rid of him and get another
instead—somethingmy mother would have called ―false

109
economy.‖I would still be paying vet bills. At the time of the
writing of this book, she simply does not understand the
part Dylan plays in my life. And it is not her fault just as all
of this mess is not mine. I found him in the shelter one day
when I just musingly decidedto gothere to look at the dogs. I
have never been a dog person.
Dylan is a rescue. His hoarder spent eightmonths in
court tryingto gethimback. But this was her second
infraction, so she lost,and the first day the shelter put himin
the adoptable section was the first day I came musingly
thinking of adopting a dog. And there he was. Huge, a sheep
dog-mix—mixed with something very large that looks like
St. Bernard—wild as a blue jay, totally unaware of his own
size and strength, frisky, utterly undisciplined, ready for
anyone‘s affection, the personification of unconditional love.
I thoughtthenit was odd, but I understandit now.
Usually, the shelter sends someone out to take a look at
yourhouse,but they did not do that with Dylan. Dylan was

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only one of the dogshoarded. The other was named Jagger
and the two had adjoining kennels. And the shelter saw that
Dylan and Jagger were beginning to bond and they
didn‘twantthat. Dylanwould be hard enough to place
because of his size alone. Hehadto bond with ahuman.
So just before I took him home, a shelter employee sat
me down andtold me she expected me totake goodcare of
―her‖ dog.Shesaid to tie a leash to my belt straps andmake
him go everywhere with me. And so I did, even atnightto
bed.
I took himhome andhe took meona ride down the hill
to the swamp behind my house that literally knockedmy
shoes off and I hadto wait fordaylight to find them.
Years haveintervened and Dylan and I are a boxed set.
Duringthose yearsI have trained him myself as well as
taking him toclasses. Itaught him to walk on aleash without
pulling meto kingdom come, which he often did.Ican‘t count
the numberof times he has thrown me down in an effort to

111
get away. First, it waspeople he couldn‘t handle.Hecouldn‘t
contain himself. Thenonce people were conquered, it was
squirrels. There is aplaceon our walk I call ―squirrel alley.‖
Once squirrels werenot so tempting, it wasbirds. He is
getting better with other dogs all the time—this has taken six
years—but he still loses itover deer.
It has always seemed tome that somehow my family
members donotlike Dylan,never have.He‘stoo big or he‘stoo
rambunctious orhe‘s too unruly or he lacks sorely in dog
manners. He‘s a second class citizen. But that istheir view.
It is not my fault.
I have panic attacks—not anxiety
attacks,butpanicattacks. They are so badI must takesome
medication and liedown on thebed. It is fightor flight,
mybreathing is quick and shallow; I cannotmove my limbs; I
amparalyzed. They knock meout for the restof the day. I feel
as if I amnot part of the humanrace or any other,that if I
were to reach outto touch anotherhuman, my hand would

112
pass right through them. They are not real.I am in a fugue.
Everything seems to float. I am removed, setaside, shifted. I
stay in my house except to walk Dylan because I know that
if I run across even a neighbor I may start to stutter so badly
I can‘t speak. It is not only embarrassing. It is humiliating.
It is not my fault.
And every time this happenswho comes boundingup
the steps andjumps on the bed with me? Yes, Dylan. He
knows. And I try toregulate my breathingwithhis inan effort
tocalmdownsome. And for somereason he always liesdown
with his butt inmy face, panting obliviously. And I holdonto
him.
Yes, he is big. Yes, he hashealth issues. Yes, I spent
thousands of dollars on him when he recently got sick and
they couldn‘t figure out what was wrong withhim.And yes,
he is very much a psychiatric servicedog. And yes, I need
him.

113
It is not myfault.
My daughter tells me she is terrified. Shetells methat
she and her husband are trying to figure out how to keep her
paternal grandmother with whom they live in her own
house through her impending old age. Shetellsme that she
let it slip,the management of mymoney, and the person
before her also.
It is notmy fault.
As for taking careofher grandmother, that part of the
family seemssomewhatconfused about how it is done with
the various generations. Theway it works is that the children
take care of the parents,notthe grandparents. Theyare the
duty of their children.
It is not my fault.

114
Even though she says this all terrifies her, there is
nothing moreharrowingthan a Baptist atwork.
It is not my fault.
I do not understandthe Baptistreligion except
academically. Even though one of my majors was religion
with a concentration in Buddhism, there was no escaping the
requisite courses on Christianity—one on Catholicism and
one on Protestantism. What a glory of boredom they were! I
had hadmy fill of Christianity bythen.Since early childhood
wehad allthreegone bothto Sunday school and church every
single Sunday.The only person allowed to occasionally skip
this onerous burden was my father. Whywas never
explained and we were not to commentupon it.
It is not my fault.

115
Not only church and Sunday school did weattendto but
also to the Lenten box into which wewere expected to
deposit money from our allowanceseach of the forty days of
Lent. At firstit waspenniesbut grew with time to half dollars.
We were expected to give up something for Lent.We usually
chose candyor perhaps it was suggested that we give up
candy.
It is not my fault.
The three of us attended church schools, Episcopalian.
Andweattendedthoseschools from middlethrough high
school. My sister and I attended anEpiscopalianboarding
school where we were five-day borders and our parents
picked usup on the weekends.
When I went tocollege, afriend encouraged me to take a
course in Buddhism. By then, I was pretty anti any kind of
religion having had it stuffeddown my throat for so much of
my life.

116
Buddhism turned out to be a whole other horizon and
it got bigger and bigger and bigger.
I saved the Catholicism andProtestantism courses for
the verylast. They were an endlessseries of highsummit
meetings ofholy men to hammer out and
refineacceptableprayers and creeds, crying anathema
overandover,excommunicating those not among the
consensus.
It is not my fault.
Aside from that, there is nothing uglier than
agrumbling congregation with its sights set on its pastor. It
makes my blood run cold.Loggins and Messina wrote two
lines in a song: ―Go to church on Sunday—on Monday
forget it all.‖ Those two simple lines sum up the Baptist
religion and its adherents.

117
It is notmy fault.
So oneofthe children that is supposed to take care of her
mother in her old age is trading me in for the mother ofher
father, which father should be taking careof said mother.
And itextends beyondthat. Baptists can be crafty—Is it
allBaptists or justcertain people who by coincidence are
Baptist? I nevercould figure that one out. But from the day
Imarried my ex-husband the Baptist faith followed melike
ascurvy dog. And for my older daughter, my beliefs are tobe
held highly suspect, even though I too am Christian, just
Anglican.
It is not my fault.
Thewool has been pulledoverher eyes.Shehas been
swindled. What machinations took place to setin motion the
ignorance of the normal order of things? That children take

118
care of their parents andparents take care of their own
parents?It has been so timeimmemorial yet in the space of a
few weeks my daughter‘s paternal aunts have blown itallto
hell. They have told her thatshe lives there with her
grandmother, theirmother, andit makes only good sense for
her tohandle the affairs of their mother because they each
live so far away—Montana and New Mexico—and my
daughter is so able—they flattered her into it.
It is not my fault.
Since my brother and sister and I cared forour mother,I
know exactly whatit is that they are passing so glibly alongto
my older daughter. How nice itwould have been to skip
freely through my mother‘s aging—no visits; no
attendanceto doctors; no grappling with doctors who
wantedto take heroffall her medications for depressionand
anxiety and, infact, one did once he managed to land her in
the hospital; no confronting doctors onour mother‘s behalf;
no standing anxiously asidewhile shewentin and out of the

119
hospital and no one could figure out what was wrong with
her. It swallowed my brother‘s life.
It is not my fault.
These are hard things to do. But we do not pass them
along to anotherbecause we do not feel like doing it. The
weight of the burden her aunts have shifted tomy older
daughter‘s shoulders may very well break her back.
It is not my fault.
And always, always, what goes around comes around.
And it is notmy fault.

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Chapter Fifteen
Apparitions
My mother sees apparitions in the night
But swears they are not ghosts.
I hear voices and footsteps
But wecannotputthe two together,
My mother and I,
Tomakeaghost.
My sister hearsbangings in the night
But swears there is no onethere tomake them.
And wecannot put the three together,
My mother and sister and I,
Tomake a ghost.

122
My brother hears the latching of doors
Deep in the dark of night,
But swears there is no one there to turn the key,
And wecannotput the four together,
My mother and sister and brother and I,
To make aghost.
It has been many years since my father died.
Yet, before that time,
My mother saw never an apparition,
Nor I a stray footstep,
Nor my sister abanging,
Nor my brother the fall of a latch;
But we cannot put the four together,
My mother and sister and brother and I,
To make his ghost.

124
Ihearthe bangings too, though not in the oldhouse in
which we grew up. I hear them now in my Frederick three-
story townhouse.They come asI awake, absolutely
simultaneously with the opening of my eyes. One bigbang
and that‘s it.My mother used to hear bangings all the time at
home. My mother heard and saw a lot of things living alone
in that house. And we saw some things together. There is
something that is passed down through the women in my
family. My mother‘s mother, my mother, me, myolder
daughter, and myolder daughter‘s older daughter. It is a
knowing wedo not evenknow ourselves, but as surely as the
sun rises and sets this fragment of another reality is passed
down from mother to daughter through generations.
My mother‘s mother lived for nine years ina nursing
home inPrince Frederick. It was a very good one, and
mymother used to take thethree ofus every Sunday to see
her. My mother was anonly child who grewup in Crewe and
Richmond and ardently tookcareofheraging
parents.Sometimesshe would takeone of us with her but
seldom allthreeofus at the sametime. There just weren‘t

125
enoughbeds to go around, not to mentiontryingto keep track
of three children while trying tocare for herparents.
Iremember howtruly dashedI wasonce whenit was not my
turn and a siblingand I would be left behind in the house
with my father. I cannot tellyou how much as a child I loved
my mother. Being away from her was heart wrenchingly
painful.When I went away to summer camp, I would send
letters addressed to both my parents but marked some pages
―for Mama only.‖ We would write letters to one another in
Latin. And I rememberone time when she was gone to
Richmond and we were having dinner, Icouldno longerhold
back my tears and beganto cry inmy milk. I have often
wondered since if I hurt my father by being so miserable
when I was away from my mother. But Iwas just achild, and
I don‘t know if I can really blame myself. I just kind of wish
it had never happened. My father has been dead for thirty-
seven years, and I shall never have the opportunity to
explain or apologize.
One night when my mother was not visiting, my
grandfather gotup in the middleof the nightbecause the cold

126
woke him up. He wenttothe basement and sureenough the
pilot light was off. Instead of waiting until the next day and
calling someone to take a look at the furnace,he decided to
re-light the pilot himself. It was a sad mistake. The whole
thing blew up; the one thing that saved his face from being
scorched was that he threw his bathrobe over his head. But
his mind was never the sameafter that,so much sothat my
mother had to move him into anursing home in Richmond.
He no longer recognized us or his wife, my grandmother.
Nor did he recognize his daughter, my mother, orany of the
three of his grandchildren. He would sit in his wheel chair
and point to the hallway and say to us, ―There is so-and-so.
Don‘t you see them?‖ They were all people from his
childhood and others who had passed away. Eventually, he
died as well.
About the sametime, my mother moved her mother
also to the same nursing home in Richmond. Shecould no
longer take care ofherself, especially with no husbandnow.
The trouble started there andjust got worse. My mother was
never sure about her mother‘s doctor. It seemed he justput

127
her on medication after medication. Shewas lethargic, her
mind blurry and slow.
Once mymother had cleaned out the house onThird
Street with thehelp ofa childhood friend, she broughther
mother to a nursing home close tous. Herchildhood friend—
orperhaps I should saylife-long friend—was my
godfather.He never married, although he was truly
handsome. My mother told us that every woman he brought
home his mother criticized to no end until the engagement
was broken. Nevertheless, I think my mother and he would
have married under different circumstances.
He fought in WorldWar II, made the army a career, and
took care of his mother,grandmother, and sister. Whenever
we wentto Richmond to visit our grandparents, we always
went to see the them across the street where his mother
would serve us all manner ofconfections with no ceiling on
how many we could eat.His sister had been my mother‘s
closest female childhood friend. But as time wenton it

128
became apparent that there was somethingnot quite right
about her. Apparently, herbehavior became
strangerandstranger, and shewould say baffling things.It got
to the point that when shecameto my grandparents‘ door,
they would not let her in. She would knockonthe door, say
peculiar things, and askto be let in. My grandmother never
let herinandtoldher daughter,my mother, to be very quiet
while they waited for herto goaway.
Eventually, all the strangeness culminated in several
terrifying incidents. She tried to stab her grandmother—on
several occasions. Then, according to my mother, she
disappeared for a while and then returned quite changed.
She was calm and restful. She pursued quiet activities such
as knitting and volunteering at the church and seemed
enviably content.
Her parents had put her in astate asylum where she
was given a frontal lobotomy.Her brother spent the rest

129
ofhis life caring for her because, although she was no longer
violent, the operation had left her unable to care for herself.
After many years he sold their Richmond home
andmoved to the family beach house on the Rappahannock
River. It wasnot just retirement. Highland Park had changed.
It wasclose to the time ofcivil unrest and young
blackboyswould throwrocks at houses and break windows.
It didn‘t matterifanyone lived there or not. So he took his
sister to the beachhouse where they bothlived, it seemed, in
quiet contentment. I remember visiting them there withmy
mother. He insisted ontaking us all to lunch but decided to
give us the grand—and lengthy—tour first. My mother
becamequite irritated becauseshe was hungry andlunchhad
become dinner. What Iremember most from that visit was
his Civil War sword. He climbedinto the cavern of his attic
and produced from its dark depths the antique weapon.He
and his sister cametovisit my mothera few timesand,
eventhough he was notin his natural habitat, he
alwaysinsisted upon driving and every lunchwas destined
to become adinner.

130
Beyond that, I don‘t know what happened to him and
his sister. For awhile he and Icorresponded through the fine
and now lost art of letter writing. Then, we gradually lost
touch, and I do not even know if heis still alive, but since my
mother and he were the same age, I think it likely hehas
passed on as she has.
While my grandmother was still alive and living in the
Prince Frederick nursing home andmy father had passed
away, my mother did some traveling. Once when she was
out of the country, I got a call from the hospital attached to
the nursing home. They wanted to know why the nursing
homerecords of her age were wrong.
―What?‖ I said.
―The records say she is 93,‖ came a voiceonthe
otherend of the line, ―and she is 73. Why are the records
wrong?‖

131
―Because they‘re not,‖ I said. But they would not take
my wordfor it and asked that my mother contact them
uponher return. This is another traitpassed down through
the females of my family, a face that lied for you about your
age. My grandmother had literally convinced the hospital
personnel that she was fully twenty years younger thanshe
was. As for me, once at my daughter‘s job another employee
remarked thatshe thought my daughter and I weresisters.
The remark pissed off quite a lot my daughter‘s friend
working there too. She gasped and rolled her eyes. And
Ithought to myself, ―Oh, come on. Give a little bonus to a
maturing woman. It‘s all I have.‖
It was during those nursing home days that it became
apparent that my grandmother had inherited that sensory
trait passed down.
My grandmother settled in at the nursing home in
Prince Frederick. The doctor there took her off all the

132
medications she had been on. And then she was sharp as a
tack. She lived to 95.
She had a special relationship it seemed to me with a
black man there. My grandmother was more or less confined
to a wheel chair and her friend walked with acane. When
going tomeals, my grandmotherrolledherselfalong
asheleanedon herchair. Sadly, he died longbefore she did.
We would often find her at the end of the hall where her
room was. There, the door and wall surrounding it were all
of glass. She told me once she had seen a buck there,
standing before the door as she sat in her wheel chair. She
said she knew it was her elderly black companion.
Chapter Sixteen
This morning before I opened my eyes, I thought I was
in my bed at home. Someone was knocking on the door.

134
Chapter Seventeen
Before what I call ―The Great Equestrian Event,‖ I
suffered miserably thebullying of one Lorali Flitch. It
marked the beginningof my classmates‘ shunning of
me,althoughI didn‘t realize it at the time. Iwas twelve and
attending with my sister aprivate country day school right
across the road from our farm. Students could just look out
the windows and see the fields of tobacco and corn, as I
could when I taught there. My father was one of the
founders, one of the Ebynians to give quite a sum of money
to St.Barnabas to begin a school. They called it Ebyn Country
Day School. Sadly, it no longer exists. The economy and
private school tuitions got the better of it, but I will notforget
the freshly sliced oranges one of the Ebyn wives would
always have waiting for us during the intermissions of the
hockey games. Those people poured their hearts and
soulsinto that school. In the lobby hunga picture of them all,
even though for most of its tenure the onlookers no longer
knewtheir names orhow seminal they had been in

135
establishing the school these students attended. It was
adream, adream of some six or seven people well known
inEbynian society to found an institution of learning.The
tenants of Ebynian society were dedicated, intelligent,
proud. And they left their mark upon that school in the
words of its charter.
My father was no stranger to the founding of
intellectual seats of learning. He had founded the American
studies department at the University of Maryland and
served as its chairman for twenty years, after which he
taught only graduate students. The other founders of Queen
Anne shared such aspirations, and that is how the school
began. And, like any private school worth its salt,
studentshaduniforms, blazers, and patches included.
Perhaps the long, slow decline of QueenAnne began with
the subject of its uniform. A young teacher therein its
younger days began a movement, shall wecall it, to
endthetradition of uniforms. Thecompromise was the
institution of a dress codethat included the blazer only.
Although this teacher worked the students up into a wild

136
frenzy over uniforms, Iknowmany a former Ebyn student
still very proud of their blazer. That, too, slipped away
under the tutelage of that young, rebellious teacher and a
full dress code enforced.
That youngteacher had been one ofmy father‘s
graduate students at the University of Maryland, and my
father had recommended him when he sought a position
atEbyn Country Day School. My father was unaware of this
man‘s rebellious side. My father‘s former student
successfully broughtdownallthe symbols of the beliefs
andlifestyle ofEbyn single-handedly. Andhe wasapox on the
face of the school.
With a teacher who prompted and encouraged his own
students to rebellion in their other classes and against their
other teachers, it is nowonder that Lorali Flitch conquered
thefineart of bullying.

137
And so every dream hasits boundaries and mine was
named Lorali Flitch. At that time, the school was very young
and consistedof St. Barnabas‘s church hall, aone story affair
with one large hall and about six classrooms.I saw alotof
those rooms inmytime. While in Sunday school we all sat on
metal chairs lined up in the hall where we, accordingtothe
minister,‖made ready‖and then retired to the appropriate
Sunday school classroom. At the end of Sunday school was
the eleven o‘clock morning church service. As students at
Ebyn School, we allbegan our day in that same hallpledging
allegiance to the flag and listening to announcements. After
thatwe all went to the church for Chapel, which consisted of
about thirtyminutes ofprayer. In addition, religion
wasarequired course for all students of allages throughout
their attendance at the school and were held in those same
Sunday school rooms.
The trouble began in the interval between the end of
the school day and the arrival of parents to retrieve their
children. Lorali made good use of her time. Sadly for me, my
parents and her father were always late picking us up and

138
we waited together on the church hall porch, I at one end
and her at the other. And sothe stage was set.
I clearly remember the concrete of the porch. I don‘t
know why except perhaps because I rarely lifted my gaze
from it. Teachers were always telling me that I looked down
as I walked andshould correct that posture. So I suppose that
does explain the clarity with which I remember that porch. I
also clearly remember the gravel drive from the road to the
church hall because I kept a watchful eye there too praying
that my parents would for once be on time to pick me up.But
it was fairy dust and unicorns. They rarely if ever picked me
up on time. Now Isuppose it could havesomethingto do
with Ebynsocial etiquette that got somehow spilled over into
the time at which you picked your Ebyn children up from
the EbynCountry Day School. Socially, tardiness was proper
etiquette. Under every other condition it was just plain late.
A whole construct was built around the concept of time
by my parents. Inan effort toquell thetendency tobe late,

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they setthekitchenclock twenty minutes ahead. This may
haveworked if no one knewitwas set twentyminutes ahead,
but becauseeveryone knew, everyone always figured they
had those phantom twenty extra minutes and were still late.
Labels were given to hide these discrepancies intime. There
were two kinds of Time, Fast and Real. Fast Time was the
time plus those phantom twenty minutes. Real Timewas
time as reckonedby the worldclock at the Smithsonian. That
Timecould not bereckoned with.That Time could not be set
backward but you could set itforward, hence those pesky
twenty minutes you hadto account for by beingontime or
notaccount for by notbeing on time. Finding outthe time
fromafamily member lay in semantics. If you wanted know
the time, you simply asked, ―What time is it?‖ Normal
enough. But in order toget the correct time youhadto specify
if it was Real Time assetby the world clock or Fast Time, that
worldclocktime plus twenty minutes. The conversation
would besomething like this.
―What timeisit?‖
―Real Time or Fast Time?‖

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One statedhis preference. Ifitwas RealTime you were
most likelyalready in trouble.
And, believe itor not,you could maketime. You could
create itas needed. An exampleofthis was a favorite of my
father who despised driving in town(Washington,D.C.), the
stop andgo traffic, the endless stream of flickering traffic
lights all deliberately set tomakesureyou were late,orsomy
father believed. Therefore, hecreated the concept of Making
Time. Now, weallknow there is only one being that can
dothat,butmy father ran a close second. While weavingin
andoutof traffic in order toavoid red lights, my father often
said he had to ―Make Time‖ to drive through D.C.toarrive
athis destinationOn Time. And the maddening time around
a dead man‘s curve to get my sister to school On Time,
whatever that truly was.
The upshot of it all was that no one ever really knew
whattime it was.Ghostly minutes creepinginto the clock like
ants on a trail, the alchemical creation of time expressly for

141
one‘s benefit, the setting and resetting of clocks and
watches—it was a recipe for disaster and that is just how it
all came out, adisaster.
So it was probably no wonder that my
parentswerealways late pickingme up from school, and
what was my dilemma was Lorali Flitch‘s fortune. Lorali
was the most calculating, aggressive, menacing bully I have
ever known. I was scared to deathof her andshe knew it. Her
bullying escalated into subterfuge.
One day she asked me if I wanted to play volley ball.
There was anet and ball not too far from the hall porch. I was
too scared to say no, and so off we went.We exchanged the
ballafewtimes, until Lorali began to cheat and I told her so.
Heaven only knows what came over me, such foolishness,
such stupidity, such hubris.
She walked under the net and socked me in the
stomach. I was too scared to return the blow. I remember no

142
pain but I did obediently return to my requisite end of the
church hall porch to commence, once again, waiting for my
parents or one there of.
I was in seventh grade then in a school that went to the
twelfth grade. So one scene Iwitnessed may have been
nearly lost on me then is crystal clear now.One day Lorali‘s
father actually arrived before mine. I was stunned. Not
because he had beat my parents but because I could make no
senseout ofwhat I saw.A huge black car that looked like
something from the fifties rolledup the gravel drive and
stopped before the church hall.Out of the driver‘s seat came
a huge balding unshaven man of such proportion the sightof
him alone left me in awe. He wore a white t-shirt and belted
jeans. Inthose days jeans werenot yet amatter of style but
necessity.If you wore jeans youwere ahard blue collar
worker, maybelower. And white t-shirts were underwear, so
essentiallyhewaswalking around in public in his underwear.
Many,many years hence I wastocrossthe path of another
manwho seemed to feel itwas acceptable to wear one‘s
underwear in public.

143
How did a manlike that afford to send his daughter to
Ebyn School? That question is stillunanswered.
Suddenly, Lorali stopped her bullying, promptly
picked up her belongings and slid into the car as her father
heldthe door.
No,the mandidnotand did notneedtosay aword.And I
understand nowthat sheherselfwasbullied constantly by her
big, oafish, angry father. So I must amend whatI said before
becauseatthat instant Lorali wasnotthe most calculating,
aggressive, menacing bully I have ever known. She was the
second.
Years later, I was a boarding student at St. Agnes
School in Virginia, and oneday I heard the greatest
commotion out inthe hall. Ipeeked out and there was Lorali
surrounded by several girls who cloistered her with

144
theirbodies. She was crying. Someone pulledme back intothe
classroom bymy shirt and said, ―sssshhhh‖ then
whispered,‖That‘s Lorali Flitch. She used to go here but
she‘s hooked on cocaine now.‖ I was astounded at the
machinations of time.And it was about to get
moreinteresting. Lorali entered St. Agnesstill abully. But she
met her match inJackie,who turnedoutto bemybestfriend,
when she emptied a trashcan over Lorali‘s head and was
never bothered by Lorali again.
When I get up at night to go to thebathroom, there are
all manner ofobstacles toovercome. They are alldirectlyin
front of me andto my sides. The negotiation of my travel
route through them is wispy at best.Iclearly see them as if
someone had been sketching in the dark.Wooden and paper
boxes of all shapes and sizes, belted trunks, cedar and
camphor chests, all either opened or closed, all in perfect

145
outline, like drawingson a blackboard usingyellow andwhite
chalk, as though they were cartoons. I hover as I step
forward as they dissolve in front of me only to reappear a
step later. They vibrate as with life. Their lines quiver and
hum. They shake with calm.
Every night it is the same, wondering if I will have to
get up in the darkness and navigate through itsdenizens.
For at some time Ishallsurely tripover them and be
sucked for eternity into the vortex that is their being.

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Chapter Eighteen
We cannot bypass The GreatEquestrian Event Part I. So
we must rewind to the time of Lorali Flitch to
describeanevent that hadnothing whatsoever to dowith her.
And we must pay close attention to its consecutivity because
it has surely trailed me all my life like a hungry cur.
It was Christmas and I was twelve years old and in
seventh grade at Ebyn School. I was spendingthe night at a
friend‘s house, and we were going to go to the Ebyn School
Christmas dance together. I remember followingmy
friendinto the kitchen to see what was for dinner. Hermother
said kidney and Ilooked at the watery pouch on the expanse
of the white counter top. I was immediately revolted
andwonderedhow onearth Iwas goingto get it down come
dinnertime. It was a large plastic bag and did indeed contain
some organ oranother, swimming in its own pinkish bloody
water.

147
Was her mother kidding us that dinner would be
kidney?I hadnever heard of anyone eating kidney. And
whose kidney? Was it a beef affair, a pork affair, a very large
poultry affair? DidI really see a plastic bag with an organ in
it on the counter? Or was it an hallucination? Did her mother
really speak when we asked about dinner? I havetothink
ofthesethings becausemy hallucinations can be aural as well
as visual. Theother morning as I opened my eyes I heard my
grandmother call my name. She has been dead for seventy
years, yet without a doubt it was her voice.
I was repulsed by the kidney, but if it was an
hallucination I would not have known because I had and do
have many hallucinations all the time. Until I was 50 and
diagnosed with DID, the word hallucination as an
explanation for what I saw was not inmy vocabulary. I
remember when I was in my fortiestrying to get disability. I
had to meet with a psychiatrist employed, it seemed, by
Social Security. At thattime I was beginning to wonder
ifIwas seeing things. At that time it was difficult at best to

148
keep a job. And so when she asked meto listmy symptoms,
the word ―hallucination‖ popped out.The word was notin
my Social Security application for disability. Sherolled
hereyes, uttered asound of disgust,slappedher notebook
closed,stoodup,and told metogo see my doctor.
Perhapsshewas an hallucination.
In and out the memory goes for what happened next as
my friend and I waited for dinner tobe served. Her parents,
as were mine, were intheEbyn HuntClub and had horses,
which we did not. My father‘s generosity in allowing the
hunt clubto pass throughhis land on the hunt won him his
place in the Ebyn Hunt club.My friend and I each got
onahorse bare back. Ihadhad one month‘s worth
ofhorseback riding instructions during the summer
beforeatCamp Appalachia.Whatever possessed me
toridebare back, Ido notknow. PerhapsI was afraid to ask
forasaddle since Iwas afraid of everything else. Perhaps I

149
didn‘t wantmy friend to know just how little Iknew about
horseback riding. Maybe I was being just plain stupid.
We rode up from the corral on apath bordered by two
white fences. I washolding onto the mane of the horse Irode.
My friend was ahead ofme. As soonas Icleared thefences my
horsebegan to buck. I could seemy friend
watching.Something wassaid.I understood nothing.The
harderIheld onto the mane the worse the bucking got. But I
was terrified to let go.I wasterrified of falling off. They say
horses can sense if you are afraid. Thehorse thrashed around
tryingto throw meoff his back. The more afraid I became the
more thrashingandbuckinghe did.
Things happened very fast after that. I remember
seeing abranch of anearby tree accelerating towardme. I
donot remember ifIducked.But I knowI smashed my face
into the trunkofthe same tree,pretty much smashed my
whole face inand knocked out four upper front teeth. I
remember no pain, but it surely must have been

150
excruciating. I remember notears,but theresurely must have
been a waterfall ofthem. Iremember no blood, but there
surely musthave been ariver of it. My memories fromthere
get moreandmore scattered. Iremember my friend‘smother
coming out, runningto the tree. The nextthing I remember
wasmy mother‘sface,andthenIrememberbursting into tears. I
vaguely remember acarride. I do remember the oral
surgeon‘s office andchair where my four front teeth were
putback in. Myfriend‘s mother had collected them sothey
could be put back in. I remember it was early evening. I
don‘tremember crying. I remember being in the hospital, but
to this day I don‘t remember for how long and anyone who
would know is no longer living. I remember my aunt and
uncle visiting me and not being able to keep my eyes open. I
knew it was bad manners to fall asleep in the middle of a
visit but my mind and body were not my own. And so I
slept. And slept. And slept.
My parents thought I was going to die.

151
The next thing I remember was the doctor removing the
packing from my sinuses.Ick. I do remember how
uncomfortable that was.
My father took chargeof the fallout from The Great
Equestrian Event Part I. So after the packing had been
removed, Ifound myself with myfather onAunt Emmy‘s
porch inGeorgetown.Itmust have beenaSunday. My
nosefeltas ifitwas goingto collapse should a breeze wander
by, but I guess I musthavesat stone-like, as always, on her
sofa, althoughIdo notremember it.
When I told my therapist the tale, I asked her to guess
where we went after leaving the hospital. She guessed that
we went for ice cream. And there you have it.

152
Chapter Nineteen
Apparently, the accident was the cause of the ostracism
and shunning I suffered at The Ebyn School for two and a
half years after it. To protect the four upper front teeth as
they healed into being reconnected again, some pink plastic-
like material had been lumped around them. There was
certainly no glamourin itnorany attempt to makeitless
obvious that it was whatitwas: a big blobof pinkstuffonmy
front teeth. Surely my speech must have been impaired, butI
don‘t rememberit. What I do remember is events that came
to pass through the collective consciousness of my
classmates.Everyone would getup and leave the lunch table
at which I elected to sit. In lining up outside a classroom, one
studentafter anotherwould cutin further up the line untilI
was the last inline. If there were no assigned seating in a
class, everyone tried as hard as they could not to have to sit
next to me, behind me, or in front of me, an impossible task
that lead to great suffering on both sides of the fence. In
English class when wewereto exchangehomework papers to
gradeoneanother,my paperwentallaround the room

153
andbackto me. The teacher hadto assign someoneto
exchange paperswith me.
The shunning spilled overinto cotillion, held at the
Ebyn Hunt Club, where I was always the last to be askedto
dance, the unfortunate boy left with no choicebutto
dancewith me, and the even more unfortunate boy assigned
to dance with me.I sat in my chair on the girls‘ side in sheer
dread of that moment when partners were to be picked, and
it was never ladies‘ choice. I had on my patent leather shoes,
my velvet party dress, and my wrist-highwhite cotton gloves
withmy hair in pig tails with colored rubber bands. And so
the strains of MoonRiver wafted over the Patuxent lapping at
its banks outside.

154
I wasinthe downstairs bathroom today doing my
business whenIlookedup and saw bugs crawling on the
wallpaper. Three were little round, black, shiny bugs and
another that looked like it could be a lightening bug.I looked
away and whenIlooked back, they were gone.
All-in-all it was a pretty miserable childhood. Not to
say there were not bright spots because there were. But
taken as a whole my childhood was overcast and filled with
fear. Actually, fear was the only thing that kept me going.
Fear I could count on. There would always be something to
be afraid of. Isn‘t that truly the truth? If one fear slipped
away another promptly took its place. My terror of adults I
ascribe to my own parents. They were not to be dealtwith
lightly. Both were strict disciplinarians, my father autocratic,
and terror never took a holiday. Even summer camp left its
mark. Once again I found myself the target of bullies, and
authority loomed over me in the form of the elderly crafts

155
teacher. Nothing was ever good enough. Everything still
needed to be further perfected. What was supposed to be an
outlet for the imagination, a culturing of the creative side
and how to express it became a lesson in how lax you were
or how uncreative you were or how you didn‘t follow
instructions—to the letter. Everything was a statement on
your attention span, your inability to follow directions, your
questionable attitude when told to do the same thing over
and over and over and over.
We made lanyards and friendship bracelets, paper
weights for our parents, clay people and objects, plaster of
paris faces on whose backs we chiseled our names, copper
impressions of scenes of people. This was my favorite—the
copper casting—because I could lose myself in it pressing
with the little wooden stick the sheet of copper over the
raised features of the mold. Needless to say, however hard I
worked at it, it was somehow never finished, so all the pride
was stripped away.

156
My first year of camp I faced the same the same
ostracismI did inschool. I was perceived as different and the
fact that I was a late bloomer didn‘t help at all. I‘ll never
forget one girlwith her one henchman, who reveled
inteasing and bullying me to no end.
My late blossoming encouraged her to remark on
thesize ofmy breasts and then chase me around the cabin
inside and out with a pininher hand and yelling, ―I‘m going
to deflate your boobs!‖ It still hurts, although it is silly. I
guess it was just the idea of another bully honing in on me
and the having no friends, and the arm‘s length at which
they all
held me.
Yes, I was miserable atcamp too. Iwrotelong anguished
private letters tomy mother to the explicitexclusion of my
father about how unhappy I was. I was horrible homesick.
True, my sister was there too, two cabins above me, but I
don‘tremember talking to her about it all. She seemed quite

157
content and even made it as far as counselor. All the
counselors were olderteenagers and they stood exalted in
every camper‘s eyes. I will never forget one popular
counselor dressed to go to town for the day—a privilege for
counselors once a month (the camp operatedfor two
monthsin the summer). She was dressed all in yellow—
yellow dress, yellowcardigan, yellowpurse, yellow shoes.
We were all aghast. Somewhere in the collective
consciousness she reminded us all of Barbie who had only
lately broken on the scene. It was the early sixties. There
were only two Barbie dolls then, the one with long blonde
hair in a ponytail and a black and white striped swim suit
and the one with slightly darker skin and reddish hair cut
short and swirled around her head. She had no signature
swimsuit or any signature at all. She was the model I had;
the other my sister had.Yes, I always envied her for her
Barbie doll. Mine looked more mature whilehers looked
more like a happy-go-lucky teenager. We got themfor
Christmas. I have no idea how my parents decided which of
us would have which model.

158
Anyway, even ifthere wereonly two Barbie doll models,
there were plentyof sixties clothes, justthe acceptable sixties
clothes.No tie dye or beads or scarves around the head. This
Barbie was still trying to step completely out of the fifties no
matter what the timestamp on her bottom alongside the
Mattel trademark said. She hadevening gowns (who
wearsthoseanymore?), mink stoles (a teenager?), culottes,
shorts and blouses, poodle skirts, hair bows and sashes,
brightly colored bangle bracelets, skirts and dresses just
above the knee. She came in plasticorpaper. And everyone
wanted a Barbie case, aplastic affair in which to store and
carry your doll with one compartment for her and another
for her clothes. My sister had one, but it was never quite
clear to me why I did not.
Oh, yes. She also had a Ken doll. In those days,
definitely an afterthought. Clothes for your Kendoll were
sparse and were composed mainly of a tennis outfit and
slacks with a shirt. It didn‘tmatter whatthe occasion, Ken
had tomake do with thesetwo outfits and often escorted
Barbie in her evening gown inhis tennis outfit.

159
Life was definitely simpler then. Or so it seems looking
back at Barbie dolls and Nancy Drew mysteries and Mexican
jumping beans and pogo sticks and hula hoops. But the day
to day living of it was not so charmed and those memories
will never change because they were created and that which
is created cannot be destroyed. It went far beyond science.
And so it was with the counselor in yellow. She was the
captain of the Hatfields, one of the two teams at camp. The
other wasthe McCoys and you could not choose your team.
You were assigned. She was immensely popular
andeveryone wanted to be a Hatfield,everyonelookedup to
her for their riflery badge. Sheand another very popular
counselorwere incharge of the riflery range. I truly liked
riflery andactually excelled at it earning a goldbar forevery
level Iconquered. I also liked archery andfencing. I
remember these pursuits with a smile on my face. They exist
unattached to bullies or ostracism orshunning. No
oneseemedtomind waiting behindor beside me.
Nooneseemed to mindshowingmehow todo things

160
morethanonce. No one ever said my verybestwasnot good
enough or too good to be true.
And when it came time one summer month at camp for
us all to go home and for the captain of the Hatfields to
never return as she had reached the highest age permitted in
the camp among campers and counselors, I rememberher
visitingeach cabin to say goodbye to Hatfields and McCoys
alike, but especially Hatfields. I could not seem to get her
attention so many girls were crowded around her but finally
she came to the side ofmy bunk and smiled. Like every other
girl in the cabin, I was crying uncontrollably.
I rememberedher farafter I was supposed to
apparently. I missed her. During that second month of camp
whenI washome, I, ever the letter writer, wrote her many
missives. Ido notrememberhow many or even whatthey
said.I only know that at some point my parentstook me
aside to talk to me about her, but I cannotremember what
was said. But Iremember her to this day. Her kindness and

161
willingness to accept everyone asthey were filled the
yawning cavern deep inside me.
Well, it‘s eight in the morning and everyone is getting
up but notme, Her Majesty. Her Majesty last checked the
time at 4:55a.m. and awoke at 8:00 with no memory of falling
asleep.This meant,ofcourse, that Her Majestydid not take her
nighttime meds and had to take them at 8:00 inthe morning
asopposed to8:00 in the evening. Everyone else in the
hemisphere is waking up and beginning theirnew day, but
not Her Majesty. She sits glued to season after season of
NCIS even though she has already seen many of them many
times before. Shefinds on the positive sideDylan still
sleeping, Elvismeowing forfood, and the cockatiels blaring
in the morning light.Fortwotothree hours Her Majesty
actually napped or slept orwhatever youwanttocall it at that
hour and woke up feeling as if she had had a goodnight‘s

162
sleep. That won‘t last long.In fact, shehas screwed her entire
day. She has to take the nighttime medsat 8:00 a.m. and the
morning meds at—oh, who cares. Maybe she will take them
later in the day and feel drugged in general for the
meantime. Weary, weary. There is no way to control it, it
seems. My daughters want me toget better. They wonder
why I haven‘t bynow. Well, Iwonder,too. They say you can
get allthe alters to work together and you can actually lead a
normal life. Medicare sends formsfor me to fill out about my
status and threatens to ―review‖ my case.I mean,
heavenforbid, the government should have to lumber along
beside me while I gird my loins and enter the arena not just
today but a host of yesterdays and a legion of
tomorrows.Before I tookcare ofmyselfthis morning
quickbefore reality set in,I gaveDylanhis pills for arthritis,
joints,and a neck vertebra flare up and Elvis his food and the
birds the light of day. Otherwise, the concept of time for this
day will belost. If I feed andwaterthe livestock thentherewill
at least be an outline to the day.

163
An old and loyal friend is coming tospendthe nightand
Iguessthat wasthe trigger this time. Not that anything at all
bothers me about her—in fact, we are very close— but it is
just enough of a tilt to my day to set it reeling intothe
cosmos.
Thisis how Ilive.
Begging for mercy from an Almighty God who just
doesn‘t seem tohear me. Or maybe I‘m just entertainment for
the cosmos in general. Right now,everyone is fed
andwatered but me. Oh,and meds.
Everyonehashadtheirmeds. Well, yes, including me
andpromising a waterfall of dissidence. Weary,weary. This
is not just an ―off‖ night. Thisis a regular night —or
morning, whichever you care to callit. Chaos. And no peace
either. My mind burns lateinto the night watching reruns
and swallowed by episodes airedlong ago. I can‘t stop it.
Ican‘t controlit.Ican‘t LIVE LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. How
long will this go on? My therapist talked with my older

164
daughter who said she and her sister just want Mommy
back. While the goal is to integrate, I amstill propagating
personality after personality after personality. Thereare
tennow. I wish themall well, but desperately wantthem to
goaway and leave me with the self Ilived with for so many
years ofmy life. Of course, the irony is that that self was just
the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I remember my geography
teacher at Ebyn School toldmy parents when they toldhim
that I tended to cloister myself that he had always thought I
was out looking for rabbits and bluejays. So much for that.
He committed suicide shortly after.
―And yea though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death …‖

165
Tired.Good God, I‘mtired. Not just from staying up for
anight but from just tryingto make it from one day to the
next wanting to somehow work to get a littleextra money,
what tiny bit Social Security willlet me before they cut me
off. But then, of course, what kind of work could I possibly
do? I‘ve tried the online survey routine at a maddening
paceto keep up with closed surveys by six in the morning—
the competition on the net is harrowing. I found one
shadowshopper job that seemed so promising.
The‖Assignment‖ wastocash an $850 postal money order at
my bank, send$740 of it to another person stipulated in the
coverletter, andkeep theremaining $120 for myself. All I
hadto do was cash the money order at my bank, wire
through Western Union $740 to a name given me who
would then collect the sum minus $120 and I walkaway $120
richer than before.
It sounded too good to be true, and it was. My bank
ushered me totheredupholstered chairs and
tookaninordinate amount of time ―verifying‖ the Post Office
money order for $870.It turned out to be fraudulent. Only

166
someone like mewould have taken that email from ―Dennis
Lane‖ seriously. I think it‘scalled desperation.
It seems the best I can do online is market-test Breathe
Right Nasal Strips. And there couldn‘t be anyone less suited
than I. I take Allegra-D and a prescription nasal spray. After
seven days of stopping my meds and testing nasal strips, I
can safely say they left me in nothing but pain.
I learnedfrom it all andsurveysthat you cannot make
money online.
So where doyou make money when your brain is
permanently fried by an experience you had so long ago you
can‘t remember it? How can you work when you have
trouble remembering the afternoon let alone anotherdecade
of time?And how can you possibly explain thehaunted
nature ofyour own being—thelittleblack thing that stays
inyour peripheralvision or sits on the steps to the upstairs or
flits past you so fast you nearly trip? Or the billowing white

167
filmy dress of a woman long deadwhose husband you take
care of through HomeCaretakers? Or the banging in the
morning just as you openyour eyes,or the thundering crash
at your front door that you know only you can hear because
Dylan doesn‘t move a muscle? Or the whispers that come
and go, that flit in and out and around, unintelligible?
Howmany times have I slipped akitchen knife into my hand
to check out the latest andmost unfamiliar sounds. Opening
allthe closet doors, looking under all the beds,carefully
turning the corners that leadfrom light to dark?
My daughters want their Mommy back. That is what
they told my therapist.I don‘tknowifthat canever happen
inthis lifetime and I mourntheir mourning. How I want to be
that person again. How I want to be that person again
forthem. They are at the age that you rely on your parents‘
wisdom, but I have none to give.
And just whenyou thought it was safe to go outside,
The Great Equestrian Event Part II rears its hydra faces. The

168
Great Equestrian Event has followed me likeahungry cur
throughout my whole life. I suffer from almost constantfacial
pain, merciless clustering sinus migraines that respond to
absolutely nothing—not any migraine medicine OTC or
prescription. It‘s impossible to overdose on any of them.I‘m
proof of that. It gets to the point that I have to lie down with
an icepack on my face or sleep with one on my face just to
find sleep,just to sip it infrom the ether.
My neckhas aninjured disk that causes me to lower my
head. It cannot be fixed. A chiropractor does his best, butI
still hear from my middle school days, ―Stand up straight.
You walk with your head down all the time.‖ Well, decades
laterI found out why and more importantly to me that it was
not my fault. Nevertheless, I was judged by itby
contemporaries and adults alike. And my neckstill bends
down and italwayswill, at least for thislifetime. I have told
no one of the chiropractic diagnosis because it would mean
nothing to anyone and they would allinsist that my craning
neck was my ownfault for which there was and is no
physical reason. But I know whatcauses it—yes, The Great

169
Equestrian Event. From the neck up it has leftme
withnothing but anguish and pain and embarrassment.

170
Chapter Nineteen
Nausea. Excedrin Migraine and Advil have not helped.
Nausea is one of the harbingers of a migraine. I used to have
visual effects long ago, but they stopped. Just before the
onset of a migraine, a thousand tiny spinning lines would
fan out from my pupil—it happened only in the left eye. I
rememberonce Iwas driving on the beltway and an episode
began. I had to draw off the road pronto because I just
couldn‘t see right. A migraine prescription and the visual
part would last about fifteen minutes. No treatment and it
would last about forty-five to sixty minutes.
I went to doctor after doctor, each one with his own
diagnosis, until one mercifully concluded that it was
migraine—not typical migraine, but migraine nevertheless.
What caused the confusion was that it was my sinuses and
cheek bones that harbored all the pain. Then one day in the
Silver Spring house a headache began—and it did not stop

171
for about eight hours. I called my doctor multiple times, and
he did call in a migraine prescription. But it didn‘t work. It
didn‘t work at all. It did absolutely nothing, and the
headache only got worse. By then my doctor did not believe
me that I had such a headache. Perhaps he had never had a
patient with such a volatile set of sinuses. He finally gave up
and told me so. So I sat on the couch in the basement and
cried. It was the only thing left to do.
While all this research among doctors was going on to
speculate what was causing such pain in my sinuses, none
would pay proper attention to The Great Equestrian Event
Parts I and II, which had shattered my face, injured my neck,
and knocked out my four front teeth.
Well, never youmind. But Ifind myself today decades
later fighting that battle once again. As the medications
increased over the years for depression and panicand finally
for DID, no one wantedto givemeanything very strong.
That‘s how I know you just can‘t OD on Advil. My present

172
doctor still does not getit,I‘m afraid. But then no medical
personnel except the surgeon who put Humpty Dumpty
back together again has ever gotten it.
The purpose of the big pink glob on my front teeth was
to protect them as they healed after having been reattached
(I never understood how this could be or was done.).
Medically, I don‘t know what they call it, but once the
blobwas sawed out of my mouth, there they were—all four
just as buck-toothed as the day they were born. Butthey
could not be moved. So no braces. Theorthodontist we
wentto was mostdisappointed. That was a lot of cash to
lose,especially because I was so buck-toothed. Nor was this
dentist one totake it lightly. My father, who took the duty of
taking us to the orthodontist and regular dentist, said he ran
―a factory.‖ It does not seem untoward now, but it was
unusual then for a dentist to have five or six chairs and for
the dentist to move from patient to patient.My father took us
to him because he had a reputation as the best orthodontistin
the D.C.area (which was decidedly smaller then). Actually,
he had no business being an orthodontist or maybe that was

173
the problem—that for him it was a business. He sparingly
used Novocain. If a tooth had to be pulled,pulledit was with
no anesthetic of any description whatsoever. My brother and
sister and Iremember when onesmall patient bit him. The
whole office heard it.
He was areal piece of work.
And what he did not have the pleasure of doing, nature
kindly did for him, because,after all, if hecouldn‘t have the
cash fromthose buck-teeth, no one could. Instead, our
regular dentist inherited a ten-year, on-going flow of that
cash. But he was a human as compared to the orthodontist
and so I didn‘t mind my father‘s putting money in his
coffers. Nor do I think did he.
The time came to remove the pink blob from my teeth.
There was only one way to do it and that was to saw it off
and carefully at that because the teeth that lay beneath it
could not be traumatized or hurt in any way. They were

174
expected to last awhile but what would happen as my
mouth grew along with the rest of me I had no idea. It
seemed Itook one day at a time, not like me at all.I do not
remember any blood when the dentist worked to remove the
pink glob. While I know he used something saw-like to
remove it, I have no memory of eventhe sound of it.I walked
out that day but I have no memory of the visit.
Well, it was somewhat disappointing to find that the
carefully protected teeth were no different after all as before.
You see, they were put back in just as they were—buck-
toothed. Again, I do not remember much during those years.
The only memory I do have is of a paper Ihad written on
Julius Caesar when I was nine.It was far longer than it
needed tobe, but when itcame to writing, I was always
longer than I needed tobe. But Iloved the writing itself. I
rememberin college, I would fill bluebook after bluebook
answering essay questions or even short answer questions.
And when it cameto taking notes, my friend said I wrote
down even whentheprofessor sneezed. Oh,well.

175
The class for which I had to write the paper was
Ancient History.The textbook we used, referred to simply as
―Breasted,‖ the author‘s name, was acollege-level text.
Theteacher was one of theministers associated with the
church. Forareason I couldnever understand, he was
dizzyingly popular with students, except for me, Imean.
AshardasItried henit picked until hefound fault. He had just
come backfrom Alaskawhen hejoined the Ebyn School‘s
faculty. Ithink the temperatures suited him well because
Ifound himcoldanddistant and selfish.Hepositively basked
in the allure of hisAlaskan days. Every
sermonsomehowended upin Alaska. Iwas bored. He had
astreak of cruelty in him, a streak of selfishness that
demanded hebethe most popular teacher in the school.
Eventually, however, thequestion asked was, had heever
really taught before?
Assignments consisted ofreading pages and pages of
the textbook and then in a spiral bound notebook outlining
every paragraph. By the end of that school year I hadeleven
notebooks filled with outlines of paragraphs.And I dutifully

176
bore them to that last day of class to turn them in. When I
loaded the eleven notebooks to her car to be taken to school,
my mother‘s sole remark was, ―Well, that speaks for itself.‖
I wonder what he did with them. I wonder if he was
afraid bootlegged copies of notebooks crawling with
outlined paragraphs—the fruit of some poor soul‘s labor—
would mean someone may not have to do all thatreadingand
writing themselves. It was amammoth task.It began in the
beginning of the year when every day each student was
called on to bringtheirnotebook to prove he or she had
completed the evening‘s assignment. To keep his havingto
trot back and forth with spiral notebooks by the dozens, we
each brought ours to his desk during class time and
hecriticized student‘s work openly and gave them their
grade inavoiceeveryone could plainly hear. Iwas terrified.
Once Igota C andnearly started cryinginclass.I forget now
why hescored me so low, but I surely doremember that I
usually walked away with A of some kind.Maybe he
couldn‘t help himself.Should anyone be allowedto get
straight A‘s in his class?

177
Which bringsus back to the paper. My father had paid
to have ittyped. It was a large part of our grade. But the
minister slung further terrorin the faces of fourteen-year-
olds by proclaiming that we each had to read our
paperoutloud inclass. I think he did itsothat hewould not
haveto go home and actually grade all those papers—I
recently cameacross mypaper onCaesar and there wasnot a
red mark or letter-grade anywhere onit. It was like his tests.
They consisted of one hundred itemstobe explained in
complete sentences. The items included all manner
ofthings:dates,people, wars, customs. The challenge of the
test laynot in identifyingallthe terms but in doing it inforty-
five minutes.
And so the paper reading began and like any good
Roman worth his salt I girded my loins and entered the
arena. And when I entered, heleft. He just got rightup and
left the room closing the door behind him. There was no
hintas to where hewas going, why, or when he‘d come back.
I didn‘t knowwhat to do, so I stayed in front of the class and

178
continued reading. As I said, it was a long paper,and I was
ostracized anyway. So everyone began to talk, whispers at
first, working its way to a crescendo of laughter and calling
acrossthe room. I did not know what to do, so I just kept
reading andno one at all was listening.
Eventually, he returned justasclass and torture were
over.
BaaBaa Black Sheep.
The whole thing reminded mepainfully of apublic
speaking class called ―Expression‖ that was mandatory at
another school, Riverwalk,in every grade. We memorized
famous poems given to us with slash marks where we
wereto pause in our recitation of it.The school was run by a
Major who specialized in humiliation. You had to stand up
in front of the class and followprotocol. That is, you were to
rise from your seat, go to thefront center of the room, turn
around, putyour feet together, look down atthem briefly,

179
look up, and begin reciting. I was always nearly paralyzed
with fear, until someone told me to pick a spot on the wall
above all the other students‘ heads and recite. It helped. I
remember one poem in particular: ―If‖ by Rudyard Kipling.
And that is exactly the way you were to begin. Then you
paused and wereexpected to knowevery slash mark that
indicated a pause. Heaven forbid you should forget a pause,
line, orworse, not bother to memorize it at all and still have
the foolishness to stand up and try. TheMajorseldom helped
you inyour recitation,but he could be especially acrid in
response a lesson undone.
When getting offand on the bus girls had to curtsy and
boys click their heels and shake hands with the Major. One
day I arrived with two little pins on my lapel—two yellow
eggs hatching birds. When the Major saw it, he asked me,
―So what areyou? A four star general?‖ Theincident has
stuck with me all these years. The lapels were saved for
Certification bars that indicated your average.The rest of the
uniform consisted ofmaroon jumpers (trousers for the boys)
and blazers with Riverwalk‘s coat of arms emblazoned upon
its front pocket, gray socks whose only nod to warmer

180
weather was to begin wearing anklets and not knee highs, a
white blouse, and saddle shoes you were expected to clean
and polish with—what was it? White typing correction
fluid? Paint?Whatever it was, it was fluid.
The upper grades, girls only, wore light blue shirt-waist
dresses that were very pretty, not at all like the uniform of
the lower grades. It only made you feel worse.
Riverwalk was also a boarding school for boys only.
Their white dormitories looked like barracks. The main
building,however, was amansion built in the 1920‘s. It was
my brother whotoldme,when we visited many years after
theschool shut down, that you could tell itsage by its
decorative windows, which were stained glass with
symbols, patterns, and pictures associated with the rooms.
TheoneI remember the best is the diningroom: Its window
had wine cupsand grape vines swirling here
andthereandeverywhere. Perhaps it was the Roman in me,
the budding Latin student, who sees now a connectionwith
Bacchus,the Roman god of wine.
We ate lunch in the dining room at round tables with
white linen table clothes andnapkins. We were served by the

181
kitchen staff, all dressed inwhite.A teacher presided
overevery table. On Wednesdays we ate lunchon the back
porch—hot dogs and potato chips. The porch was as lordly
asthehouse, a portico, sloping to the waterfrom which it took
its name, Riverwalk.
Getting introuble wasserious business. You got
paddled. You bentover in front of your classandtheMajor
gaveyou a stinging paddle. Theboyshad tolift their blazers
for this to be accomplished.
Sixty was failing. I can still seethe little red circle
around my math grade in fifth grade. And I remember how
it gotthere. The math teacher like a drill instructor fired
questions to students and ifyou could not answer, she called
out ,‖Conditionals!‖ That meant you had to go to math class
instead of being able to go to athletics at the end of the day.
It was during my tenure at Riverwalk that I received
the English assignment that made me realize I could write.
Oddly enough, the English teacher at Riverwalk ended up as
the English teacher at Ebyn School.

182
Riverwalk was afamily project. You had the Major, who
ran the school and taught the thrice dreaded class
―Expression‖; his reclusive wife, who hovered ghostlike in
the halls leading to the Major‘s and her private quarters; his
son the Captain, who ran the elementary grades; his
daughter, who taught French; and herhusband whose music
class totally confounded me. His wife‘s French class wasnot
much better. The final exam consisted of her recording
yourrecitation ofsomething in French andthen her playing it
back as she criticized you openly in front of the whole class.
Shewould then announce your grade to all.
How did I ever make itthrough that school? Riverwalk was
how I ended up atEbyn Country Day School muchlike the
English teacher. How was I to know that the cruel, merciless
rules of behavior at Riverwalk would lead me to seventh
grade at Ebyn and the beginning of a lifetime of ostracism
and shunning?
Baa Baa Black Sheep.

183
And all over some teeth.
When all was said and done, it was for meimpossible to
assess just how much money my father spent over those
tenyears.I rememberbeing at a lawyer‘s office and the lawyer
relentlessly asking me if I hit abranch I saw coming or the
trunk of the tree. I didn‘t know, so that‘s all I could say, but
the lawyer pressed on until my father waved his hand and
told the lawyer to stop. I never knew the outcome of that
interview—or perhaps I did but just don‘t remember.
Everything is so uncertain when you have DID.
Who knows how much the lawyer cost on top of twelve
years of dentistry? I was constantly at the dentist, and a trip
to the beach heralded itsbeginning.

184
Chapter Twenty
Just before our teens,my mother started taking my
brother and sister and Ito the beach every August. She loved
the beach and loved sitting under the umbrella reading.
Mybrother and sister and Ibody-surfed the days away. The
three of us had a blast on those trips. The first such one we
took was with our closest cousins. They were five and we
were four. My andmy cousins‘ mothers rented a townhouse
not far from the ocean. Our cousins occupied theupstairs
and we had the efficiency below. Four you could fit in there
and no more. I remember stopping on the way to Bethany
beach forgroceries—perishables, because my mother
brought with us any unperishables.It was cheaper. The
resort grocery stores were expensive. I remember setting out
atsome ungodly hour to avoid the horrific traffic crossingthe
BayBridgein the summerseason. Everyonewas headed to the
same places: Dewey Beach, Rehoboth Beach, Bethany Beach,
Frederick Beach,and finally the most hallowed—Ocean City.
We would have breakfastonthe otherside and,for the three of

185
us to stretch our legs. Mymotherhad a firebird, light blue
with a black top, a wonder to look at and amisery to pack
three children and enough rations for four people not to
mention things like bed sheets, towels, toilet paper, extra
towels.So upon arriving atthe townhouse, the firstthingwe
did was make the beds. Thenhit the beach. Our cousins
consisted of two girls and a set of matching boy twins. They
were wild as bluejays but a riot.They could keep you
laughing until your stomach hurt. They were always up
tomischief and drove theirparents crazy. They lodged attheir
home in the bedrooms at the extreme end of the house that
could be reached only through several doors.And when
their parents put an extension onthehouse to give
theirdaughters their own rooms and their father anoffice,the
twins remained sequestered in the oldest andmost distant
part.
Even though Ebyn‘s population was wealthy in
general, everyone had an occupation. Downtown Ebyn was
one lawyer‘s office after another along with judges and bank
owners. Everyone knew the occupation of everyone else,

186
evenme, but I could not for the lifeof me figure out what our
cousins‘ father did. I interrogated my fatherseveraltimesand
heansweredpatiently (unusual forhim) with someinnocuous
comment. I knew he like my father collected antiques
andthat‘s all hedid,andIwonderedwhatheneeded an
officefor. Everytime we went to visit Iwould
stareatthosesteps leadingfrom the outside up intohis office
and wonder whathe did inthere. One day my fatherstood
studying arecent acquisition and somehow—I cannot
remember how—I gathered he had bought the piece from
our cousins‘ father. Our house was wall-to-wall antiques but
he still managed to find a space for that desk. Then, as the
years passed, I would hearmy parents talking now and then
about my father‘s cousin but barely loud enough to be
heard. I gathered this much: He didn‘t do anything but still
managed to live in the lifestyle to which every Ebynian had
become accustomed by selling for income his private
antiques and parcels of his ancestors‘ once rambling
estates.On the drive up to his house was the tenant house of
the family of sharecroppers that tended hisdwindling
estate.While he owned an historic house fit only for the
Historical Society, his own house was visibly different than

187
the homes of the other tobacco farmers around. Theirs were
historic houses passed fromfatherto son over decades
anddecades, sitting in the middle ofwhat wereoncemassive
tobacco estates givenbytheBritish crown. And competition
abounded apparently.Our cousin had tokeep up his lifestyle
in order to maintain his position in Ebyn society. Another
relative was vigilant about who had more land when: My
family or his. It seemed unnecessary tohavedragged that
feud into the twentieth century, but it was very much alive
and even directed at me upon occasion. (At the time, we had
more land, just to satiate your curiosity.)
Claiming large tracts of land, owners nevertheless
dropped the plow, fought for their country, andthen
returned to their farm and plow. Andnearly everyone of
them was amember of the Society of the Cincinnati. There
were other prestigious societies to which everyone wanted
to belong—it was a social thing. There was the Living
Descendants of Blood Royal and the Southern Maryland
Society, which held a party at the Ebyn Hunt Club every
summer and which Southern Maryland‘s finest attended.

188
Then there was the Vansville Farmer‘s club which seemed to
me to erratically hold meetings but when they did andit was
my father‘s turn, all females andchildren had to leave the
premises. It wasthe same for theEbyn Garden Club. Whileits
members held flower shows and donated plants to improve
the beauty ofEbynand sent representatives to the district
garden clubmeetings, hostessed the Southern Maryland
Historic Homes Pilgrimage by serving as docents for visitors
following the trail marked on the booklet for the pilgrimage,
collecting entrance fees, answering questions about the
lawns and outbuildings, placing massive and breathtaking
flowerarrangementsinside. Still it was largely a social matter.
Women wanted to join because ofits social prestige (though I
doubt they would agree with that statement) and brought
their daughters into the fold until long matriarchal lines
comprised the roll call of the EbynGardenClub.
Andthere were the socialregistries in Washingtonin
which everyoneinEbyn wanted tobelisted but weren‘t. The
Blue Book was the most prestigious, and my father made
sure his name was in there each and every year.

189
And so along with the lawyers and bankers and judges,
Ebyn society embraced the tobacco farmers to whom their
land had been passed down for generations. By the sweat
oftheir browdid they remain in Ebyn society with their
extensive fields oftobacco, the demand for which brought
them wealth and social prestige. Even my father
farmedatone time and then became a professor at the
University of Maryland. So to add to the mixof landing a
proper engagement wasa universityprofessor who most
appropriately founded an American studies department.
That was his claim to fame, that and his national reputation
inthe field of colonial medicine and his specialty, Cotton
Mather.
And allof this spilled over into The Beach Vacation. The
efficiency we rented was ownedby anotherEbyn native—
beach front property. By the time school began in
September, everyone wasduly tanned and getting ready to
peel—Coppertone and CoppertoneOil
wereallthatwasavailablethen. And no,there wasno SPF. In

190
fact, I don‘t thinkanyone ever thought about it, not then.Still,
it was fun except when you burned and had to wear aT-shirt
even in the water becauseit would reflect the sun more
intensely on your skin.
I was as socially inept at the beach as at home. I had
actually managed to make a friend, a male no less. And for
at least two summers he laid his towel on the sand at
anappreciable distance from us and somehow we began to
talk but I can‘t remember how or what we hadincommon.
There was a Tasty Freeze not far and we would sort
offollowone another there.Then one evening, I wentto the
cottage where his parents were. I don‘t remember if I saw
my friend there though one would certainly think I must
have.He had an older brother who never dained to speak to
me on any occasion yet on that evening asked me why I was
hanging out with guys so manyyears (and who knows how
many that meant) younger than I. I was stymied. He terrified
me. I did not atthat time realize what brewed insideme but
once again I was being criticized and noted for being
somehow different, odd.He promptly ignored me after that,

191
I mean, not as if he hadn‘t already been.I
rememberlittleexcept his question. Then there is ablackspot
inmymemory and thenthe sounds of gunshots just outside
our cottage. My mother wouldnot let us go out.There was an
influx of police cars and sirens echoing through the woods
whileI somehow got theimpression that a member of my
friend‘s household had committed suicide. I never saw my
friend again.
I suppose you could say it is a lonely existence but not
if you‘realoner anyway.Then it all just comes with the
territory. And through my life, I morphed slowly into a
loner because circumstances dictated it—always. I never had
more than one friend at a time, who qualified as mybest
friend, being, as it were, my only friend. Competition they
say is healthy, but not in my case. I managed to cultivate
thefriendship slip by slip. It was always a long, even painful,

192
process. There were more than a few I just had to give up on,
and it is not in my nature to give up or I would not still be
here battling the demons inside me that morph and
metamorph from homo sapiens into much more devolved
creatures. As far as other people went, my cardinal rule was
tokeep my mouth shut. It was harder to get into trouble that
way.
With the passing decades I realized that in the process
of keeping my mouth closed I could listen and this gave me
a singular advantage. I was able to reconnoiter. This helped
keep me out of trouble too, that trouble that happened when
I had to engage in conversation with members of my own
species. I just couldn‘t do it.I never knew what to say and
whenI did try to say something most of the time I was
ignored. It was humiliating, embarrassing, and both
emotionally and physically painful.
As time wenton and I struggled to avoid conversations
and confrontations of any kind,Lo andBehold Ifound that if I
consciously reconnoiteredand really listened, I could
verbally (yes, that means open my mouth) pick the other

193
person‘s position apart, teasing it from itself strand by
strand. Completely, utterly, mercilessly. Then I was able
touseto my fulladvantage everything I was picking up. And
I could throw it back in the other person‘s face. Usually, this
shut them up and they left me alone, which was the idea.
Other timesit created ablack hole of rage and retribution.
Coming from anyone else I do not think the other person
would so completely lose control over themselves. It was
becausethey suddenly witnessed another part of me that
could hitthe nail on the head with pin-point accuracy.
Itworked for methenandstill doestoday.And it is called self-
preservation. That which has so willingly been granted to
others, othersdid notthink Ihadany right to.
Ultimately, because I learned to stand up for myself, a
feat it had taken me decades to accomplish, I lost a very
good job.
And from then on it was one job after another for which
I did not pass thethirty-day probation period or was simply

194
and unceremoniously dismissed. My life began to crumble
around me and I lost not just jobs but friends and, more
importantly,family members.At this point Ibecame aloner. I
will always be a loner. I can‘tfigure out why it didn‘t happen
sooner, but I leave that to the cosmos at large to ponder.

195
Chapter Twenty-One
My transplanted front teeth were supposed to last for
some time but I don‘t know the particulars of it—at least not
anymore. But alas, they were short-lived. I was standing
behind my brother at the ocean‘s edge when a sizeable wave
cascaded overmy brotherwho cascaded over me—and
rightinto my four upper front teeth.They didn‘t come outbut
they all pointed south. Surely there must have been some
bloodinvolved but I don‘t remember. When it comes to The
Great Equestrian Event Parts I and II, I have little memory of
blood but there surely must have been a lot.
My mother elected to remain at the beach for the
duration of the vacation. I do not remember if she took me to
a dentist. I don‘t think she did. I think it was all left to when
we returned home and then I could go to the tried and true
dentist to figure out what to do next.

196
For the remainder of that beach vacation, I refused to
smile Iwas so embarrassed by my crooked teeth. Horrified,
really. The twins, however, were notto be undone. If
anything could make me laugh and smile it was the twins. I
remember coming back from the beach one day before my
brother fell onto me to find him and the twins outside the
unit feverishly swatting flies and expressing admiration of
oneanother when they succeeded in acquiring their targets.
Their goal wasto swat and kill all the flies in Bethany Beach.
They spenthours swatting and grunting andlaughing. And
truly believing they could make adent in the fly population
of Bethany.
So you can see why it was the twins who finally got
meto smile. And I put up great resistance, but one day I
couldn‘t hold back. I can‘t even remember what they said
but it was a real lol. After that I began to enjoy the rest of the
vacation.

197
Well, that was a lollapalooza. I was up all night—
again—andgotahold of my cellphone. And begantotext. And
text. And text. And text. And text. And text. Itexted eachof
my daughters and two friends who have knownme since
college.
The phone has always been problematic. I used to make
calls in the middle of the night, so I began to leave my phone
on the charger on the table at thefoot of the stairs rather than
take it up with me. And that worked if I went to bed around
8:00 pm. Nine o‘clock is the witching hour. If I stay up past
9:00, I will switch and be up most of, if not all of, the night.
I‘ve seen more than afew dawns that way.
But this is new, the texting people all night long. I even
figured out how to send texts tomultiple recipients and how
to forward texts. Now I‘ve forgotten. As of now, I have
texted at night like this only twice. Now I have to figure out

198
where to put that phone again. It gets closer to the door all
the time and may very well end up outside on the porch.
I realized that the texting happened after the witching
hour. So, yes, I have a problem getting myself up to bed at
8:00 p.m. and I don‘t know why. I‘ve put anLEDclock that
doubles as a night light right smack in front of the TV so
Idon‘t lose track of time, so I don‘t hit that 9:00 hour. I make
sure Dylan has had his last call and meds, the kitchen is
clean, and the night light on the stove is on. (All these night
lights are forEmily, who is afraid of the dark.), and Iset
thetimer on the TV so the TV will go off automatically at
8:00. No TV. No reason to stay up. I hot foot it upstairs,
cover the bird cage, put on some music, brush my teeth, and
catapult myself into bed. And it‘s a pretty good plan—if I
don‘t turnthe TV back on or reset the timer. Here I should
say ―we.‖
Andapparently I shouldusethe royal ―We‖ when
talking about these twodisturbing texts. We scared my

199
daughters nearly to death. For us it was the way we think all
the time. We don‘t consider it odd because we have felt like
this most of our life. Here are the text messages we sent on
Tuesday night, May 7:
4:32 am, May 7, 2013
Please, you and your sister help me.
4:34 am, May 7, 2013
I need help with my doctors to get a prescription for these
horrible headachesI havethat are precursors of switches. They keep
me up all night and pursue me all day. My regular doctor does not
want to give me anything narcotic. I can understand his concern but
he gives me maybe 10 pills at a time and they do very little. I cannot
seem to make him understand about these headaches. He may worry
about narcotics but he does not have any idea what I go through.
Which I suppose is understandable since DID is not his specialty.
How do I get these doctors to understand? I cannot keep going on
likethis night after night, day after day. I need help. I missmy
appointments with my therapist because I am in agony night after
night and I cannot get enough sleep to make my appointments. Truly,
help. I do not care if this is a switch. All I know is that my entire face

200
aches. And yes I have fought this since I was 12 and hit the tree.
There must be somethingI cantake to stop these headaches.
4:39 am, May 7, 2013
I just can’t do thisanymore
4:50 am, May 7, 2013
Increasingly I lie down on the floor with Dylan to try to sleep.
The lollapalooza is all the texts wesent last night,
Sunday, May 12, Mother‘s Day. We‘re sure that thefact that
it was Mother‘s Day had everything to do with it. It
triggered a switch. Why? Well, our own mother passed
away several years ago, so we no longer have a mother of
our own; however, we are a mother ourselves and one of our
daughters is a mother and she and her family live with her
paternal grandmother. You would think there would be

201
enough mothers to go around. In fact, all day Mother‘s Day
we felt fine. If we could not be with our daughters on
Mother‘s Day, they certainly recognized it as an important
day. They called us and sent text messages, cards,and
anEdible Arrangement that is truly delicious. We knew we
would not be able to come to them because we knew
everyone would congregate at their grandmother‘s house
and that our ex-husband would most certainly be at the
barbecue one of our daughters told us about. We have been
divorced since 1995, but you cannot put the two of us in the
same room. He hasremarried—on that subject, as far as we
areconcerned, one marriage per lifetime is enough.However,
out of thatrather miserable marriage came our two
daughters, so inretrospect itwasnot such a bad idea
tohavemarried him after all.Therefore, we consider this
Mother‘s Day to be a wonderful success.
The night, however, was asuccess only for us inside.
We stayed up.Wemercilessly texted friends and family. We
watched NCIS DVDs.We wrote cryptic messages to
ourselves and left them where we were sureto see them the

202
next day. We texted. We dozed. We texted. We took
migraine medicine to try to stop the vicious and unrelenting
pain in our face. We texted. We lay down with Dylan on the
floor. We took our evening meds some time in the wee hours
of the morning and still tried to function but since they are
such heavy duty meds—some anti-psychotics—we stumbled
around and fell down once. We texted.We ate eight over-
easy eggs and finally navigated the stairs to literally fall into
bed. We lost our memory of large chunks of the night. We
don‘t remember any of the NCIS episodes we watched and
so watched them again Monday night and they were all new
to us. Every once in a while an actor‘s gesture or aspoken
line is familiar but that is about all we remember of
theseshows we watched the night before.
And in the midst of everything we discovered a
newpersonality named May. May is sweet and gentle, like
the month.
11:13 pm, May 12, 2013

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Somebody tell me to go to bed.
3:43 am, May 13, 2013
May and Ihavetocover my dog. Going touse a little green
creature; won’t knowwhat it looks like til I send it. lol
3:43 am, May 13, 2013
May and Ihavetocover my dog. Going tuse a little green
3:43 am, May 13, 2013
3:43 am, May 13, 2013

204
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
I seemto be repeating myself and don’t know how or why.
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
I seem to be repeating myself and don’t know how or why.
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
Ignore

205
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
Ignore
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
Ignore
3:46 am, May 13, 2013
Ignore
3:47 am, May 13, 2013
Will figure it out 2morrow
3:47 am, May 13, 2013

206
3:47 am, May 13, 2013
3:47 am, May 13, 2013
The first thing I do everymorning is to go downstairs
and check my phone looking for evidence that I used it
sometime in the night. Icheck the calllog, the notifications,
and the messaging.I also give the house a general going over
to make sure I didn‘t get up in the night and trash
something.
After the first night in my houseI awoke to a general
trashing leading like ablood trail from my bedroom upstairs

207
to the kitchen downstairs.Inmy roomthere werepieces of a
broken blue tea cup, some sugarstrewn around on boxes,
and several papertowels. But the kitchen! It looked as
though it had been ransacked by robbers orsomething.The
restofthe tea cup was on the counter and the top of a box.
Sugar waseverywhere. One of thedrawers looked as
thoughsomeone hadyankedit all the way out, emptied it,and
thrown it down on the floor. A cabinet door was hanging on
its hinges. It was Carol‘s doing. She‘s nasty, mean,
aggressive,angry, and generally a piece of work. The word
bitch does sum her up.
Yesterday, my therapist and I talked about the facial
headaches or pain I havebecause it is unbearable yet still I
bear it. They are excruciating, unforgiving, tortuous. My face
feels as if someone bashed a hammer into it. I don‘t get
tension headaches. My headaches do not involve myhead so
to callthem headaches is a misnomer. It is the center ofmy
face that bleedswith pain. My sinuses, my cheek bones, my
teeth, pretty much everything between my eyebrows and
my chin. They have been getting worse in the last two

208
months and refuse to be soothed. I have been knownto take
two Midrin (a prescription migraine medicine) followed by
four Advil with no relief whatsoever. Once after that cocktail
the pain continued so intenselythat I went to my closet and
rummaged until I found some Vicodin left overfrom—what?
Ironically, a dental procedure. I cut itin half andtook one
half, as if thatwere a conscientious move. The pain abated
somewhat, and what I was left with I had simply to endure.
There was nothing else Icould take. It was one of those times
I cried until Ibegan to feel a sliver of relief: I knew I‘d
survived another bout.
Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I get on my knees and beg
God for mercy. Sometimes I just moan and groan.
Sometimes I think I am being punished. Sometimes I think it
is karma, and then I wish to GodI knew what I had done in a
past life to deserve this so Ican make sure I don‘t do itagain
in this one. Sometimes I wonder how I will continue to
function and what will happen to me if I can‘t.

209
It was inmy early thirties that this pain began. I wentto
my doctor and toan ENT and then backto my doctorwho
capped the situation by diagnosing the pain as migraine.
Not typical migraine, he said, but migraine nevertheless.
Inthose daysAdvil orExcedrin or Tylenol would eventually
work but it was something ofa trip before they did.As the
years passed I still got themoff and on. Sometimes they
would cluster andI would go three or four days ina row with
them. Then they would disappear only to return nowand
then until the next clustering.
In the last two months they have intensified
exponentially. Rarely does a day go by that I do not
experiencethis shiveringfacial pain. It begins around 4:00 or
5:00 p.m. and pursues me without mercy for the rest of the
evening. Sometimes that pain is what will trigger a switch
that leads to an all-nighter.The trick is trying toheadit off at
the pass, but I run a race with it and usually lose. I sit in
front of the television for hours with the pain.Why? Because
it is mindless and when I am in that pain I may as wellbe
losing my mind and I can‘t concentrate on anything anyway

210
which may be why I can watch the same episode of NCIS
with that pain and thenthe next day have no recollection of
the episode at all. SoI am in the process of getting the DVDs
of the show. They arealmost always new to me whenever I
watch them. Like a child with a Disney movie, I will watch
the same thing overand over and over.
My therapist and I began to analyze this pain
yesterday. That‘s how Icame up with the 4:00-5:00hour that
itusually begins. I have always traced my sinus problems
back to The Great Equestrian Event and told doctor after
doctor that I thought that accident had something todo with
my sinus pain that almost always endedin an infection. In
the last two months they havenot led to infections. This is
very odd. I have yet to run across a doctor or dentist who
paid any attention at all to my theory that the pain and the
accident are connected. I say to them, ―My mother used
always to say, ‗You can‘timprove on Mother Nature,‘ ‖ and
my whole face was shattered by that tree trunk and
noonecould orcanever put things back the way Mother
Naturecreated them.

211
My therapist and I came up with a timeline for that
accident. I was going to spend the night at a friend‘s house
and we were goingto go to the Ebyn School Christmas dance
together. We were 12. Her mother picked us up from school
and I estimate that we must have arrived at her house
between 3:00 and 4:00. Then while her mother fixed dinner
(the kidney haludreality), we went outside to ride their
horses. My friend was anaccomplished rider. I had only one
month‘s summer camp‘s worth of riding lessons. And never
bareback. In fact the counselors who taught riding rarely let
go of the bridle when beginners were on the horses.That
should set the stage.
It must have been between4:00 and5:00 p.m.when we
rodebareback into the yard. I am sure my horse sensed that I
was afraid,and I was. I‘dnever ridden bareback before andat
camp had been duly lectured on the danger involved.
Suddenly, thehorse beganto buck. And he did notstop until
he had rid himself of me.I held onto hismane fordear life
indeed but he managed tothrowme off and myface hit the
trunk of a tree.

212
The facial pain I experience today begins each day
between 4:00 and 5:00 p.m. What the mind forgets, the body
remembers.
While I rememberno pain and no blood, there surely
must have been plenty ofboth. My therapist said that I may
have a personality that holds the memory ofthat accident
and doesn‘t know that it is over, has been over for
decades,that there is no pain, not anymore. But this
personality relives the accident over and over. In short, the
intenseandexcruciating facialpain I battle today is the pain I
experienced when I hit the tree, knocked out my four front
upper teeth, and shattered my face.
I do not want to face this personality. Yet, someone
within me is suffering on a daily basis with pain so intense
only drugs from ahospital could kill it. And the blood. Why
do I not remember the bloodthat day and during procedures
that followed?

213
I asked my therapist if the DID could have occurred
then even though it typically starts when a child is very
young, about two to four years old. She said she thought the
DID kicked in to protect me from the pain and blood.
I do not want to look this personality in the eye. Selfish,
it seems, but I am petrified that if I dohe or she will never
retreat and I will never be able to kill the pain.
Oh,dearGod, please do not make me go through it
again.
The thunder crashed and rolled. Shards of lightening
pierced the dark clouds and the winds roared and churned.

214
Lighteningbriefly lit the dark in its own thundering roar. It
was upon them now, right over the round table, slamming it
with cascades of lightening. All the hungry ghosts were now
under the table, crawling around just inside the perimeter as
the storm raged over its center. A howl went up, then
another, then another. The rain came in sheets, driven by the
fury of the storm. An amorphous creature circulated around
and around screaming, moaning, groaning. The rain came
down faster and the thunder slammed against itself in a
heady pursuit of the shots of lightening.
The creature was not yet spent. It knew no other way to
be than angry, furious, untamed, vilifying him who had
corked this genie‘s bottle long ago after a great injustice.
And that is where the cork stayed. It could only howl and
scream and twist with thetorture of ravenous retribution.
Every bolt of lightening shattered my face.

215
Although it was a swirling maelstrom of black clouds,
shrieks of lightening, and hammering thunder—powerful,
massive, gargantuan, unforgiving—it whirled within a
confined space far too small to hold it, locked and chained
with a key whose whereabouts had long ago been forgotten,
but whose only existence it was to grant freedom.
It escalated and escalated, yet it wouldnever break its
bonds—not without the fabled key and the hand to turn it.
Through the years my eye teeth ached. Even the four
teeth no longer there, phantom teeth, I could sometimes feel
and they would ache, too. My eye teeth were the anchors of
the bridge that spanned six upper front teeth. The dentist
who put the bridge in had honed the left eye tooth down a
little too far and a little too close to the nerve, sowhenever
the bridge was removed temporarily for some dental work,
that tooth was a live wire. Iwarned threedentists to keep that
tooth asnumbas possibleandnot to let the Novocain wear off
before the procedure ended. Three dentists didn‘t listen to

216
me. Thefirstone had allowed the Novocain to begin wearing
off before hewas ready to put the bridge back in. The teeth
that anchored the bridge had to be very dry when the anchor
teeth were covered with the hollowtooth filled with cement.
Soheblew airon it. I hung from the ceiling. He remarked
that I was right. That the tooth was a live wire.
The second dentist manually dried the teeth with a dry
cloth, twisting itaround to be sure to get the whole tooth dry.
Iinhaled onebreaththat waslike wind on those teeth. I
hung from the ceiling. He remarked that I was right. That
the tooth was a live wire.
The third dentist made the same mistake as the first,
only less of the Novocain had worn off.

217
I didn‘thaveto tell him it was a live wire. He got the
message andnow pumps me so fullof Novocain it surely
runs in my veins.
The aftermath of thesedental procedures endedwith a
prescription for Vicodin or Percocet for the horrible facial
pain that followed. And it went onfor days.

218
Chapter Twenty-Two
O, my dearest daughters, being away from you—it, like
so many other things in my life, is a sentence that must be
served.

219
When we got home from the beach, I was dispatched
immediately to the dentist. I wasn‘t prepared for what
happened because I had no idea what to expect. None at all.
It was a blank—soon to be filled.
The teeth had to come out. There was no repairing the
damage. ―Come out,‖ though, is not accurate. They had been
―glued‖ in or so it seemed to me. I never knew or just do not
remember by what means my original teeth were restored to
their rightful places. Sotosay they had to be ―pulled‖ out is
not accurate.
These were the days of Novocain only. There was no
gas. So I suppose, because once again I remember no pain,
the dentist pumped mefull of Novocain. And so my long

220
and miserable association with Novocain began. I have to
give that dentist credit because I felt nothing multiple times.
The teeth had to be broken off and then I suppose the
nerves removed. Nobody ever told me prior to a dentist visit
what was going to take place. Maybe that was a good thing,
at least at the time. The experience was to hover above me
like the Sword of Damocles for myentire life. Once again, no
one told me that, so as life went along I continued to suffer
from that visit to this day. Andit was as mysterious an event
as the slithering pain in my face.
So the dentist brokethe teethout. That I remember. I
also remember blood and since no one told me what exactly
the procedure was going to be I was frightened by what
seemed to me to be a little too much blood—though I‘m sure
there was farmorethanI remember. I felt no pain, but I could
hear the cracking of my teeth as he broke them off. The only
thing I knew that was comforting was that my father was in
the waiting room about three steps away and sometimes he

221
came in with me when I was fitted for dentures—multiple,
multiple times. Thank God the dentures involved no pain,
but like I said, I don‘t remember any pain, period. That same
visit the dentist fitted me with my dentures—likewise, thus
began my long and annoying association with dentures:
brushing them morning and night, soaking them at night,
trying to find something—anything—that wouldhold the
plate to my palette, beingembarrassed by their flipping
down whenI talked. Denture accessories weresparse inthose
days. You took what you could get, and there were not three
and four brands to choosefrom. And that made it all the
more embarrassing to buy the soaking solution and adhesive
because those things occupied a very specific place in the
drugstore and were clearly marked as to what they were for.
It wasjust asembarrassing as putting down that package of
Kotex for a male cashier toringup andbag. Everyone and
anyone could safely assume thatI woredentures.
So I went home that day with dentures—I think. As
usual, I just don‘tremember much. I knew my father would
not stand for letting me walk around with four front teeth

222
missing. So that denture must have been made. I don‘t see
how he could have because the swelling must have been
abysmal and the blood hard to stay.
I remember another haludreality, this having to do
directly with front teeth. I was on the school bus. There were
maybe six other kids and then all the way in the back was
another girl totally separated from the rest of us. When the
bus stopped to let her offather home, as she walkedpast me I
could see that she had no front teeth. I thoughtthen how
fortunate I was that my parents took care of meso thatI
would not belike her, destinedalways never to smile
Not so longago—two yearsmaybe—I was at a
countrybar (not my usual style but it was arather merry
place) with a friend and his daughter and her boyfriend. He
had no front teeth. And he was in his early twenties. Then
just the other day I looked up after putting allmy items to be
checked out, at the cashier, a teenager, who had no front
teeth. Andonce againI could notunderstand how a

223
parentcould let their child walk around likethat.Most
especially a girl in her teen years, just like the girl on the bus.
Surely the ridicule they must have suffered was
unforgivable. I had teeth, not real of course, but teeth
nevertheless and kept it a dark secret from everyone
including my closest friend for fear of ridicule. I
wascertainly well schooled in that version of bullying when I
had to walk around for at least a month with that pink blob
where my front teeth should have been.
But my father was always close and I leaned heavily on
his strength. I think the dentist positioned the chair that day
so that it looked out into the waiting room so I could see my
father.
My father took on the business of putting me back
together and far betterthan all the king‘s horsesand all the
king‘s men.He loyally andtirelessly tookmefor what must
have seemed like hundreds of dental appointments. The
dentistwas notclose either, but he had a reputation as the

224
best in D.C. at what he did. It was still so rural then where
we lived.Findingthe D.C. linetook forever.Foxhall Road.
That was the dentist‘s address. Funny I remember
something so inconsequential yet none of the truly
frightening and horrific events that began when that horse
flung me almost forever into oblivion. No, they were not
sure I would live. And that I did could very well be
amiracle. I don‘t remember, and there is no longer anyone
alive who would. So it is just my memory now. Ialone hold it
as if itwere something to be treasured, as if I were somehow
special to be the sole keeper of it.
I often think that itisa miracle that I did not suffer brain
damage or break myneck. I injured my neck,as I said before,
so that ittends to hang a little in its assignment to support
my head. And I have been fortunate not to have neck
problems. I go to a chiropractor regularly and that may
explain it but not in the early years of my life.

225
What I cannot remember my body has a clear memory
of. My face has proven that. My teeth have their own
memories. The bridge has been extended to include the teeth
beyond the eye teeth, but the original bridges went from eye
tooth to eye tooth. In its third incarnation the bridge would
not stay in properly; indeed, that is why I went to thedentist
after years of neglect, really. I was divorced, working full-
time, and raising two girls. Money was more than just tight.
It had a stranglehold on me. But when there was extra
money,I putit in my daughters‘ mouths for teeth cleaning.
My ex-husband absorbed most of the cost of braces (but not
without a court battle—ick. I don‘t even want to think about
it). So I found myself at anew dentist‘s office with a bridge
working its way out of my mouth. Plenty had to be done. I
should have known. I had ground allthe enamel off my teeth
to the extentthat there is not a toothleft in my head that
belongs tome. Everything is crowned or implanted. It cost
$15,000 and counting because the bridge still rotates and
moves around on one side. As amatter of fact, I have an

226
appointment today for the same reason. I am paranoid that
the thing will fall out. I used to have frequent dreams that it
did, but it never has actually, just loosened enough to be a
warning sign.
Those two eye teeth remember everything. Many times
they will begin to ache or I will suddenly be aware of them.
They are covered with a hollow tooth filled with cement.
There is no reason for them to hurt. But they do and they do
because they are the original teeth that held the bridge after
so many sets of dentures as my mouth matured enough for a
bridge. I remember when I reached 20 my father demanded
that the dentist put the bridge in. For some reason he did not
wantto, but he did nevertheless.
A bridge has to have what I call ―root‖ teeth. They are
the teeth that hold the bridge. For me they were my eye
teeth and to be the root teeth the bridge had to fit over them.
To fit a hollow tooth on the root teeth, those teeth have to be
honed down with a drill so that a hollow tooth with cement

227
can fit over them. Now there is something you never
forget—the smell of burning bone as the anchor teeth were
ground down.
I think my eye teeth bother me because again what the
mind forgets the body remembers, remembers being ground
down, remembers air being blown, remembers the throbbing
after such aprocedure. And the smell.
The four front teeth are like phantom limbs. I can
feelthem sometimes andsometimes they ache. But there
isnothing there to ache: Decades ago the nerves were
removed.
And there‘s more—of course. There always is. After
getting shots of Novocain, which always needs to go in the
nerves of the teeth right below my sinuses, my sinuses are a
hot bed of pain. I always have to have a heavy duty pain
killer afterwards and the sinus and facial pain will last for
days. It is not the Novocainthat causes this but the needle

228
through which the Novocain is delivered. It sinksdeeply into
the edge of my gum where itmeets thefloor of my sinuses.
And mybody remembers what I cannot.
I have to go now. I must embark on another dental
odyssey.
The visit was like all the rest. You would think I would
have known that, but there is always hope. Yes, the bridge
was loose and in danger of coming out. In addition, there
was a danger of infection that was tended to.
The dentist emptied two complete vials of Novocain
into the gum above the now eight-tooth bridge. They
swabbed with topical anesthetic those same gums four times
to numb the feeling of the needle going in. It worked; I did
not feel the needle going in. What a relief. This dentist

229
knows my mouth by now and he really made sure I
wouldn‘t feel anything. Of course, there was a two-day
aftermath during which only the Percocet he prescribed
would stay the pain entirely. My face is still wide awake
hoping to shoot a sliver of pain or a drum-beat ache to my
face. It is succeeding.
On the second day after I had been to the dentist, a
Friday night, I had one of those nights I cannot explain
except to say there must have beena switch. I remember the
clock saying 9:00 p.m. and the next time 5:00 a.m. I don‘t
rememberanything of that night, but I found scraps of paper
left here and there that I have no recollection of writing but
which were left in places I commonly go, so I got them all.
One note read as follows:
I amthe only one who risked her daughters to protect them. I
am the one who guarded; I am the one who fought; Iam the one who
slammed doors against an inebriated father; I amthe one who wept in
the dark ofnight quietly sothat the two mightsleep peacefully; I am the
one who, perplexed, saw the pale facelit by a pale moon streaming

230
through a nighttime window. I am the one whose life became that of
her daughters.
I do not remember this but it is certainly the way I feel
about the turns my life has taken. The pale face is that of my
younger daughter who was seven at the time. And it is
what it is. She was on her back with one arm hanging from
the bed. It was a bright moon that night. I had gone in to
check on her because she had trouble sleeping. She was
asleep but her countenance was deathly, pale and still.
The second note follows.
Maybe you are sitting in the car with your daughter as she
forges a relationship with you based on tap.
Maybe they have not stopped to think, even if they have
themselves of the gestation their own mother kept.

231
This one is cryptic to say the least. It sounds as though
someone is talking to me. And that‘s exactly what it is. An
alter delivering a message I cannot understand. Someone
delivered yet another cryptic note that night.
You throw knives into mybelly—the samebelly that protected
and nurtured you until your gestation was full. You wanttoknow
whereyour mother has gone. You wantto knowwhen she will return.
You want to know howlong you will have to wait. You want too much.
My own daughters no longer know their mother. I too
wonder where she has gone, and not when but if she will
ever return. These are questions I cannot answer, not for
them, not for me. I am terrified, terrified that I will never be
the same again. Ido not believe I will ever be the same again.
Then I wonder with so many alters coming out to handle a
situationI cannot, which one is the real me? Is there a real
me? Is she a composite of ten separate personalities? Who
was the little girl before she went through something so
disturbing she had to splinter off into severalof herself to
survive?

232
There are periods of time during which I do not hear
from my daughters, even if I have made contact with
them.They do not know me anymore. Perhaps they are
protecting themselves. Baa Baa Black Sheep.
Often, if I have been up allnight, I find notes like these.
Sometimes I find poetry. Sometimes I find drawings of
trees—drawing after drawing after drawing. Sometimes I
find passages that clearly belong in this book. Sometimes I
find page after page of handwriting that is not mine asking
over and over the name of the person whose handwriting it
is. Sometimes I remember writing notes—rather missives—
like this. The handwriting slowly becomes boxier and larger.
My own handwriting is far smaller and cursive. These pages
are covered with print that looks as though a child has
written it. But no name ever comes of it.The truly most
cryptic message left for me in a small day timer was the one
in the front matter of this book:

233
The Curve—
You can find Dorothy next to their creative degree.
I have beenunableto crack this code, although the first
thing that comes to mind is Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Am
I Dorothy looking for answers to unanswerable questions?
Am I not seeing that all I need is in my backyard? What is
The Curve and why a dash following it? Whose creativedegree
and what does creative degree mean? That‘s as far as I have
been able to go. It is a total mystery.
I put that diary away although there are plenty of blank
pages left. I‘m tired of it.
To satiate the children in me, especially Timothy, I
color. I have a plastic box filled with crayons and coloring
books. There are also books for which a wet brush will bring
tolife colorsembeddedinits pages. Andcoloringbooks that
reveal colors using a special magic marker thathasawhite tip
thatnever changes color. I do wonder how they do that.

234
For Emily I have paperdolls. Vintage Barbie andKen
from 1962. I found it in Weis one day when I was shopping.I
had not seen paper dollsin decades. Someone, however,
within me was jumping with excitement over the discovery.
So I bought it, cut out the outfits, and sometimes play with
them. For Emilyandme.
I remember growing up I loved paper dolls. Pressed in
old books I found my mother‘s paper dolls. Then they did
not have paper dolls as we know them today, so my mother
carefully cut out from fashion magazines of the twenties
models from ads and cut off their heads. Then she could
hold different heads on different models. The neatness with
which she cut out the pictures clipping every corner and
notch and sway of a gown is incredible. I cut out Barbie and
Ken‘s clothing with the same precision, but as a child I
wanted to play with them so much I didn‘t want to take the
time to cut them out neatly. So I didn‘t.

235
Growingup, my room was always amess and I was
constantly in trouble for it.Once my sister offered to help me
clean it. I should haveknownthen something was up, but I
was just so glad to have help. I had a bad habit of shoving
everything beneath my bed: notjust objects like dolls and
board games but loose school papersand magazines all
jumbled up under there.It seemed always alifetime to cleanit
allout. My sister was one of the neatest and most orderly
people I have ever known. During that cleaning somehow
she got me throwaway all my paper dolls, in the name of
order I suppose. Years later when she was living inGeorgia
where she went to graduate school, I had occasion to go into
hercloset. And there they were. Her paper dolls. Shehad
kept all of her own paper dolls

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Chapter Twenty-Four
After three miserable years at Ebyn School I decided
I‘dhad enough, and there was no promise in the air that
things could or would change, teeth or no teeth.So I asked
my parents to sendme to the same school as my sister. It
was, for my sister, not a high note in her life. As she told me,
one day out of the blue our parents tookher toa school,
apparently to look atit—or so my sister thought. In fact, they
were enrolling her without telling her ahead of time. She
found out in the headmistress‘s office while my parents
were discussing it. It was a day and boarding school, St.
Agnes, in Alexandria, Virginia. My parents enrolled my
sisteras a five-day boarder who would come home on
weekends. It was just the thing to do then—send your
children to boarding school. Unfortunately, my sister was
truly miserable there, to the point of tears. She, however,
graduated there and from there wentto the University of
Georgia,whereshe was also miserable because she was so
homesick. I think the only time my sister was sent away

237
from home and wasnot miserable, was that one month in the
summer at Camp Appalachia. She made a hugescrapbook
devoted totally to the camp—pictures, song booklets,riflery
certificates, and bars indicating the level of achievement.
Scrapbooks were pretty basic in those days. You could get a
large onewith brownishpaper. No scrapbooking, no
interestingcover. Just a large book waiting for someone to
get out the glue.
My situation as far as St. Agnes was concerned was that
I wanted to get away from Ebyn Schoolas soonas possible.
My parents said yesto my begging and off I wentwithmy
sistertobe a five-day boarder at St.Agnes. Ithink everyone
hoped that this would make mysister feel better.But no.
Whatever made her so homesick was notme, and since she
was blind-sided by our parents one has to wonder what it
was that made her so homesick whenever she went away
from home. Maybe it was the farm itself. It was beautiful,
worthy of homesickness. But I did not suffer homesickness
at St. Agnes. I was there from tenth through twelfth grade,
truly fell inlove withLatin, was notinany way distracted
from my studies by the opposite sex, learned to laugh, made

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new and best friends, qualified and took two Advanced
Placement courses thatenabled meas a college freshman to
skip Latin 101 and English 101. I actually qualified for a
senior level creative writingclass. What a miserable affairthat
turned out to be. We were given assignments we were
expected to read out loud to the rest of the class so they
could have a fieldday with it. The golden boy was a senior
writing a book about his years at college. I did not find him
gifted nor his work, but then again, no onedid mine either.
There was a measure of humiliation in it. The coup d‘état
was the professor‘s invitation to all of us for a class at his
house, where he read to us his refused submission to The
New Yorker. He wanted us to tell him what was wrongwith
it. One thing that was wrong with it was that he dragged his
students, a captive audience, in to hear what a wonderful
writer he was. Of course, no one could findany fault with his
submission. An exercisein stupidity.
I had three roommates my first year at St. Agnes, and
they were all further developed than me in just about every
aspect but study. One, who was beyond precocious, was

239
sleeping with her boyfriend of 25. We were all in awe of her.
She was 15 going on at least 30. She was pretty, energetic,
blonde, petite, restless. Perhaps her parents had sent her
there to get her away from her boyfriend. It did not,
however, work.
Determined to excel, I would sit up after lights out in
my cramped closet with a lamp covered with an India print.
It was the only way to keep up with homework assignments.
After dinner each day wetraipsed to theschool library
wherefor two
hourswedidhomework.Thehomeworkloadwastwice that.
But if you were a junior or senior and had an average of 90
the first half of the semester,thenyou were allowedtostudy in
your room.There were times you were allowed to use the
phone. I remember calling my parents. The phone was in a
closet nearthe dining room of long heavy wooden tables and
chairs. Juniors andseniorswere allowed to sit at atable
without the headmistress or one of the house mothers. We
all met in the living room at a specific hour and lined up to
go to the dining room. After dinner for about a half an hour,

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if their grades were good, seniors were allowed to smoke in
the TV room, which was separated from the living room by a
long gold curtain.
The boarding department, as it was called, was an old
Victorian three-story house with aturret at the very top to
which no one was allowed to go. I finally many years after
while attending a class reunion was permitted up there. I
could see why the school allowed no students up there. A
winding narrow unvarnished wooden staircase ledup to it.
There wasnothingmuch to see except the
windowthatlookedout over the campus and a lot of dust.
None of it was painted. It was alittle dizzying, but its secrets
at long last were revealed.
Boarders occupied the second and third floors. There
were very few boarding students compared with the
number of day students, but at one time it was solely a
boarding school. There were about twenty boarders. Most
were part-time boarders, going home on weekends, but

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there were about three who were fulltime and went home
for holidays. Some time after I graduated, the school closed
the boarding department because it was no longer
financially feasible. The house was used as an office building
with the rooms boarders once occupied as offices. The
reunion I wentto wasthe firsttime in many years that I had
steppedfoot in the boarding department. It wassad tosee
those roomsoncefilled with giggling girls forging special
friendships because they were of the few who were
boarders.
My first year my three roommates decided I needed to
go ona diet. Well, they weren‘t too far off the mark but it
was the fabled crash diet. I was not only hungry but my
desire for sweets was astronomical. So I would pocket at
lunch a few of those oblong cookies whose creamy white
layer of pure sugar lay between two vanilla cookies. I hid
them well, for emergencies only. HowI never got caught, I
suppose,was tomy credit. My roommates watched me like
hounds. It wasthe age of the mini skirt and students
wereallowedto wear them but there was still a dress code. I

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had long ago given up allhopeof ever fitting into one. But
that little dream came true.Not only did the diet work, but
also I began running. It became something of an addiction
because I remember one time I left the boarding department
during ―free time‖ and began my rounds of running on the
hockey field. This particular time, I stayed out there after
dark because I wanted to finish a certain number of times
around the field. The headmistress came to get me but I
continued to run until I was finished. She was not angry at
all. I can recognize anger a mile away under the tutelage of
my father. She did, of course, remind me of the hours
designated as free time. I never stayed out there like that
again. Maybe she knew she didn‘t need to lambast me into
abiding by rules.
WhenI had lost enough weight, I donned a skirt my
mother had bought for me, took it in at the sides and sewed
up the hem as high as was tolerated. I look back and I think
Iwas on the road to anorexia because in the summer
especially I ran an exorbitant amount oftime andate little but
yogurt, an eggand honey in a glass of orange juice, and

243
painfully small dinner portions.Butmyparents hadnothingto
say about any of it. It wouldhavebeen nice if
theyhadrecognized the effort that wentinto losing all that
weight, but they did not.
House mothers. There were two because you can‘t
countthe headmistress who ate dinner at the boarding
department because her house was on school grounds and
to there she repaired each evening—unless a missing
boarder was reported running herself into anearly grave on
the hockey field.
The housemother in charge was a wifty little thing of a
woman whose age was indeterminate, named Miss Collier.
Shelooked elderly and had gray hair but moved with agility.
Her most prominent feature was that she was one of thetruly
nastiest people you would ever want tomeet.She ruledthe
roost from dawn till dusk patrolling the halls in the hopes of
finding someone up and about long after lights out. You
could lose privileges this way. Sometimes, the other house

244
mother drew this duty, but if she caught you, her
admonitions were mild. I remember finding out that in my
junior year both were quite aware that I stayed up in my
walk-in closet with a single lightbulb, my clock, and a pile of
books. There simply was no way to do a Latin translation
along with your other subjects in the time allotted for
homework. And I wasn‘t going to show up in class without
my homework done. The only thing worse than coming to
class without your Latin assignment done was sight
translation,which occupied most of the class time.
Miss Collier clearly did notlike teenagers,
yetshehadbeen head of the boarding department for
decades. She came from nowhere and was going nowhere.
Any regulation was herduty. Prayers before meals; lining up
straight to march into the dining room morning and
evening; patrolling the building;the invasive ring of the bell
for us to wake up, go downstairs for breakfast, lights out;
appropriate attire. God forbidyou had to ask anything of
her. It still today gives me a queasy stomach.

245
I could never figure out why the headmistress kept her
on. I
still don‘t understand it today. I don‘t think I ever saw
her smile. She was everywhere. And whispering
toanotherboarder around her was strictly forbidden. The
whispering was usually about her. It seemed you could not
be polite enough or respectful enough or law-abiding
enough. And if she could find fault with someone like me,
more or less terrorized into silence, then she could find a
host of them in the other more typical teenagers. She
reminded me of something my mother, who taught at both
the college and high school levels, would say to her classes
or to one disruptive student at a time or parents who refused
to accept the interim report of misbehavior: ―I have been
teachingteenagersfor over 15years andhaveraisedthree ofmy
own, so there‘s not much you can tell meabout them that
Idon‘t already know.‖ It usually shut up the person to whom
it was directed.
Miss Stefan was the other house mother and the school
nurse also lived there. She filled in the holes and generally

246
hoveredin thebackground. She,too, seemed elderly with her
white hair, but as with Miss Collier, it was deceptive. I
remember her because she always woreher nursing attire
whether she was in her office duringthe school day or eating
dinner at the boarding department. The other thing that
makes her stand out in my memory is that sheinsisted on
administering to my friend, who for years had been doing it
herself, her insulin shots. She insisted, but my friend won
out. The only time I remember that it was fortunate to have
her there was whenmy friend went into a sugar shock, went
down to thekitchen, and hurled orange juice all over the
place. Without the nurse, whose room was off the kitchen
(thus no way to raid the kitchen) I‘m not quite sure what
would have happened.
The nurse‘s other duty was herding the fulltime
boarders to Grace Church every Sunday, and you had no
choice about it. I know because there was a weekend or two
I stayed at the boarding department.

247
Miss Collier passed away during my tenancy atthe
boardinghouse. A younger woman, middle-aged,washired
to take her place.And did wehavefun with practical jokes to
season her. I thinkwe all sensed that shemay never havedone
this before. One time two floors of boarders decidedto hide a
clock among the towels in the linencloseton the second floor
set to go off at 11:00 pm. It worked like a dream.Suddenly all
thelights were onand we came out of our rooms while she
finally ascertained that the hoopla was caused by aclock in
the linen closet. Tame by today‘s standards buthilarious
then.
In your senior year you had a room of your own, no
roommates. But in my junior year they put me in a bedroom
on the first floor near the living room that was at least semi-
private. It was in that room that they put temporary
boarders, or students who for onereason or another had to
stay atschool for several days. This was the room with the
coveted walk-in closet with a light bulb.I couldn‘t believe
my luck. Now I wonder if my placement there was not
planned because, as I found out later, the coterie of house

248
mothers all knew I sat in that closettill three in the morning
conquering my homework assignments.I was lucky, though,
because there was only one temporary boarder that year.
Tact was not her strong suit. I had made the room my
ownby setting around objects that meant something tome.
She referred to them as ―knick knacks‖ and thus killed any
possibility of friendship. I grew up inahouse with all kinds
of objects all over the place.The only differencebetween my
things and those at home is that those at home were all
antiques. Down to every little china box was worth
something monetary. So I took greataffront at heruse of the
word ―knick knack‖ when referring to my little Walt Disney
statues, small painted glass boxes, tea cups, the blue glass cat
my fatherhad bought for me while in Canada; and little
china trays perfect for keeping hair pins or barrettes. All of
these by this time qualify as antiques.
My senior year the other seniors and I were given our
own rooms. We drewstraws for the rooms. The most coveted
was called the tower room although it was not in a tower.It
was more like a bay window. It had two steps up the

249
wooden floor to the bed. Its odd shape made it all the more
desirable. It had three walls, theleft and right of these the
samelengthand the third had ahuge windowthat overlooked
the school grounds. I didn‘t getthat room, butI surely
wanted it. Asonemight expect it was one of themost popular
girls who drew that room. But because by then she and I had
actually become friends, I was happy she got it. I drewa
larger room with two closets. Imagine that! I could study in
the closet that opened to the bedroom dooror the one inside
theroomacross from the bed. It had huge steam radiators
underthetwo expansive windows and abeautiful fireplace. It
had also been Miss Collier‘s room. Sometime during the
summer, she had passed away.
That winter I had one of the scariest experiences of my
life. It was as if for one night all the souls destined for
eternity to wander the land of the living settled over the
Victorian boarding house.I can‘t remember exactly when it
started or how, but the reports of faces hovering in windows
and inexplicable sounds we followed to no source at all. All

250
the lights in the house flickered on and boarders came out
into the halls startled and mystified.
But not before I had had the chance to fall asleep at the
bell. Another case of haludreality awaited. I lay in bed facing
the windows with the chest of drawers and closet behind me
and with my arms resting outside the covers. At first
Ithought I was dreaming. But then the experience
begantotake on alife ofitsown. Behind me I beganto hear
voices by mychestof drawers growinglouder. I was frozen
with fear. I could hear the drawers being opened and closed.
The closet doors swung on their hinges. The voices were
saying thingslike, ―We‘ll take thisand that but not that ..‖ for
Idon‘t knowhow long. I was still frozen with fear. Iwanted to
turnover to see if someone was there butI couldn‘t make my
body move. I kept thinking that because my arms were not
underthe covers it would be easy to grab my flashlight on
the night stand and whirl around to see who was there. But
that never happened. I felt asthough I were drowning, trying
to tread water. If it was a dream I felt as though I
wanteddesperately to wake up so it would be over. It was as if

251
I were Eurydicecoming up from the underworld only to be
dragged back down. I wanted consciousness. I wanted full
awareness. But I could not get myself to fully wake up.
Meanwhile, the voices continued.
At some point I was released. I still wanted to turnover
butwas just plain scared toeven though now I could move.
Finally, I threw the covers offand ranto thedoor and swung
itopen. Thelights in the hall were on. Girls walked back
andforth, fearin their voices. The boarder in the
towerroomwas outside her room. ―I saw a face in the
window,‖ shesaidclutchingherself.‖It just kind of floated
there.‖ Then there was a loud knocking noise far down the
hall. The boarder who occupied the room there—some
distance from the otherrooms—came running up the hall. As
a senior she,too, had a private room and at the far endof
thehall. Where thehallway sort of bent was the room
ofanotherseniorwho came out,herlights on,and saying,
―What isthat noise? I saw a face in the window.‖ We
huddled insmall groups afraid to return to our rooms. The
house mother on the second floor came out of her room and

252
met with at least ten girls, all talking at once. I don‘t know
how she did it, but she managed to get us all back into our
rooms and the place settled down.
I don‘t think any of us talked about that night. For me I
wasn‘t sure what had been in my room. Ghosts? Real
people? An aural hallucination? And the floating face. I did
not see it but the girl in the tower room had. What were the
odds that we were all hallucinating at once?
Maybe I alone hallucinated the entire affair. I will never
know for sure.
I tried to forget it, but my friend across the hall told me
something that iced my blood. She had arrived that year
before anyone else because her parents were going on
vacation. She solely occupied theentire boarding
departmentexcept for the two house mothers. Even the
nurse,who lived there, was away somewhere, her last
chance,I guess,before she had once more to deal with

253
teenagers. Apparently,at the time,MissCollier‘s family came
toclearher belongings from theroom. My friend acrossthe
hallcould hear them talking amongthemselves and saying,
―We‘ll take this…and that, not this…‖ A chatter almost as
the sounds of the drawers and doors being opened and
closed punctuated the noises of packing.
Dating. What dreary little devil came up with that one?
Although I have seen people on dates actually laughing and
smiling, for me at either 17 or 57 it was nothing but dismal.
Now I realize they were seeing things I didn‘t know about
my own behavior. I have throughout my life said that I am
always the last to know. I didn‘t realize most of my life how
true that was. Sometimes I never knowat all—lost time
again. Everyone else is functioning just fine but I look at the
clock and it says 2:00 p.m. The next time I lookat it it says
5:00 p.m. What happened? Sometimes I can pick up my own
blood trail, but most of the time I can‘t. My foray into dating
was unsuccessful from the very start. I remember my
brother getting me adate with a friend‘s brother.He was
reallycutebut largely so pleased with himself he

254
didn‘tknowwhat to do. Although wewerethe same age, he
was light years ahead of mein maturity. I was a late bloomer
and so was my mother,and I produced some late bloomers
myself.My date with himis one of the times I truly wish I
didn‘t remember. Sometimes, it seems,I forget what I want
to remember and remember what I want to forget. Of course
it wasthe steep crimson old servant‘s stairs that I hadto
navigate to end up in theliving room. Instead, I ended up
onmy ass. You guessed it. I stumbled and slid down those
infernal steepstairs as if I wereon a water ride.And now that
I think about it, why on earth did my parents tell me to come
down viatheladder-like stairs wewere never allowedto use?
It‘s possible that that wasthefirst time I
camedownthem.Certainly it was the first time in heels. It
makes me cringe and, mercifully, I remember no morethan
that about the date. I figure someone else came out to deal
with myhumiliation. I‘m sure it‘s no surprise that I never
saw him again.
Another dating situation just fraught with humiliating
experiences was the cotillions held at the Naval Academy in

255
Annapolis. I woefully participated inthem the three years I
was at St. Agnes.I wondered who the perpetrator of this
masochistic idea was.The ramp we all filed down, boysand
girls alike, was divided into two so thatyou couldn‘t see
anyone on theotherside. The cruelty was immeasurable. You
had no choice about who your date would be; you just
stepped out beyond the curtain and there was your date, the
nextone inline. Both of us were, shallwe say, less than
enamored of one another. And that‘s about all I remember
about that.
There is someone new at the table. Heshowed up last
week, tooka chair, and left May without one. He‘s not an
alter. He‘s more amemorywho verymuch, for some reason,
wants to be an alter. His name is Dan, and that is precisely
all of the information about him I got.My therapist asked me
today how I know he‘s just a memory, and I replied,
―Because he‘s blurry. He has no substance.‖ He reminds me
of what the Romans called what we might say is aghost. For

256
theRomans therewasno heaven orhell. There was the
underworld ruled by Pluto and Elysian Fields. Most people
ended up in the underworld. Elysian Fields was for heroes
like Hercules, Odysseus, or Aeneas. It was light and airy
there, and fields of greengrassand wildflowers stretched
beyond sight.
The underworld wasquite different. Coins wereput on
theeyesof the deceased to pay grumpy old Charon to ferry
them acrossthe Styx to the underworld. If you couldn‘t pay,
you wandered aimlessly among the living who
cannotseeyou. Likewise, ifyou werenot appropriately buried
you would wander. However, a handful of dirt was
sufficient tosend you on your way.
The only thing close to hell was what waited for those
who did heinous crimes intheirlife. Tantalus and Sisyphus
are good examples.Tantalus fed the boiled body of his son
Pelopsto the Olympian gods and goddesses at a banquet to
which he had invited them. For this cannibalistic crime

257
meant to scourge the gods, in Hades he stood in a pool of
clear, cool waterwith trees of pears, pomegranates, apples,
and figs hanging overhis head. Whenever he stooped to
drink, thewater immediately drained away. And when he
reached for thefruit, the wind blew it just out of his reach.
And so he suffered eternal unquenched thirst and
unsatiatedhunger for all eternity.Sisyphus was doomed
torolling ahuge stone up a steep hill only for it to roll back
down where he returned to roll it up again.His crime was
feeding his horses humans to make strong and fearful in
battle. The horrified Olympians threw Sisyphus out of his
chariot and allowed his horses to eat him alive.His
punishment, too, was eternal frustration.
Ordinary people in the underworld were called
―shades,‖ as if, you could say,they were shades of
themselves in life. They just sort of wandered around.
Dan is a shade and he knowshe‘s a shade but is being
stubborn. He is not like the others and should not be there.
How he managed to get to the table, I do not know. Withmy
therapist I relaxed and looked inward where the table

258
appeared with Jacob standing watch and the others all
seated except for May. After a good scolding about their
unwillingness to cooperate we agreedon a suggestion
boxinto which each could put written suggestions on howto
stop the constant repetition of stayingup allnight every
thirdnight. Three andmultiples of three are mystical
numbers. Does that have anything to do withthis repetitive
cycle that is draining me of energy and makingit impossible
to function the next day?That next day I feel as if someone
had used my body for their own ends and left me feeling
like an empty husk. The day is trashed and I am exhausted
literally from the inside out. I have to get two full nights‘
sleep to feel rested again inside.
Somehow I have to get Dan to confess that he is only a
memory and has no place at the table of alters. He certainly
has no right to displace May, a true alter, whose seat he has
absconded.
Nothing is so telling, however, as the fact that he
cannot hold a pencil to write a suggestion.

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I‘m a little out of it today. Well, actually, I‘m a little out
of it every day. I was upuntil 3:00 a.m. I got blind-sided by
an alter who saw a chance to slip out. I wasn‘t, however, as
tiredas I usually am after one of thosenights. I remember
getting all wound up with Facebook and lying down beside
Dylan on the floor and singing to him. When I stopped, he
put his paw on my arm as if to say, ―Don‘t go.Don‘t stop
singing.‖ So I was on the floor for some time. I used to sing
to my younger daughter to soothe her to sleep, so that is
where my repertoire comes from. I‘ve forgotten most of the
songs but maybe one night whenIam on the floor with Dylan
I will remember one or so.
I kept my therapy appointment. After being up so late,
I usually call my therapist and ask for a phone session. I am
just tooexhausted and have no business behind the wheel of
a car. But today was different in more ways than one. First, I

260
was not nearly as depleted as I usually am after such a night.
And second, I physically had trouble talking and mentally I
had trouble forming words and sentences.I stuttered a lot. I
lostmy train of thought at least twenty or thirty times.I had
to ask my therapist over and over, ―Whatwas I talking
about?‖I struggled to corral my thoughts but only bits
andparts ofthem came out of my mouth.Sometimes I have
trouble understanding when other people talk to me. Either
it comes out in a jumble, almost like a different language, or
I can‘t process it. So I just have to ask people as politely as
possible to please repeat themselves.Sometimes it takes up
to four try‘s. That‘s why DVDs and I get along so well. I can
back up as many times as I need to understand what is being
said.And I don‘t have to deal with the embarrassment of
asking someone over and over, ―Could you please say that
again?‖ The telephone is a mine field.I cannot rely on body
language or other cues to figure out what people aresaying.
Sometimes, I simply agree with noidea to what I am
agreeing but it‘s the only way out.

261
I asked my therapist why did she think I washaving so
much trouble and she said she thought it was the DID.
Today was a cabinet day too.When Igot homeI
wentinto the kitchen first to put my purse and bags on the
counter. I left the kitchen, and when I came back, a cabinet
doorwas open. I keep wine glasses in that cabinet. I thought,
―Does somebody want a glass of wine?‖ Then I shut it. I
havehad experiences before like this. I call them quick
switches. All the cabinets will be closed and I will turn away
for what is surely only a few seconds, and whenI look back a
cabinet is open. I‘ll move something only to find it back
where it was.Somebody has to be moving these things via my
body but I have no memory of walking backtoopen, for
instance, a door I had closed.Doors to rooms and closets
keep opening and closing.
For today, Imust stopnow. I‘m tired and, as I said, I‘m
having trouble putting two consecutive words together and
I‘m frustrated. I can‘t concentrate.

262
Today I realized there is someone named Rosemary at
the table but I know nothing about her. For months I have
wanted to call my youngest grandchild Rosemary, but that is
not her name. That horrible facial pain is starting up again.
The number and severity of these headaches have subsided
since mytherapistand I figured out thatthey occur about the
time the horse threw meoff into atree. Only it is not between
4:00 p.m. and 5:00 p.m. It‘s 1:00 in the afternoon. What is
triggering such a migraine now?I don‘t wantto stop
writing,but I‘m afraid itwill get so bad I will notbe able to
continue to write. It has come on suddenly and is gaining
momentum. I think at this rate I may have to take a Percocet.
It‘s either that or be blinded by this thing.I don‘t want to
shut down. I could take a migraine pill except my doctor has
not called a refill into the pharmacy and it has been two
days. I don‘t think he really understands these facial

263
migraines and how hideously painful they are. But then
again, I don‘t think anyone does.
Yes, it is possible to date if you are in an all-girls
school—if there is an all-boys school nearby. Then you can
even have a boyfriend. (Anything is possible.) St. Agnes had
a boys-only day-school counterpart. And then there was
Episcopal High School, then a boarding school for boys. The
guys from St. Stephens were a lot nicer than the ones from
Episcopal, so St. Agnes boarders tended to date St. Stephan‘s
students, which was ourbrother school.
The boarding department had two ―counselors‖ or
youngwomen attendinga nearby college but living at St.
Agnesand being paid for their duties. One of them who was
friends with my sister got me a date with her cousin at

264
Episcopal. It was again one for the record. While most of my
blind dates were nowhere to be found when I came back
from the bathroom, thisone decided to risk it. He wanted to
leave the dance and walk around the campus, or so he said.
He did of course have ulterior motives. He tried to kiss me
but frankly I really did not know what to do. When he
finally gave up, the strains of Three Dog Night‘s One Is the
Loneliest Number wafted from a dark window in one of the
buildings.
So much for that date. As my parents failed miserably
at telling me about the birds and the bees—I learned in the
girl‘s locker room of Ebyn School and was horrified—they
did have to pass on any date I might scare up. One of my
friends at the boarding department wanted to get meadate
with her 27-year-old brother. Now my parents were the
horrified ones and forbade it on all levels. Well,I guess
thiswas the first time I denied my parents‘ judgment, said I
was goingto spend the nightat a friend‘s house, and
attendedtheparty one of her older brothers was giving.
Inretrospect,everything about it seemed strange. The party

265
was being held where her brothers lived, which was a
church that had been moved from its original spot. There
were no pews, but there was an altar before which we all
partied. The Israelitesand a golden calf while Moses was on
the mountain getting the Ten Commandments?Into what
compartment of mybrain was that to go?
The party was also a costume party if you wanted to
dress up. One guy dressed as a public phone booth, another
like a court jester and how appropriate that seemed. My date
picked me up from my friend‘shouse and uncorked a bottle
of wine in the car and offered the open bottle to me. I took
adrink but it did not seemto me to that it waswiseto drink
and drive. I could tell he did it all the time.
This was virgin territory and Ialmost lost mine.
Everybody was inebriated beyond adjectives, and my date
finally got meto go upstairs to a room with just a mattress
with no sheets or anything on it. Yuck. Anyway, he did
manage to get meonit but,to his credit, afterabout twenty

266
minutes he said it was not right and escorted me back to the
party where he stayed with me until the end. I spent
thatnightinthe basement of the church, but on a realbed.
Afew years after that, I heard he had married and had a
child. I think whathe was really ready for was a committed
relationship that would eventually lead tomarriage and
children. So goingout with an inexperienced seventeen-year-
old just did not fit.
So there you have it. My voyages into dating.An
Argonaut I was not. I can‘t tell you how many times I was
left at the bathroom door or how truly difficult it was to get
a blind date. Being the late bloomer that I am, I hadn‘t even a
tendril to send out to reconnoiter. It was forty days and forty
nights in the wilderness.
Now, though, I realize what happened from day one of
this cruise into dating and my daily life in general.

267
Last night there was so much chattering in my head, I
should not have been surprised when I woke up wide awake
and very restless in the middle of the night. A woman‘s
voice was the loudest. This kind of hectic talking was new to
me and I was scared. I knew that, because they were so loud,
I would be able to figure out what they were saying if I tried.
But I chose to ignore them, purposely fail to translate their
chatter into words I could understand. One or more wanted
to come outand had woken me up to do so. I have learned
how to handle these situations andthe solution is not to get
up, let whoever take over, and spend the rest of the night up
doing whatever the alter wants to do. I opt instead for
sedation.So I gotup and took half a Klonopin, turned the
Mind, Body, Sprit“Vibrations‖ music back on, got back into
bed, and fell asleep. So there.

268
People see in me things I do not because I cannot look
at myself. Something about me catches their attention and
not necessarily for good. I have seen employees at Weis
where I grocery shop looking at me, usually the cashiers.
Sometimes I don‘t know which line to get into and look to
see someone staring at me. They don‘t smile. They just look.
Meanwhile, I realize that at least for a split second I have
switched. Someone else was there. And when I switch back
the expression on faces is quizzical. What do they see? Do I
look out of it? Does my expression change? Does my attitude
seem different? Do my mannerisms suddenly change? Do I
speak as in talk to myself? Of course talking to myself is not
news to me. I do it all the time. My sister once told me that
when you live alone you learnto enjoyyour own company
and that sometimes she turned on the TV just to hear other
human voices.She was right, and I have been living alone a
long time and helda lot of conversations with myself.
At least I think it‘s myself. Could be a co-presence.
Could be acomplete switch.Could be a mini-switch. Could

269
be, merciful God, me simply talking tomyself. But I never
know, and if I do I will alwaysbe the last to know.
And so at EbynSchool I was always the last to know or
find out things. I think it was partly because the DID was
manifesting itself without any awareness on my part. The
other part is that teenagers can be horribly cruel to one
another.I fell into both categories. From twelve years old I
walked a tightrope and did not even know it. Should I have
fallen then there would not have been anyone to catch me.
The DID I am sureaccounts foragreat deal oftheshunning
that went on atEbynSchool. Often, especiallywhenI see those
former classmates, I wonder what they saw and if they still
see it. It‘s like trying to catch a ghost. Your hands move right
through it. And when I did finallycollapse much later in my
life, there was indeed no one to catch me. The people I
expectedto catch me either just weren‘tthere ordidn‘t care or
couldn‘t understand. I wasnot diagnosed with DID until
Iwasinmy late forties. In those years there was a lot of
confusion on my part.I was so confused I didn‘t understand
that I was confused.So many odd things seemed to keep

270
happening. Until then, my diagnosis was major depression
and panic disorder. There were two psychiatric experts I
confounded completely. They both gave up on me andnot
very professionally.
Thefirstwas a therapist to whose appointments I rarely
made it on time. I don‘t know what kept happening—still
don‘t—but he finally told me he would not treat meany
longerbecause I was always late. Excuse me? Were we in
kindergarten?I‘d always been late. My entire family had
always been late. I attribute my chronic tardiness to the
factthatI was born two weeks overdue and that I‘m still
looking for those two weeks.I realize now that my chronic
lateness was part of my mental problems.
I went to this psychiatrist for several years and had
great faith in him, but hecouldn‘t figure out why I still had
panic attacks even though I was on Xanax, Neurontin,
Prozac, and a host of other medications. And I mean a host.
So many I can‘t remember them allnow. He tried changing

271
my antidepressant to Zoloft because I told him that Prozac
didn‘t seem to be helping anymore. For a while I wasonboth.
He finally decided that all ofthis wasnotdepressionat all, but
epilepsy. He told me hecouldn‘t understand with all the
medications I was taking how I could possibly still be having
panic attacks. I think he did not believe me when I told him
that the attacks were not only still going on but were
escalating. And they were miserable. I lived in avacuum of
panic and depression with no one willing to treat me. How
does a thing like that happen? Thepsychiatrist just stopped
making appointments with me. Icalled and calledandcalled
and got no response. I finally did, yes, but I don‘t remember
exactly what it was.
I do know this. Bothfailedto help meandit became
personal for them.It wasmy fault that I was
mentallyunstable. Itwasmy fault becauseit certainly couldn‘t
betheirssincethey were the professionals. They plain
misdiagnosed me, a possibility that never enteredtheir
minds—ordid it? Did it and was it simply unacceptable that

272
they just couldn‘t figure out what was wrong? It had to be
me. How convoluted isthat?
Ultimately, the psychiatrist stopped answering my calls
to make appointments. I kept callingbecause, no,I
didn‘tunderstand. His swan song wasto tell me to go to the
emergency room and tell them I was having apanicattack
andmaybe they would do an MRI for epilepsy. That this idea
didn‘t work was the world record for being an
understatement.
It occurs to me here that I should probably delete
everything I‘ve written and put in its place one sentence:
I don‘tremember.
No, I don‘t remember anything after checking in at the
emergency room. What I tell you here is as much as I can
puttogether from whatmy two daughters have told
me.Apparently, instead of sending meto X-ray they sent me

273
to the psychiatric ward. I wonder why? I‘m sure they saw all
sorts of things about me that were untoward. My younger
daughter tells me I was in the wardfor at least three days. At
the time she and Ilived in a trailer (I‘ll get to that) and she
said during my absence she merely carried on. Her
sisterfinally calledand asked where I was. My younger
daughter told her and her sister was horrified that her
seventeen-year-old sibling was living alone in atrailer park
whose tenants were largelyinebriated Spanish and Mexican
people. According to my younger daughter, the park
denizens polished off a case of beer every night. But I have
often thought that it was really not their fault. Work was
hard to find, and they, like me, were just tryingto survive.
My youngerdaughter says she wasunphased by my absence.
She just got onto the bus to school each day andreturned to
the trailer after being dropped off by the bus. She told me
that she really was unconcerned with the change in affairs,
that there was plenty of food in the refrigerator, and she just
went about her business. She had a couple of friends over,
she told me, and they drank a few of the wine coolers from
the many boxes I hadof them in my closet. Don‘tremember
that either—having boxes of wine coolers. I did buy wine

274
coolers butI thought I got just a four-pack atatime.No, she
says I had cases. She assures meshe had no parties and
laughed about the fact that the coolers were only about ten
percent alcohol. She said that Ididcallher. Ultimately, her
sister cameandgother andeventually we allreturned from
whence wecame.
This whole experience vies with some of the most
extraordinary episodes of lost time I have endured.
Lifeat St. Agneswenton. I sat every night at one of
thedining room tablesandtriedto wrap my head around
Cicero‘s orations. Later, I finally figured out why the
Romans always put the verb at the veryend of the sentence.
It was becausetheyused no punctuation, so you found the
verb first andeverything before it was the sentence. Latin

275
poetry for me was much easier than cranky old Cicero. So I
enjoyed my fourth year of Latin translating The Aeneid. If
anyone at St. Agnes thought I was weird, they never
expressed it the way the students at Ebyn School did. I was
regarded as being quiet. How accurate that was. I was afraid
to raise my hand in class whether I knew the answer or not; I
was afraid to chime in during a discussion among my
friends or classes; I was petrified into a mute at the seminar
set up. In seminars how much you contributed to the
conversation was a large part of your grade. I steered as
clear from them as I could in both high school and college. In
high school I was first introduced to the seminar in the
Advanced Placement class for English. The table idea was
frightening. Even if I did have an opinion, I kept it tomyself.I
was afraid I would be scoffed at. The entire way in which I
handled regular classesand seminars dated backto
EbynSchool where a fair amount of snickering went on
when I answered a question. There was a lot of eye-rolling
and shifting in chairs. My experience atEbyn School setthe
tone for my entire academic career. Self-study courses in
which the student met privately with the professor were
wrought with piercing fear, even when I was 24 and in a

276
post-graduate English course to complete requirements to
bean English teacher.
A creative writing class at St. Agnes
alongwiththeEnglish Advanced Placement enabled meto
take a senior creative writing class as a freshman. It further
taught me to keep my mouth shut. Suffice it to say that my
high school English teacher felt I had talent; my college
professor did not.
My St. Agnes teachers were among some of the most
encouraging teachers I have ever had. And I sought their
acclamations as much as I did for my father‘s. It was all
worth it to get his attention, yet I lived in fear. I was afraid of
students and teachers alike at both Ebyn School and St.
Agnes, and I was afraid of him.His temper was unequalled.
It led finallyto a heart attack while he was hitting with a
newspaper a recalcitrantGerman Shepherd.

277
My father liked German Shepherds. I think he very
much wanted a dog loyal only to him. So he got—from
where Ido not know—an ex-police dog that was a
GermanShepherd. His name was Rinnie after the famous Rin
Tin Tin and we were not allowed to even so much as pet
him. He lay down in the livingroom where my father
worked anddidn‘t move amuscle unlessmy father toldhim
to. I haveoften wondered if hewould have attacked if
directed to do so. My father with Rinnieby his side would
sitoutside for hours in the summer in a lawn chair until it
was way past dark. I think he was surveying all he held. He
put the chair right smackinthe middle of the expansive lawn
bordered my lilies, ewe trees, ivy, a Chinese chestnut,
orange lilies, and huge, old box bushes that datedbackto his
mother who plantedthem.They were among my father‘s
favorite bushes but unfortunately they are notoriously slow
growers.So by the time Rinnie was in the picture, his mother
had been long gone and the boxwoods were large enoughto
peer into the dining room and library. In summer after
dinner when it stayed light until 9:00 p.m., he would go
outside and pick off any dead growth, leaf by tiny leaf. He
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278
would not bother him. He sweated copiously and in general
cut quite a silhouette in the setting sun. (The sweating was
genetic. I know.)
Rinnie indeed was a dog anyone would want.His
unfailing loyalty made him the perfect companion for my
father,who broke his own rules where he was concerned.
Rinnie spent the night in the basement. Ordinarily, my
father would have put him in the yard for the night because
he did not believe in bringing animals into the house. Rinnie
spent most of his time in the house.
One morningwhen my father went to the basement to
open the heavy dark green basementdoor leadingto the area
way, he found Rinnie dead. No one ever knew the cause.
After that, my father tried to find areplacement forRinnie—
he failed miserably because what he was really looking
forwas another Rinnie and that could never be.

279
I do notknow either from whence the second
GermanShepherdcame. His name was Major and loyalty
was not in his repertoire. He proved recalcitrant, restless,
and aggressive.Wewere not allowed to touch him either,
which was probably agood thing.He was on an endless
pilgrimage toescape. He would not tolerate the fence that
marked his large yard. Onetimeweall looked out the kitchen
window to see Major teetering on hisstomach on top of one
of the posts of the fence. Pain could not evenstay him from
his course.Another time he got hishead through oneofthe
little boxes of wire that made up the fence, then couldn‘t get
it out, so my father took a pair of wire cutters and cut him
out.
Clearly, fencing Major was not the solution. So my
fathertook the fence down,drove a post deep into the
ground, and chained the dog toit.Another one day we all
looked out of the kitchen window to see the post gone.
Along with Major. Hehad actually uprooted the post and
run away post, chain, and all. We would spot him around
the woods nowand then and decided he probably went feral.

280
But not before he had left his markon thefamily in
general andin particular.Itwas Major my fatherwas tryingto
train when he had a heart attack. And it was my cat he tore
apart in a barnyard shed.
One Friday when we had rolled into the gravel circle
before the house home for the weekend, my parentsslowly
stopped the car. There was amoment ofsilence and then they
looked around at me.They told me that Major during one of
his escapes had cornered Tab, one of my two cats, in a shed
and not left much behind. I do not remember much of this. I
don‘t even remember being upset or crying. I remember
only getting out of the car and after that nothing. I suppose it
was one of those times someone else came out to handle the
situation like someone must havewhen I found one of my
two parakeets dead on the bottomof the cage.
My parents had already buried Tab—I can‘t imagine to
this day what that must have been like. After that and
wellinto her old age my mother refused to let any guard dog

281
she had for protection to cross the threshold of the basement.
Guard dogs or not, these dogs were friendly and playful.
When any of the three of us were at home, we would go out
into the yard to play withthem.But by andlarge, they lived
lonely lives with little affection, yet they were loyaland
loving. They lived out their days in two custom-made dog
houses one of which was filled with hay for warmth
inwinter.My mother had checked with the vet on what to do
with them in winter sinceshe would not let him inside, and
he condoned the use of hay.
In her later years she let Tom, the other of the two cats I
got (eventually) after my visit(s) to the child psychologist,
into the house and kept him in my brother‘slarge room
upstairs, a bedroomwith anadjoining bathroom for his box.
He lived totwenty and likeanyhuman outliving what was
considered the maximum life span, he plotted against
mymother and went onto the attack whenever she came into
the bedroom, whether she was carrying food or not.
Apparently, it was war.I think some spitting wenton and
some ambushing and a claw or two before he finally

282
expired. After him my mother got another cat whom shekept
in the upstairs bedroom also. Afterseveral years, shedecided
tolet thatcat roam the house. She slept on my mother‘s bed at
night and ambushed from underneath furniture anyone else
walking by.My mother, however, she left alone. In other
words, she did not bite the hand that fed her, as Tom had.

283
It was traditional at St.Agnes that the seniors play a
practical joke on the juniors. We elected tomake Ex-Lax
chocolate chip cookies. Although it wasimpossible to tell the
Ex-Lax chunks from thechocolate chips, it was also
impossible to know how much Ex-Lax each cookie had. The
idea was actually the brain child of me and a couple of other
studentsfromthe boarding department. I cannottellyou how
funny wethoughtthis was. Wecould barely keep a straight
face as we served them when they were inabus for a field
trip.Had something like thatbeendone now, I shudder to
think of the consequences. That isnot to say, however, that
we got away with it. How could we? Parents, I imagine,
calledthis to the attention of the headmistress. I remember
makingand serving the cookies. And I remember getting into
trouble for it. How the headmistress knew who had done it,
I haven‘t the foggiest, but we found ourselves one day called
to her office where there were three wooden chairs set up in
front of her desk. Sowe took our seats. The headmistress

284
lookedatmy two friends and said, ―I might have expected
something like this from you.‖ Then she turned her head to
look at me and said, ―but not of you.‖ After that I remember
nothing. I succeeded in humiliating myself. I‘m sure my
parents were informed. What the punishment was has been
washed away through the years.
Today is not a good day. Night before last I was up
until at least 3:00 a.m. I stayed up past 8:00 p.m. to finish
watching anNCIS episode—anathema— and someone saw
their chance toslip outand take over.I remember singing
toDylan on the floor andcleaning the kitchen and half
bath.Ieven wrote down exactly whatIhad cleanedand
howand what remained to be done and leftiton the kitchen
counter. I do appreciate my letting myself know because I
had intended to cleanthe next day anyway. I got up at 11:30
a.m. Dylan and I could not walk because of rain so Iwent

285
after breakfast immediately to cleaning the restof the house.
My energy, though, did not hold out long and I struggled to
finish it. I hate to clean in general, but I really hate changing
the sheets on the bed—what a process. I remember when I
was young fitted sheets did not exist. By the time we had
reached our teens fitted sheets showed up in the stores. But
my mother never bought any. Maybethat is why I hate
changing sheets: It was so incredibly hard to make a bed
with two top sheets. And they always came loose so you had
to tuck it allin again the next morning. And towels. My
mother never bought a new towel that Ican remember and
the towels du jour were black.Who buys blacktowels? How
funerary. My mother always calculated the spot-and-stain
factorwhen she bought such things as—yes—towels for the
family. We could beat them up allwe wanted and it
wouldn‘t show. A lot like someone with DID. I actually have
the last one which isin the kitchen beneath Dylan‘s bowl of
water.
The other thing I hate to clean is the birdcage. I don‘t
know why. Maybe it has something to do with the dead

286
parakeet I found in my bird cage as a child. Like I said the
only thing I remember about it is seeing the bird on the
bottom of the cage. I must have buried it. Perhaps there is an
alter that carries that memory so that I do not have to.
Usually, I‘m tired from the inside out—and I mean
inside my body, my organs, my bones—after an all-nighter,
but I didn‘t thatday. I feel like that now after twelve hours of
sleep.I should feel refreshed. Ialways do after getting
thatnextnight‘s sleep. Today I am on the verge of a
headache, which is always a sign that someone wants out,
and I feel weary. I‘m hungry but there isn‘t anything I want
to eat. I feel depressed. And I shouldn‘t at all because later
today I will see both of my daughters and all my
grandchildren. Perhaps the reasonI feel weary and tired and
depressed is the dream I had last night. I dreamt about a
good friend of mine who had breast cancer at one point and
whom I haven‘t seen for several years. I saw her with her
husband and son. I can‘tshakethefeelingthat sheisdead.

287
What have I done? She disappeared for a while. She
had gone upstairs and taken a nap on my bed. Earlier when
we were in the room she hadexclaimed on how comfortable
the bed looked. Oh, what have I done? She cried and she
cried. She sought solace by lying on my bed as she had done
so many times as a child because she couldn‘t sleep. But now
my bed, her mother‘s bed, offered only phantoms in the
mirror. She was trying to find her mother, the one she knew
when she was growing up, the one who loved her so much
and took wonderful care of her, except for those
unexplainable things that kept happening—her bedroom
locked; she never locked her bedroom door. She would go
inthere, lock the door, and come out about an hour later and
beherself again. Sourceless anger. Yelling. She had never
been like that. It was as if there was a switch somewhere that
someone flipped on and off and you never knew what
would happen next.

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―I saw things in your mirror,‖ she said to me when she
came down.
From there it all deteriorated. Her boyfriend would not
take her to her friend‘s house whose father had just died and
it was so important to her to be there for her, to support her.
She was exhausted. She cried and she cried.We tried to tell
her she needed a good night‘s rest, to step back for a while,
gather herself together. She would be of no comfort to her
friend if she was on the verge of a breakdown herself.She
cried and cried, those beautiful, wide blue eyes lined with
green shadow that made themlook like emeralds. She‘d
wanted to leave earlier but they came late because they had
so many things to do. They didn‘t get here until about 6:00
p.m. and left around 10:00 p.m. She asked her sister through
her tears if she would drop her off in Laurel so she could
spend the night with her friend who had no siblings, only an
estranged mother. She asked her sister if she‘d pick her up in
the morning to go to her father‘s party. She asked her sister
if she would drop her off in Laurel so she could spend the

289
night with a close friend whose father had just died. She‘d
gone that day with her friend to identify the body. She had
never seen a dead body before. She asked her sister if she‘d
drop her off in Laurel so she could spend the night with her
friend.She didn‘t want to go identify the body. She did it for
her friend at whose house she asked her sister to drop her
off for the night.
I tried to tell her what I‘d seen in that room when I‘d
wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.I
thought about the time I looked in that mirror and saw a
stranger looking back at me. But she cried and cried.
―It always seems to end like this when she comes over.‖
―Oh, believe me, it happens when she comes to see us.‖
What have Idone? She‘d had no experience with death.
At her age my father had been dead for three years. I will

290
never forget it, the sight of six menbearing their friend to the
grave inan oaken casket sprayed with yellow flowers. Such a
beautiful and warm October day.A man is being borne to the
grave, yet nature simply carries on as if it were of no
consequence whatsoever. Oh, what have I done? She cried
and cried tears of emerald. She asked her sister if she would
drop her off at her friend‘s house in Laurel, that her
boyfriend would not take her. She turned to me and
whispered, ―I saw things in your mirror.‖She asked her
sister if she would pick her up in Laurel to go to her father‘s
party the next day. She left the kitchen again.
―What‘s wrong?‖
―She‘s upset by something you said.‖
―What?‖

291
―It upset her that you didn‘t remember when you were
in the psychiatric ward for three days while you and she
were living in the trailer.‖
―But we had such a good conversation on the phone.
She left me a really sweet voicemail afterward. She—―
―She didn‘t want to upset you so you‘d switch. We‘re
careful what we tell you, Mommy, in case you get upset and
switch.‖
Oh, what have I done?
The mirror. Faces in the mirror.They
shouldnothavebeenthere. I told them not to come out when
other people were around. They scared her to death. In my
life I have had to identify both my sister‘s and mother‘s
bodies. She asked her sister if she‘d drop her off in Laurel at
a friend‘s house. She wanted to spend the night with her

292
friend to help support her. Her mother was useless. It travels
throughthe women on my mother‘s side. My mother‘s
mother had it; my mother had it; I had it; now she has it.
Which grandchild would be next? Is it possible for two
peopleto hallucinate the same thing at the same time? My
mother and I watched togetherthe cloud of mist rise over the
ewe tree and float across the lawn,dissipating finally at the
other end of the lawn.
―I‘ve seen it before,‖ she said.
And tendrils. Wispy tendrils in the dark of
nightoutliningmy father‘s figure. Bumps and noises. Bats
behind the shutters. Mice skittering through the walls.
Footsteps on the stairs. Closed doors found reopened time
and time again. Whispers. Growls.She asked her sister if she
would pick her up in Laurel the next day to go to her
father‘s party. Oh, what have I done? She cried and she
criedglistening emerald tears.

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―She‘s upset by something you said.‖
―What?‖
―It upset her that you didn‘t remember when you were
in the psychiatric ward while you and she were living in the
trailer.‖
―But we had such a good conversation on the phone.
She left me a really sweet voicemail afterward. She—―
―She didn‘t want to upset you so you‘d switch. We‘re
careful what we tell you, Mommy, in case you get upset.‖
When theyleft sheturned to me and said firmly, ―I saw
things in your mirror.‖

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I switched again last night. I hadbeenbracing for it all
day. My older daughter had said they couldn‘t get here until
after 4:00 p.m. because they hada lot of stops to make. My
younger daughter was coming too. I was excited. I seldom
see her and love her so.She can‘t find the cross my mother
gave her andstill mourns the loss of all that gold jewelry my
sister left her when someone robbed the house and took
every fragment they couldfind. I‘m going to get her one
from The Jewelry Exchange. They dealin estate jewelry,
beautifuljewelry. I‘ll havetoget a cross andchain at different
times soI can save up in-between.
She loves her dog.Her name isBrenna andshe
dressesherin little sweaters. She‘s a pit bull and as sweet as
she canbe.She loves that dog. Dylan andBrenna had abig

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day, chasing eachother, stealing dog toys from each other,
eating the scraps that fell on the floor from my
grandchildren‘s cookies and potato chips. A grand day.
They make the pilgrimage to myhousein Frederick
from Bowie regularly to help me do things I can‘t myself or
would have to pay someone to do. My son-in-law trimmed
my tree, which was drooping over the sidewalk so
muchpeople were having to duck to walk under it. He got
that infernal broken black snakeof a hose unscrewed and put
a new oneon.Hebrokedownboxes left from anattempted
move and set them outfor trashpickup. Some ofthose boxes
were astall asI am, but he‘s a lot taller.My daughters took me
to a T-Mobile store to switch from Verizon because it was
cheaper. And I got quitethe snazzy phone.
Thethree of us talked a lot. My younger daughter used
my Principal Secret loose powder. She triedto linemylower
lids but itwasn‘t very successful.

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I knew I wouldn‘t be abletoward offthe switch because
I wouldnotbe able tofollow my evening routine and bein bed
between 8: 00 p.m. or 8:30 p.m. And I was keyedup after
they left and knew I wouldnot beableto sleep, soIpopped in
an NCISDVD andwaited to calmdown.
I vaguely remember in the early morning light feeding
Dylanand making sure he got hismedicines for apinched
nerve in hisneck. I knew it was likely to act up sincehe‘d
been so active that day.I forgot to take my own meds which I
had prepared before my family arrived because I knew it
would be late when they left,that I would probably switch,
and that I would be in no condition to parcelthem out.
When Iwoke upmeds-less, I took some of them. Iwaited
awhile longerand tookthe rest.I began to feel normal again
andtheheavy depression began to lift. Iwastired but couldn‘t
sleep anymore, so I got up and went to Weis forno good
reason at all otherthanto spend money, something I hold an
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WhenI got downstairs, I wentinto the kitchen to let
Dylan out. Someonehad run thedishwasher and put all the
clean dishes away. I had no recollection of that, but I do
remember having sixeggs over easy. Somebody surelikes
eggs.And Iguess I was hungry sinceI never haddinner the
nightbefore—I opted for junk food instead. It was
everywhere—in the pantry,on the floorscarried from room
to room by my grandchildren. I think it was the first time I
actually hadjunkfood for them when they came. I‘m a little
slow on the uptake, but when I get there, I‘m there.
Grandmothers should always have lots of junkfood when
their grandchildren come over.I may even be able to take
offmy grandmother-in-training badge soon.
I really dothankmyself for doing those dishes. Ihate
doing dishes.

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I went up about 4:30 p.m. to parcel out pills and put on
some pajamas. While I was coming down the stairs I heard
voices and a strange noise I could not identify. Sometimes it
seemed to be in front of me and sometimes in back. The
voices were loud but unintelligible. Once again the sound of
a woman‘s voice was most prominent. I looked over at
Dylan and he was fast asleep—he is my litmus test. If he
makes no move, then I know it is me anditis notreal.If he
perks up his ears or runs to the front door barking, then I
know it is real and that he will protect me.
Graduation at St. Agnes was very different from
graduation in other schools. We wore long white dresses of
our own choice. I made my own dress on an ancient sewing
machine that had belonged to my great aunt who lived in a
small townhouse in Georgetown. I fought with it and it
fought with me. But I finally finished. White dotted
Swisswith ruffles at the neck and hem. It looked quite

299
professional. After that I went through a phase of making
my own clothes. I don‘t think I‘d have the patience for it
now. It would probably end up looking like the dress Lucy
made to show Ricky she was trying to be frugal.
Holding flowers, we filed between rows of chairs. It
was June and the days were getting hotter, but Ido not
remember the heat on that day.We sat in the front rows. I
don‘t remember being handed my diploma but I must have
because I still have it. My parents gave me as a graduation
present a wide silver bangle bracelet with a silver safety
chain. I still have that too.
I had gotten into the college of my choice early
decision. Its classics department was the best on the east
cost, and I already knew what my major would be. I didn‘t
havetothink about it twice. What I didn‘t suspect was that I
would have two majors and a minor in English.

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And that is all I remember of graduation from St.
Agnes School.

301
Chapter Twenty-Four
College. I boldly went where no Byers had gone before.
That other major? Turned out to be religion with a
concentration in Buddhism. At the end I got the prize for the
most creative religion student in my graduating class. I was
also inducted into a Latin society whose name I cannot
remember except that it was, of course, in Latin. I was also
inducted into the CumLaude society and graduated magna
cum laude.
School had always been mything, whether I suffered
from it at the hands of my classmates or not. I didn‘t get
heckled at St. Agnes the way I was at Ebyn School, but the
idea that I was ―weird‖ beganto gather momentum once
again in my freshman year at college. And once again I was
woefully underdeveloped for my age.I had, no doubt,some
catchingup to do, which I did. WhenI graduated from
college, I was still not quite all there. DIDhad directed my

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life according to its events.And perhapsthisperception that I
was weird was the DID at work, something neither I nor my
classmates or (precious few) friends realized.
My memory of college was not a linear one. I have
forgotten probably just about most of it. But I will relate
what highlights I do remember. This may be a very short
chapter on a significant four years of my life.
My roommate that first year was, as always, Number
One in just about everything: beautiful long red hair,
popular, statuesque, a popular upper class boyfriend within
weeks of the start of school, lots of expensive clothes and the
finest in makeup, an allowance from her parents. There
wasonly one thing wrong. She was a kleptomaniac.
Suddenly, things began disappearing. Clothes, makeup,
hair products, jewelry, even birth control pills. She would
appear in the dining hall in someone else‘stops. Other girls
on the dorm floor found their makeup on her dresser. But

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most shocking of all is that she began to take my clothes. I
was immediately ranked higher, as much asurprise to me as
to anyoneelse. I had already established myself as one of
themost innocent girls around.My two best friendsthere
used to entertain themselves by saying shocking things to
me or using profanity just to see my reaction. They couldn‘t
believe I wasso naïve.When yougrow up on a 300-acre
tobacco farm in the middleof nowhere among very old
families who believe in things like private schools, boarding
schools, family mansions, ancestry, proper etiquette, polite
society, truly grand parties, you‘re going to be naïve at the
very least. (If you gave your own parties, you were
guaranteed invitations to like parties from everyone who
came to yours. One of my father‘s cousins, however,
managed to accomplish the unaccomplishable: He never
gave a party himself yet was invited to everyone else‘s. He is
no longer here to tell his magical tale but I remember when
my mother let the cat out of the bag.)
The girls on my dorm floor decided to take alook for
themselvesand would sneak in when my roommate was

304
gone and carefully went through her things.The makeup
was the only immediately visiblestolen items because she
left them on the top of her dresser where anyone could see.
But in her closet and drawers you had to look a little
harder—but not much. They found tops and dresses
andjeans, even underwear. In the bathroom they found their
shampoos and conditioners and soap and razors on hershelf.
The towels of others hung beneath.
Another all-nighter that blitzed its waythrough my
existence.I can‘t remember when I went up, but the clock
was set for 11:30 a.m. I got up alittle before that feeling tired,
determined not to spend the day in bed but follow my
routine as much as I could. Ihad fed Dylan before going up. I
took him onhis hour‘s walk. However, as the day wore on, I
began to feel worse and worse. I remember onlythe really
badmoments, those in which I had to goup and lie on the

305
bed to gather a little momentum. Ihad two reallybad
panicattacks that sent mebackto bed twiceinaddition to the
―Ican hardly standanymore‖ trip to the bed.It was is if
someone had hijacked my body and was still there. I
couldn‘t doany of the things I had planned: I was too busy
trying to feel normal—well, normal for me.By the time I fed
Dylan at 4:00p.m., I was beginning the crash landing. I
managed to feed him and Elvis and refill water bowls. I
wentup to parcelout pillsbefore I crashed altogether andto
put on pajamas. Once again for the trillionth time, I looked
for a brand new and missing pajama top. It had been gone
for two days and I had looked—and I know better than
this—everywhere. It‘sstill gone. Someone took it and
nowIhave to wait forthat person to return it to me.If they feel
like it. It could reappear anywhere and things have, so there
was just no use in looking for them. If they want me to have
it, it reappears in a place I commonly go in the house or a
place in whose direction I commonly tend to look, and a
number of things have turned up that way. If they do not
want to return it, then I never see it again. It always makes
me angry when they do something like this. Then I get so
frustrated that I can‘t find itthat I start slamming cabinet

306
doors, cursing, and generally stomping around. Allof this
never produces the missing article. It onlydrives mefurther
nuts.
I was determined still to follow my routine because I
did not want to screw up the next day too. SoI defrosted
apiece of chicken and shook ‗nbaked it, and then couldn‘t
get it down. I drank two glasses of milk and that did not
settle right either. I was feelingsick by now,so sick I knew I
had to just skip it and go to bed. So I shut blinds, turnedon
night lights, took pills, popped in the mouth guard (I grind
my teethat night so much I have ground all the enamel off
my teeth. It‘s all fixed now, but there‘s not a tooth in my
head that properly belongs tome.), covered the birds,
turnedon theMind, Body, SpiritCD ―Tranquility‖(and boy did
I need some)andcollapsed into bed. When I woke up Iwas in
exactly the same position I had been whenI wenttobed. I had
not moved an inch. I woke up a little before my alarm went
off tofind Dylan on the bed with me.

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This switch had been a particularly bad one. It felt as
though someone else was in my body and tiring it out
doingeverything and anything they wantedtodo with
absolutely no regard for me. All that day I felt as if someone
was still there, refusing to go. Then all of a sudden I was
given my body back all used up—exhausted, nauseated,
sick.
Andasif allthat were not enough, I had a very strange
dream. I can‘timagine where I got the energy to dream. In it I
was more or less held hostageby an extremist religious
group and I couldnot seem to escape. To show them what I
thought of them, I spent my time reading their openedmail
(?) instead of the religious matter right besidethe mail.
Iignored them totally but could feel them watching me. I felt
theireyeson me allthe time. Three times Itried to escapewith
another woman not as iron-willed as I can be. We sneaked
out of windows, dartedthrough temporarily open doors, and
generally waited for a chance torun . The first time they
caught us. We hadn‘t gottenvery far. We were still on their
ground. The second time it occurred tomethatifwe got to a

308
public road or sidewalk wemaybeableto intimidate them
enough with reality. We got caught. But I was certain if we
got enough onto public property that we could outrun
them.My partner in crimewas exhausted and no longer
believed we could run to freedom. This third attempt
required quick thinking and moving. She said she did not
believe we could escape. So I went alone. Andthistime I
reached even stores on apublic sidewalk, exuberantbecause I
hadactually escaped them.
You tell me whatthat dreammeans. Ihavenoidea.
Today, I still feel tired though not like yesterday.
Usually, the day afteragoodnight‘s sleep, I‘m OK. But lately
it‘s taken two good night‘s sleeps. It was when I was in
Walmart that I began to feel nauseated.I thought, ―This is
not fair. I will not spend two days in at the bottom of the
barrel at another‘s behest.―Then as I went along I discovered
I was nauseated because I was hungry. I‘d eaten practically
nothing the day before. I was feeling tired again.

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After a while, I caught several people looking at me. I
thought, ―This is not good. It‘s time to gohome.‖ Then I
thought, ―It‘s time to get off the road.‖
At Walmart I needed furnace filters, peanut butter (to
wrap Dylan‘smedicinein so he‘ll eat it), and running shoes.
And while I was there I bought some pajamas—a top to
replace the missing one and two other pajama sets. Sothere.
Andto all the Hungry Ghosts, I give you the
raspberries.
They devised a plan of two parts. Part I consisted of
simply retrieving their belongings from herpossession,
without a word. In Part II they rescued what was left of their
hair products and towels and poured out about a fourth of

310
her shampoo and refilled itwith urine. She never knew the
difference,or at least shenever mentioned it. How it
happened then, I can‘tremember, butwewere roommates for
the next year, our sophomore year. She was justas bad ifnot
worse.
Yes, my horizons were broadly heightened in college.
The good far outweighed the bad. It was also the time when
I began goingthrough cyclical periods of heavy depression
and, lookingback now, beganto switch.
The first incident that I can remember that made no
sense involved a carton of cigarettes. My second semester I
had begun to smoke. Then you could get a whole carton of
cigarettes for what you pay for one pack these days. My
parents did not give us an allowance while we were in
college. We were supposed to get summer jobs and that
would be our spending money for the year for clothes and
other items (such as cigarettes). What a mathematical
colossus. I always had to get a part time job while in school.

311
Thesummer wages just didn‘t cover it, nor could I
understand how. It was the beginning of my inability to
handle money, and it is a reality I can understand only in
retrospect. I worked three years at People‘s Drug Store (now
CVS, whatever that stands for). Most of my friends got an
allowance. I thought their parents must be very wealthy. It
turned out that my parents were the ones who were odd for
giving no allowances, not my friends for getting one.
Some students‘ parents setup a charge cardinthe college
bookstore with which they could buybooks and school items
and just about anything else inthere. Well, at the beginning
of one semester, my parents accused me of charging a carton
of cigarettes and were they irate. I was to charge only books,
including recommended reading, and school supplies. But I
didn‘t charge a carton at the college store and I was never
able to convince them. Or did I? I was reallyhurtthat they
would thinkI‘d do something so irresponsible, thatI would
take advantage of their largesse in supplying mewith allI
needed to study and be successful. I was assiduous about
such things. I could behonest to afault. And I neverwould

312
have charged somethingthey told menot to. They had done
avery good job of raisingme. Why couldn‘tthey seethat? And
also asdirectedI secured, howevermiserable, summerjobs to
pay for things like cigarettes.
Those summer jobs were almost always retail jobs.
Landover Mall had just been built andallthree of us headed
there. There are two jobs that I remember that I wish I could
forget. One was in a women‘s retail store, a small one, not a
department store. It was cut-throat. It was commission.
Itinvolved the difference in races—it was the seventies with
thesixties not too far behind.The manger was white and the
assistant manger was black. I don‘t know why I remember
this tidbit but I remember goinginto the store andasking
theassistantmanager if they were accepting applications. She
called for the managerand toldher, ―This young lady is
seeking employment.‖ The formality stillconfuses me. Any
way, I got a job but I was miserably unable to operate on
commission in such anatmosphere. The three other
employees, one ofwhich was blackand very loud, were as
nasty asthey could be to me. The black woman bullied me

313
mercilessly. She yelled at me. She insulted me. She stole my
customers. She criticizedme. And all prominently enough for
everyone in thestore and possibly the mall to hear. She stole
customers when I wasn‘t looking or was paying attention to
another customer (which gaveyou two chances at
commission). She practically ran to any customer who
entered thestore, but whatwas good for the goose was not
good for the gander. I tried that and was criticized for it, to
the extent ofaprivate conversation with the manager. Was it
that she could do no wrong or was it that she was black and
Iwas white,thattheassistantmanager was black and the
manager white? Was there a percentage problem here?I was
in the process of becoming educated. Theblack employee
was usingher streetsmarts, something I could not compete
with having grown upon a remote tobacco farm in the heart
of genteel Southern Maryland, attended private day schools,
and boarding school. She picked up on it allsomehow. I
think she could smellit. Whatever, it infuriated her. Perhaps
she saw me as privileged althoughsheknew nothingabout
me. She was a lot older than me. Perhaps that was conducive
to bullying me. So on a daily basis Icompeted as best Icould
to garner customers, and I garnered precious few. Which

314
meant I wasnot making commission which was either a
burden to the store or a sign that I was not trying.
I finally did make commission and the manager gave
me my paycheck right out in the middle of the storein front
of the assistantmanager, the otheremployees, and any
customers and gave with the right and took with the left.
Shewanly commended me for finally makingcommissionand
then informed me it was not enough andif I did not begin to
make seriouscommissions I would be asked to leave. She got
the most out of that situation as shecould. She alsodidn‘t like
me much andshe had come uponthis left-handed
compliment to embarrass megoodandwell and very much
publically. So on I trod, feelingmore miserable each day I
wentthere. It was made clear to me that we wereexpected to
suggest additional clothing items than whatcustomers
picked outfor themselves and then to be so forward as to
harassthem in the dressingroom by constantly showingup
uninvited withmultiple suggestions.

315
God took the matterin hand and found me a job at Kay
Jewelers. It was one of the nicestjobs I‘ve ever had.
Theytreated me with respect. When I informed the manager
of the clothing store that I would be leaving, all she did was
smile. She didn‘t say a thing.
I can‘ttellyouhowglad I was to get out of that place.
Thenextsummer I got a job at Landover in a small pizza
parlor.Patrons left loose change for tips—a quarter here,
adime there. It irked me. But what really did it was the
kitchen staff which included the owners. They werethereal
thing to own a pizza parlor, one hundred percent Italian.
There was the marriedcouple thatowned theplace and two
young men,all inthekitchen, and allyelling at each otherall
the time. Once in awhilethey would toss some heated Italian
my way andat the end of the day, I quit. You should have
seen the looks on their faces. It wasindeed a great divide.

316
Another notable summerjobwas at the Wildlife
Preserve on Central Avenue, the pulsing artery that leads
directly into D.C. and led out of D.C. the first bedroom
community, Kettering. Itwasjustbehind our farm and atnight
you could see the lights of Kettering in the sky as visibly as
those of Washington and Baltimore. My father took us all to
the model homes inboth Kettering and Bowie,
thequintessential bedroom community that was location,
location, location—and commute, commute, commute. The
model homes were enough tomake anyone dissatisfied with
whatthey had.Ilived inthelandofantiques,thatwhichcannot
be touched, that which harkened back centuries whenthe
object wasnotnecessarilycomfort so much as utility since you
had to make your own furniture. Ithad better holdup
underthose18 children many wives produced in those days.
Themodel homes had sofas with seven inch thick cushions
and scattered pillows, and were covered with splashy,
modern material that matchedthe rugs and the walls, and
the curtains of the room. You just wanted to kick your shoes
offand lie down on it. And everyupstairsbedroom was
decorated differently with different paint and carpet and
curtains and beds and comforters and dressers and mirrors.

317
Allofthem actually had wallpaper. The only roomin our
house with wall paper was our parents‘ room. All the
curtains upstairs were white voile withruffles, allthe towels
were black, allthe beds were covered with identical
spreadswe were ordered to draw back andnotuseasa
blanket. (What punishmentthat wasfor me whose room was
a constantfifty-five degrees in winter.) I don‘t know why my
father was so eager to see these model homes. After all, one
of his areas of expertise was antiques, and you weren‘t going
to find any of those in model homes. What it did for me is
engender a love of hotel rooms which tome were pretty close
to model homes. You could sit in the chairs,youcould recline
in bed and watch TV, by golly, you could orderroom service.
You didn‘t haveto clean upafteryourself ormake the bed. The
heavy curtains when drawn cast the room into blackness. I
always sleep like a log in a motel room. My mother always
headedfor the ice machine the moment we got there.
People always laughed when they found out that my
husband and I met at the Wildlife Preserve. I worked in the
main snack bar and he in the ice cream hut where when he

318
was sweeping, swept his way to me. He used to change his
lunch hour on the schedule to the same asmine. Wewereboth
nineteen.
The Preserve wasabig deal. When it was first opened, it
was opened toEbyn dignitaries who traveled inaknot
following whose brain child it was. Its opening
waspremature, however, andthat iswhat led to the myriad
problems that surfacedthat first summer. They ran out of
food and ice on ninety-eight-degree days. Not even all the
animals werethere yet. It remindsmenowof Jurassic Park
because you droveyourcar through the animals‘ habitats. For
somereason it didn‘t work very well in the end.
The Washingtonian wrote anarticle about animal abuse
at the Preserve—stories of not shipping the animals
towarmerclimes thanthose ofa Washington winter, of
keeping animals allwinter in barns with onelight bulb and
spaceheaters, of stalling the animals so tightly thatthey could
not turn around. That article came out and that waspretty

319
much the end of theWildlife Preserve. To top itoff, the article
went on about who managementlisted as fired for not giving
adequate notice. This sectionwas well punctuated with
names and the lies they told. I came under the knifetoo.The
next summer I went back, sure I would get a job, and
wasinformed that I hadbeen fired the previous summer for
not giving two weeks‘ notice. I nearly fellover. First, I
knewitwasn‘t true,second they would notlisten to me, and
third they dismissed me. Icalled my father to pick me up
andsat on the grass besidethe narrow country road and cried
while I waited for him. I was humiliated. My future husband
was informedthat he had been fired too, but he actually
didn‘t giveany notice,so itrolled overhimlike water over a
duck‘s back.
As time goes onnow, I amwondering about a lot of
these memories and wondering if switching had notbeen
goingon. Some incidentslook so suspicious now. That
isahallmark of DID: You don‘t knowwhatyou‘re doing
andare flabbergasted when someone tellsyou because you
have absolutely not memory of it at all.

320
Did an alter put that carton of cigarettes onmy parents
chargecard? Did I have toget ajob atPeople‘s because an alter
could not handlemoney (to this day), that ithad nothing to
do with the economy? Did I just think I gave the Wildlife
Preserve two weeks‘ notice?Did the manager and the
bullying employees of the dress shop see something odd in
me?Did an alter do orsay something to makeme so
unpopular? And why were theowners of the Italian pizza
parlorsoastonished when I told them I quit after the first
day? Itseemed overkill tome. But howdid itcome acrossto
them?Did an alter take over for a moment toquit the job for
me? And why didn‘t I switch at Kay Jewelers? Or did I? Was
an alter responsible for making me functionalin that job and
that was why it was such a pleasant job? Did an alter come
out to protect me after the dress shop debacle to create that
pleasant job?
And the voices in my bedroom at St. Agnes—were they
in fact aural hallucinations of alters? I hear voices a lot but I
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321
my ear. They follow behind me. They wait for me in the
nextroom I will enter. They scream in my ear as I awake.
Another night I did not sleep through. WhenI came
downstairs in the morning I found that the cover on the
overstuffed chair was gone. It had disappeared once before
like this.I hadno memory oftaking it off the chair. So I began
the search and found it, two of Dylan‘s blankets, and a
kitchen towelin the dryer.They were not quite dry, so I hung
them around on door knobs to finish drying.I haveno idea
what had occurred that I took all those items to the washer
in the basement to wash and dry them. Another conundrum
wasmy cotton bathrobe. It was damp in some parts, wet in
others, and twisted around a downstairs door knob. Maybe I
spilled something. The wet bathrobe, however, had no
untoward odor.

322
This particular morning I thought I remembered just
about all of the night before only to find out there must have
been a lengthy, massive switch that blocked and blackened
what had to be several hours.

323
Chapter Twenty-Five
I was miserable that first semester at college. I didn‘t
have any friends. It seemed that everyone thought I was
weird (at the very least). This is when the crying started. I
would sit in the dark listening to Cat Stevens and cry for
hours. Once my roommate caught me and asked what was
wrong but it was pretty clear she didn‘t really care.
Wewerenot friends.
One of the many things that made that first semester so
miserable was the code my roommate used to tell meher
boyfriendwas staying the night and I was to sleep
elsewhere.She would put his shoes outside the door. I
cannotreally remember where I sleptthose nights. There
werealot ofthem. The one memory Ido have is of sleeping
inthe dorm lobby in one of the two curtained off rooms that
once served as privacyrooms for guys to visit their

324
girlfriends. They had outlived their usefulness, except for a
stray like me withnowhere else to go.
And then there was that one night whenI was already
in bed andmy roommate brought her boyfriend back with
her. They werevery quiet but undaunted by my presence.
They slept together anyway, even though I was only about
three yards away.
That was to become her swan song some day.
She never graduated. She dropped out instead, became
a ‖Jesus freak,‖ got married, and had four children.
It was not my first encounter with a Jesus freak. It
seemed that my life at college was filtered through the rays
of religion. And not just because I chose it as a major, but
because its presence seemed to go wherever I did, just as it
had throughout my life in the form of Sunday School, church

325
every Sunday, Episcopalian schools, confirmation, a pin
earned—made of china with gilded bars hanging from one
another by little gold chains to indicate the number of years I
had gone to Sunday School. Eventually, I got tired of
Christianity. So when I saw that to major in religiona course
on Protestantism and one on Catholicism were required, I
procrastinated and rebelled by waiting until my senior year
to take them. They were both a litany in highcouncil
meetings to decide just what they believed and kicking out
those who didn‘t agree, a process known as ―anathema.‖It
seemed no prayer was tight enough to survive the scrutiny
of thehighestmenof religion. It was always necessary to
haveanother summit.My notebooks were filled with dates
and names for this ecumenical decision and that ecumenical
decry.Yes, the study of Protestantism and Catholicism was
as tedious as practicing Christianity itself.
Those two rather miserable courses, however, were not
the only confrontation Ihad with Christianity in college.
Jesus freaks ran amok. It was, afterall, theseventies. They
managed to keep Christianity alive despite the number of

326
religionmajors inBuddhism. Thestudy of easternreligions at
that time had just made the scene and were considered
exotic and heady.
But the Jesus freaks stood minion over the beliefs of
Christianity, and in my search for some meaning in life, I
actually made a decision to check out the Christian
strongholds of college.The first was the Christian
Fellowship. Iattendedjust one meeting. Weall sat on the
floor, cross-legged, with stapled bulletins and prayers while
someone, the most senior ofall I think, ledthe service. These
people had one thing and only one thinginmind: conversion.
I did not need conversion per say, wandering thehalls of
religion as I was,but Ithink they thought my beliefs werenot
strongenough or literal enough.
Then there was another Christian group whose name I
cannot remember who met in the conference room in one of
the buildings. I really don‘t remember the serviceproper but
whenthetime came to pray for lost souls,Iwas the one who

327
freaked out. They prayed for a friend of mine who had,like
me, attended one meeting that he would return to the fold.It
had been two years since he had attended a meeting. At one
meeting someone stopped me and I can‘t remember why.
But I do remember the top book of the several I heldin my
armswas titled Gnosticismwith thepicture of a medallion of
an unidentifiable creature onit.Up came theguy who got me
to come to this meeting , pointed at the book, and told the
senior member, ―I toldher to watch out for that.‖ He was
breathlessly serious.
Then most mysteriously along came a member of a
fraternity, who if ever there was a‖bad boy,‖ it surely was
he. He belonged to one of the most popular fraternities on
campus and had a reputationfor lots of drugs and sleeping
all over the place. Talk about feeling intimidated.
Somehowhe honed in on me, his exact opposite. Meals
wereasocialevent. All the fraternities and sororities staked
out their territory and ate together. Then after eating, the
visitations began. Recruiting sororities canvassed freshmen
asdid thefraternities. Sometimesthey sat by you atyour table.
Most times they invited youto theirs.

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I really cannotspeak to the nature of either the sororities
or fraternities, except that the words were heavily influenced
by Latin, because I was never rushed sonever joined, giving
me more time to translate Latin.As onerous as my Latin
courses could be, they also proved entertaining. The father
of one senior student promised him an undisclosed amount
of money if he would lose weight. (He really wasn‘t that
overweight.) He decided to handlethe situation by eating
only cereal, hence the moniker ―Cereal Man.‖ He would sit
in class rocking back and forth on his desk seat with two
new pencils in each hand clattering against each other.
He was admitted to Oxford. On the day the letterof
acceptance came, the student‘s father calledthe chairman of
the classicsdepartment and told him. He asked to tellhis son
andaplot was hatched. Under a ruse the professor got the
student to go to the classics department in the middle of
class. On the phone his father told him the news. When he
returned to class, the professor, laughing, congratulated him
and threw cereal like confetti.

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The other source of entertainment was a junior student
who liked to engage the professor in the banter of recitation
of famous lines of Latin poetry. Each would answer the
otherwith a quote. The finale wasalways that the junior
student would stand up on his desk seat and gesticulate
wildly as the recitations continued. The professor laughed
and laughed, as entertained as the rest of us were.
The third source of entertainmentbecameme. One
semester weweregivenanassignment due at the end of the
semester. We were to parse or analyze every word on five
pages of Latin we could choose ourselves. It was an oral
assignment as well as a written one. For each word we were
to trace it back to its Proto-Indo European root, then trace
itfromthe rootback to the Latin word, thus explaining
theevolution of the root into the Latin word. I remember
sitting for hours onend in the smoking room of the library
with a Latin dictionary, a German dictionary, a French
dictionary, and the American Heritage Dictionary and my
passage ofLatin spread outin front of me.How Imanaged

330
toget the information Ineeded from the foreign dictionaries, I
will never know. As then, I do not know any French or
German. I remember getting so frustrated with the German
dictionary that I hauled it across campus one day—and as a
reference book I was not to take it from the library—to the
professor who was also thechairman and in exasperation
showed him a passage in the dictionary I could get no
senseof. I was hoping he would tell me I didn‘t have to
usethe German dictionary. Instead, without a single breath
he translated the German entry with ease. I decided to shut
up.
That was the written part of the mother of all Latin
assignments; the second half was to present itorally. I was
petrified, terrified, desperate with titanic fear. Oral
presentations put the fearof something inme. I remember
when later as ateacher I had to hand out the Latin award at
the awards assembly in a gym full of parents and students. I
always took a shot of bourbon before. But that was later. I
hadn‘t thought of it in college.

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So I got up at my turn and walked to the front of the
room, sat down at the table,arranged my papers, and began.
As the secondsticked by,my mouth got dryer and dryer until
when I opened it nothing came out. Theprofessor offered to
let megoget adrinkfrom the fountain. When I came back, he
laughed and said, ―We wondered if you were coming back!‖
Everybody laughed including me.
I lived.
And I lived through the attentions of the ―bad boy.‖It
was just as much a surprise tome asto anyoneelse. During
the visitation hour,hebegan to pull up a chairand start
talking to me. He wore his bright blonde hair in
aponytail.That alone was enough to intimidate me. So we
talked. I can‘t remember about what. I only remember how
mystified I was becoming that I had garnered his interest.
He never asked me out. He never walked with me.I think it
was because he could read the innocence onmy face like a
book and had enoughprincipal nottogothere. We

332
did,however, go with a group of friends to see TheExorcist. I
remember my mother reading the book in bed before the
movie came out.
Well, weall know how shocking it was. And I was
probably not the only one checking under her bed for about
a month. But the impression it made on a questionable
friend who elected, as always, not to sit beside me buta row
back and several seats across.
After seeing thatmovie, he became a Jesus freak. And a
devout one.He informed me one day that I was not
Christian. I was so upset, I left the dining room fighting back
tears. Me? Not Christian? Now I regard myself as eclectic
but at that point in time I very much considered myself a
Christian with its tenants tromping through my soul. Then
one day, he came to the table where I was and sat down
infront of me with his tray—oddin itself. Henever looked at
me. Between bites of food hegrumbled, ―The Lord in his

333
ministry tometold meyou are alright.‖ Then he got up and
left. We never spoke again oreven looked at one another.
My last brush with Christianity was at the hands of one
of the girls in the quad I was living in.A quad had acentral
living area and four bedrooms like spokes of a wheel
fanningfrom thecentralroom. Thisgirl was Jewish but not a
practicing Jew. She seemed to consider herself more
Christian, but Icannot say for sure. I know this much: It was
the first and only experience I had with speaking in tongues.
She did one day while she and I werealone in the quad. She
began, spoke, then stopped and opened her eyes. Was this
for real? She slipped so easily into it. Then she asked me if I
wanted togo to aPentecostal meeting in a private home. My
intense interest in anything vaguely not Christian,I
jumpedatthe chance. Sheinstructed me to remain quiet,that
ifthey knew a non-believer was therethey wouldnot speak in
tongues. So wesatdown in the back of the room. I‘m sure
there was some prologue to it but I can‘tremember. I only
knowthat suddenlypeople were slowly beginning to speak
in tongues. The atmosphere in the room became oppressive.
I wasthe one freaked out now. The experience did not

334
however make meinto a Jesus freak. It did stop mefrom
playing with fire. I sneaked outthe back into the cool fresh
air.
I did seek professional help for depression that first
year. Thecollege hadits own psychologist. I only went once
and I guess I expected a miracle or something. As I felt no
different at the end of the session than I did at the beginning,
I decided it could not help me. The psychologist tried to get
me to make another appointment but I didn‘t. I think I
wanted instant gratification. I did not understand how it
worked, but I am sure the psychologist saw in me that same
thing others had seen all my life. I can‘t imagine that it was
usual practice to contact and encourage a student to
continue ―treatment,‖ aword not used at that time that I can
remember. Maybe I was scared to go back. Maybe I knew
their were demons in me Iand I didn‘t wantto open a
Pandora‘s box. Isometimes wonder if things might have
turned out differently had I made that second appointment.

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And so I embarked on anera of self-medication.

336
Chapter Twenty-Six
Quaaludes. Oh, please. Just give me a sleeping pill.Back
then you could get in a sandwich bag an ounce of Mexican
for ten bucks. Just simple marijuana: not cutwith something
or mixed with something or sprayed with something. I
found hash just too strong and pot brownies were scary
because you just had to wait for your body to metabolize it.
So if you weren‘t feeling too good, you just had to wait for it
to run its course. I didn‘t like cocaine. It‘s a greedy drug. You
always want more because the rush is intense but it doesn‘t
last long. Those with coke at a party retired to a distant room
sothey wouldn‘t have to share, but the news got around
anyway.Speed kept me awake afew times for all-nighters
studyingfor tests. And last but not least: LSD. It was
anentirely different story with acid. My best friend and I
werereligion majors—in fact, she got me to take Buddhism
101. About three times she and I dropped acid in spring and
roamed the town‘s sleepy sidewalks toa parking lot where
there was a gigantic rock. It could accommodate at least four

337
people but my friend and I never told anyone about it. We
called it The Magic Rock. And on The Magic Rock we
ruminated over the philosophies behind just about any
religion you could think of, even those of primitive tribes.
We were truly going where no religion major had gone
before, our heads full of Theravada and Mahayana
Buddhism, Chinese mythology, the Yonomano, Sufism, folk
religions, Islam, Hinduism, Shinto, Sikhism, Taoism,
Confucianism,Zoroastrianism, Gnosticism, Shamanism.
They woke me up last night. Every third night has
become every other night. I am trying to break the pattern so
I can operate during the day with the rest of humanity. But
someone has gotten used to coming out at night and when
they wake me up in the night they are demanding to come
out. So I did what I usually do. I took a half of a Klonopin in
an effort to sedate the lot of them. When I woke up I did not

338
feel rested and lay in bed for an hour after my alarm went
off from sheer depression alone. I want to be awake in the
day and do my sleeping at night. I want them to leave me
alone.
It had a reputation as a wet campus, and that
wasprobably an understatement. Every weekendday the
fraternities opened the kegs and gotdown to business. I can
remember being quite inebriated at times. I remember
walking one night through the silent dark hall of a fraternity.
This image has always confounded me. No fraternity at any
time of day would have been that dark, that quiet. NowI
thinkit must have had something to do with the DID. It‘s the
only explanation I can come up with. It‘s like a clip in
amovie.
And we all each Friday and Saturday night headed for
the quad. The music of each fraternity vied with that of the
others. People were inside holding beercups. People were
outside holding beer cups. People were on the sidewalks

339
holding beer cups. But there wasn‘talways just beer in
thosecups. Sometimes it was a Purple Jesus. Jesus
seemedtobe everywhere on that campus, even in the alcohol.
A Purple Jesus is amixture of grain alcohol and grape juice.
You got stinking drunk quickly andefficiently. The grain
alcohol was tasteless, so allyou tasted was the grape juice.
And pretty soon you were swilling it because it tasted so
good. The frat guys dipped cups into cauldrons and handed
them out. There was always a frat guy guarding the Purple
Jesus bin.He was incharge of mixing the drink. He
determined how much alcohol went into it.You were
allowedasmany asyou wanted but it had tocome from the
hand of a fraternity brother for reasons Imay haveknown
atone time.
Where did they get the grain alcohol? The town wasat
the foothillsof the Pennsylvania mountains.I can remember
vaguely takinga ride upinto those mountains to see the
creatures indigenous to the area. Compounds of shacks in
clearings became morefrequent asyou continuedup the
mountains. So much interbreeding had gone on that even a

340
glimpse could reveal the crooked facialfeatures, a limp,
massivemen with empty eyes. Overalls smeared with the
feces of farmanimals, like pigs and dogs.
Once a week they cameto town. Why I never knew.
Maybe the town to themwaslike atradingpost andso they
came for supplies. They roamed the streets in lose knots.
Some could speak. Some could not. Some faces were so
misshapen, features were hard todiscern. The whole town
froze this one day each week. The streets were almost bare
except perhaps for the curious—like college kids. I barely
remember going with friends out into thetown on such a day
and trying hard not to stare. The ones who felt
uncomfortable were the townspeople and us, not the
mountain visitors.
So you see from whence came the grainalcohol.The
colorless liquid camein mason jars and tiny waterfalls of it
poured into the cauldrons waiting for grape juice.

341
Generally speaking,I wasno object of interestin college.
I attributed it to a streak of lateblooming that ran on my
mother‘s side. I most generously passed the genetic traitto
my daughters.Beingalate bloomer left you behind on
manythings. I did not join a sorority basically because no
one showed any interest inme. I definitely was not popular
enough. That and my priority was school. Can you imagine
how much rushing could cut into my Latin translation time?
It was a frightening thought that I did not have to
experience. I think the DID was at work making people
sense that there was something differentabout me they did
not want to be associated with. They didn‘t understandme;
they regarded me only from adistance; they played cruel
practical jokes on me; they decided I definitely wasnot
sorority material, and they were right. My brother and sister,
however, were each fraternity and sorority material, which
made me feel even more distant from other people and
rejected, shunned, and ostracized, the three words that have
defined my character my whole life.

342
A lot of that misery that first semester waswept to my
parents over the phone. I don‘t know why being away from
home was such an issue for me in my freshman year of
college when I had had no trouble with it at St. Agnes and
summer camp.It was safe to say I had no friends that
semester, only a socially popular kleptomaniac for a
roommate.
Thenit happened. The unthinkable, the undoable. My
father toldme one night over the phone, ―I can get you into
the University of Maryland ifyou want.‖ What a shock that
was. My father never used his influence to do such a thing.
While all our contemporaries landed truly educational jobs
and internships throughtheir parents‘ connections inEbyn,
our father simply did not.In this case his influence lay in the
university itself where he taught fortwenty years, had
tenure, founded the American studies department, and
served as chairman of it for more years than I can remember.
He had a national reputation in his field of colonial
America,wrote his dissertation on Cotton Mather, acolonial
doctor and good example of the practice of colonial

343
medicine, taught only graduate students in his later years,
and owned a colonial doctor‘s kit. The real thing of course,
as his interests extended to American antiques.
Well, that woke meup. I was shocked. Itmade merealize
somethingIcan‘tquite explain. Maybe that I was letting my
father down. So I decided to stay another semester.
Leaving, indeed, would have been premature. That
second semester I began to find myself. My best friend, my
total opposite, came into the picture. Although popular and
even sought-after, she was amazed to find someonewho
could relate toher philosophical side which she kept well
hidden, but something changed because it was she who got
me into eastern religions.
The rest of my years there were good ones. I learned
about Woodstock, Height Asbury, Jimi Hendrix, Cat
Stevens, Bruce Springsteen,Eric Clapton, Loggins and
Messina, Neil Young, the Allman brothers, Steve Miller—an

344
entire movement that before this had been buried by my
father on the remote farm where we lived. My best friend
was afontofknowledge on the matter.
I also made a life-long friend in the ensuing years there.
Those are so rare and often the last person you would expect
to travel through life with. We got close, but it was purely
platonic. We very simply enjoyed each other‘s company. All
of which led to a rumor in his fraternity that he and I were
goingout. I remember one evening in the dining hall after
the food was gone and the socializing began, he came to my
table and incredulously told me that we were considered an
item. Neither of us could believe it but figured out that it
was because we studied together so much. We frequented
the smoking room of the library all the time. It finally got
straightened out, and it left no mark for either of us on our
friendship.

345
Last night was another one I spent up rather than
sleeping. The switch hit melike a brick. I thought that
someone withwhom I wantednothing to do had found me
on Facebook.Mylast thought before a complete switch was
that I had to do some digging to find out if it
wasindeedthatperson. I was stunned whenI saw the user
name. Fear washed over me like a waterfall. After that I
remember absolutely nothing of the night—not going
upstairs, not taking my meds, not switching off the TV, or
lookingat the clock at all. I woke up when my alarm went
off, gotout of bed, showered,dressed, fed and watered
Dylan. I found that the dishwasher had been run. I didn‘t
remember doingthat.It was acommon thing when I switched
at night for an alter to turn on the dishwasher so I thought
no more of it, and Dylan and I set out on our morning walk.
It was during the walk that I began to feel exhausted. Until
that time I had hadplenty of energy. The switch had notbeen
finished, and nowIwas switching backtomyself.A passer-by
said, ―You‘re bleeding,‖ and indeed I was. A swath of the
top layer of skin on my right elbow was trickling down my
arm. I must have fallen down, but I don‘t remember it.

346
I have fallen before and up to this time was clearly
present for it. I knew where any scratches or scrapes came
from, could remember tripping on the path where the roots
of trees ran beneath and pushed the tar crackled and up like
the earth‘s mantle birthing a mountain, Dylan and I getting
mixed up in each other‘s feet at the advent of another dog on
the path, toppling over as I tried to pick up Dylan‘s business
in a plastic bag. But this fall I have no memory of, only the
wounds. I have before had unaccountable bruises but this
was much more serious than a little discolored skin. I went
to the chiropractor the next day for my usual appointment
and told him about it. He knows I have DID but when I told
him I did not remember falling, he hesitated and a look of
confusion breathed across his face. Oh, well. I cannot keep
these things secret. They guide my lifenow, are my life now.
By and large, I ignoreit and tell others to do the same. But
this fall must have been a duzzie. Thenext day I spent an
hour tryingtoget out of bed, my spine from tip to stern hurt
so much and was so inflexible. When I managed to getup
Idiscovered that my entirebody ached. Every muscle was

347
sore—even those I didn‘tknowIhad. I took Dylan for a very
short walk—we usually walk for an hour but that day it was
for fifteen minutes, just for him to do his business. And he
seemed to know it because he did all his usual business in
fifteen minutes that he usually spends an hour doing. Then I
cleaned. Clearly, I was still under the influence of a switch. I
cleaned the entirehouse aswell as the bird cage. Then
suddenly I felt 110 years old and remembered what the
chiropractor had said: ―Ice is going to be your best friend for
the next 72 to 96 hours.‖ I went to the freezer, got the ice
pack, spread it out on the bed and lay down on it on my
back.I took vitamins and Emergen-C andcoffee to takeDylan
for his grooming appointment.I slept for about an hour
while he was being groomed. Then, while I was still onmy
bed, suddenly theloud sound of children talking
unintelligibly jumped from behind me. I nearly hit the
ceiling. They wereso loud. And they were definitely children.
I know I have children in the system but by and large they
are quiet. I try to keep them happy by coloring and playing
with sticker books and paper dolls. I found a Barbie paper
doll that everyone liked, including me.But the loud
voicesstartled meso,and I did not have Dylan there to tell me

348
if it was real or not.If Dylanmakes a move or perks his ears I
know it is real. Otherwise, I knowit is alters.
I somehow made itthrough therestof the day awake
because I didn‘t want long daytime napstokeep meup late at
night. I felt awful. I had a headacheand my stomach was
upset. So Iwentto the store forsome Alka Seltzer,which
didn‘t work. It didn‘t workbecause I was still partially
switched and the nausea was part of it. I think Iswitched on
and off all day. When I got up this morning, my watch
waswhere Ialways put it, but my Medic Alert bracelet was
nowhere to be found. Now I will haveto order another
backup one because whether I will find it or not—well, your
guess is as good as mine.
There were two days involved here and I can‘t seem to
tease them apart. It seemed like one very long day. I can‘t
keep track of the continuity of things. So if you feel
confused, it‘s me not you.

349
It was during my college days that my depression
became cyclical. It came and went on a two-week schedule.
For two weeks I would feel depressed and then come out of
it,like climbing up out of a hole, to feel betterfor the next two
weeks only to feel depressed the following two weeks.
Musical depression weeks.This cyclical nature of it
continued for years and so I lived two weeks at a time.

350
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When I graduated, I married. Shortly after that my
father died of prostate cancer. With the rug pulled from
under my feet I cried moreand more often. I would stand by
the window in the bathroom in the dark so my husband
could not hear me. My father‘s death had been swift. He was
diagnosed at Christmas,operated on in the spring, and died
in October. Whether it was October 8th or 9th I just cannot
ever remember. The viewing washeld at home,theplace my
father loved so much,closed casket.The only time I ever
sawmy father cry wasonemorningafter the doctors drew
some bone marrow. My father himself requested go to
anursinghome becausehe wassouncomfortable.The old
house just was not conducive to the care of someone as ill as
he was.He must have been interriblepain to leave the farm. I
found out later also something most out of character for him:
He had been looking into selling the farm. We knew it
would happen some day, and he was premature, but there

351
was some comfort years later when we did sell it. I didn‘t
feel as though we were stealing itfrom him.
One Saturday I planned to visit him in the nursing
home. Ihad a two-hour drive to get there. WhenI arrived, I
found my mother at the front doors. My father had passed
away just minutes before.I was shocked. I blame myself. I
should have gotten up earlier; I shouldhave gotten gas the
day before; I should have talked with mymother the day
before.
And so began an epic series of dreams about my father
that lasted for seven years. Seven and multiples of seven are
mystical numbers. Perhaps that explains the mystery of
those dreams. Or were they haludreality again? Dreams,
hallucinations of a man I would never see again in this life,
who left as abruptly as his rages began, who ripped the rug
from under my feet and leftme standing on cold, hard,
marred wood. Something to be covered up, something for
which to create a facade, anything to lose the hold on reality.

352
These dreams or hallucinations or whatever you would
like to call them because I do not know what they were
myself, clustered themselves into three distinct groups.
Inthefirst third of them I knewmy father was dead, but he
did not. I remember I was teaching at Ebyn School in what
was at the time a barn on its site. I saw him pass by the
windows outside as he headed for the door. He entered
walking with acane, stiffly, laboriously, miserably and let
himself down in the chair of a desk with great relief. He
wore a black suit and winter overcoat. I went on teaching.
The pain played across his face like a dancer and he bent
overas if all the cosmos pressedhim down. He knew he was
in pain, but he did not know he was dead.
After that initial dream we began to meet. The first time
we approached each other in that great neutral zone
between life and death where we are neither. He sat in a
chair. I was scared and ran away, back to reality, back to this
planeof existence, back to mourning for him.

353
Oh,my father,how I miss you!I have missed you
fordecades. I havecried at the turn of acentury. I have
begged God to tell me why he took you when my brother
and sister and I were so young. He left when weneeded him
most. All of us in our twenties, trying to figure it out,
wondering what he would have thought of us throughthe
years. The iron fist gone. The steely glare gone. The Atlas he
had become, gone. When he fell, sodid my world.
There were a few more dreams in that nether world. I
don‘t know who knew what then, but I began to have
moreconcrete dreams where we would talk. Iremember in
one I was outside my parents‘ bedroom. I could see the
overstuffed chair on which he always threw his clothes. I
knew he was dead, but he did not, smiling and talking, me a
statue. I have that chair and his desk he worked on as a
professor ofAmerican studiesat the University of Maryland.
Thechair Ihad reupholstered because the sheen of its green
cloth was soiled. It came apart again as faras upholstery
goesand seems not to wantto enter the conclave of the

354
memories of my father.As for his desk, Iam sitting at it right
now on the chair he himself used.
In the second cluster of dreams, he knew he was dead,
but I did not. And so in these dreams I smiled and laughed
and talked and he was the statue.
In the third cluster, we both knew he was dead, we
both travelled whatever distance exists betweenlife and
death to meet oneanother.I remember a dream in which I
was at some kind of athletic game, moving through the
crowd,looking for my father. Finally I found him and he said
to me, ―I wasn‘t sure you would come.‖ In another breath I
saw my mother standing on the sidelines and so did he. He
motioned to her and said, ―She looks beautiful, doesn‘t she?‖
Another meeting took place at the university in a stairwell
when classes were changing. There were so many people
climbing the stairs and my father was on the landing getting
pushed throughthe door. I tried to pushmy own way up to

355
see him but saw only his arm outstretched as the crowd
pushed forward.
There was another dream during this period that had
nothing to do with my father, or at least he did not appear in
it. I dreamt I was in an old abandoned hospital walking the
aisles. I was pregnant.
Then came the final dream.I was in the house on the
farm lookingout of the dining room window that overlooked
the gravel circle to the side of the house. A black car came
and parked. I called to my sister, ―Dada is here!‖ running to
the windowthrough which you could see the front door and
there wasmy father in a black suit at the front door. Before I
knew it, he stood inside between me and the window. We
sat down in facing chairs and he took both my hands.
―I‘m alive,‖ he said.―I‘m alive!‖

356
He went on to tell me that he had been in touch with
my mother but he had to leave now. My mother, when I told
her this dream said, yes, he had been in touch with her for
the last seven years. She did not elaborate.
I hadonly one more dream after that. I was in the
gardenof an oldhistoric housein Ebyn. The tall flowers made
a maze, and Icould see my father walking away. He looked
taller and thinner. Henever looked back. He did notseemto
see me or anythingelse. He had already gone and only a
shell remained. He walked until I could see him no longer.
Last night I stayed up all night. I think I saw the clock
and it was somewhere between 3:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. I
remember lying down on the floor with Dylan and singing
to him. That‘s all I remember. Once again in the morning I
found all kinds of things to tell me what I had been up to. I
found eight pages written out by hand about the huge turtle

357
the spring rains flushed out of the pond and onto the
pavement, a disturbing diagnosis of my father‘s behavior,
my own grief over having DID, the hopeless nature of DID
that makes me hurt other people and not even know it, how
DID forces me to live as a prisoner in my own flesh. I found
a soup bowl on the coffee table with Ramen noodles in it. I
do not remember making Ramen noodles, but it requires use
of the stove, which is a scary thought. My face began to hurt
where the dentist had injected the needle for administering
Novocain, so I took a Percocet—that I remember. Then much
later (or earlier; it depends on how you want to see things)
once again I took all my nighttime meds and headed back
down stairs. I woke up sprawled out on the overstuffed
chair I watch TV in, and, yes, I had been watching NCIS. I
don‘t remember it but there was a NCIS DVD in the DVD
player and the rest of the Season Six DVDs on top of the
player.
I tried hard to put the night together but there was just
too much lost time. Someone was out having a merry time,
but it wasn‘t me. I got the short end of the stick—the utter

358
and complete exhaustion. I went upstairs and lay down on
my bed and was so tired I couldn‘t move and I didn‘t for
three hours. I am not sure what got me up but I had a
sudden burst of energy or someone was still out, a co-
presence, pushing me forward. I fed Elvis and Dylan, took
Dylan with me to the gas station, walked him for an hour,
and ended with a bowl of Cheerios.
That evening I watched the episodes of NCIS that I had
watched the night before with no recollection of them.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight
I never thought I‘d get married, so I never thought I‘d
get divorced. It was a long marriage—seventeen years—and
we knew one another for a total of twenty years. Two good
things came out of that marriage—our two daughters. It was
during that marriage that the DID began to manifest itself to
a degree that it began to affect several areas of my life, and
not for the better.
The first was innocent enough. I wokeup onemorning
to find one ofmy pearl earrings I wore all the time wasgone
from my ear. I looked everywhere in the bedroom. Itore
thesheets off the bed, looked underthe bed, searched my
dresser. This was the beginning of my trying tofind things
taken from meby my alters and I say this only in retrospect.
Now I can lookback andsort out some of the confusion while
creating more now.

360
I went finally down to the kitchen to make coffee. As I
stood where I always stood, my foot hit something on the
floor. I leaned down and picked it up. My earring.
With the back on.
Why is that important? Because someone had to take
the back off, take the earring out, put the back on again,and
leave it on the kitchen floor in a spot I typically go. Thiskind
of setup was tohappenmany times. When the girls and I
were staying with afriend during my divorce, one morning I
walked into the kitchen through the dining room door, not
the hallone, and as I stepped over the threshold something
skittered acrossthefloorall the way to the other end. I
pickeditup,stupefied.It was the pre-engagement ring my
husband hadgivenme—a white gold band with a single
diamond in it. How it got where it was I couldn‘t even
imagine because I myself had no idea where it was.Yet there
it was. I had brought clothes and other items to my friend‘s
house, but I had to do it quickly and jewelry was not a

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priority. To this day I have no idea where that ring came
from orwhere it went.
Looking back I wonder how an alter would know I
would enter the kitchen through the dining room, not
thehall, and that I would step exactly where I did so that the
ring would slide along the floor and I would findit.Are they
prescient? I often find missing things in the oddest of places
I typically go. Once when my grandchildren were visiting
my cell phone went MIA. I looked and looked, and then
happened to look down at a ceramic pot just inside the
kitchen (yes, there is something about the kitchen but I don‘t
know what it is) to see an unused paper towel lying very
neatly in the bottom. It looked as if a breeze may have
caught the towel which then fluttered down into the pot.
Without thinking I leaned down to retrieve it because the
antique ceramic pots in my house are not trashcans. They are
there for beauty, no functional reason whatsoever (a habit I
picked up from my parents). I lifted it up and there lay the
cell phone. It wasso neatly done—could a four–year-old
have done it or an alter, an alter that liked pranks? I have
alters who like to take things fromme. They think it‘s funny

362
to play tricks on me. It‘s rare that they give items back and
so Ihave to replace them. Recently one morning, a
MedicAlert bracelet was not on the table with my watch
where I typically leave them when I go to bed. A few days
later a pajamatop disappeared. Since these disappearances,
Ihavecleanedmy house twice and neither has turned up.
What do I do insuch situations? I go out and buy another
one. So I went to Walmart and got another pajama top. As
for the Medic Alert bracelet, I will go online and buy another
backup. So you see how this disorder can become pricey.
In reality (if that is a state thatcan ever co-exist with
DID)my experiencewith the ring and its unexplainable
appearance and disappearance was the first I had with lost
time and aninability to remember things. Lost timeis
ahallmark of DID.Andnothing can be more frustrating or
terrifying. DID lost time is not a black out. The time simply
is no longer there if it ever was. Past meets future directly
and the present is annihilated. That is lost time. The present
simply did not exist nor the events of the present. You may
be tempted to add, ―that you know of.‖ But you cannot

363
know of something that never happened. In the world of
DID time is a fluid matter. It comes. It goes. It disappears. It
was never there no matter how many people tell you the
events that took place within it. The events never existed
either let alone occur.
I havehad many significant losses of time but oneofthe
most disturbing occurred many years hence when I was
living in a trailer with my younger daughter. I got there via
DID. Apparently, Ispent three days ina psychiatric ward.
That was newsto me when my daughters told merecently
about it. Thereis no memory hereofthose three days or any
other specific three days. I was never in a psychiatric
ward,although at the time I probably should have been. My
younger daughter tellsme she just lived in the trailer by
herself for those days. She said she wasn‘t upset; she merely
went about her business going to school, doing her
homework. She said there was plenty of foodin the
refrigerator so she thought nothing of it. Then apparently
her sister called her,foundout she was living alone in the

364
trailer while I was in the psychiatric ward,and cameand got
her.
Do you begin to see how DID can rip your world apart
with just one instance? That altars can come andgo to help
you through difficult situations—like being in a mental ward
for three days—and yet make you do something
souncharacteristic as leaving your teenage daughter totally
alone and tellingno one she was alone,not making any kind
of arrangementsfor her safety and well-being? Abandoning
that which is most preciousto your heart?
It may nothavebeen my fault, but howcanI ever forgive
myself? My DIDso directly affected my daughter that it
made of me somethingI have never believed could happen: a
bad mother.

365
Chapter Twenty-Nine
What follows from here is the worst of the story and the
least there is of it.
Confusion and lost time have obliterated even years of
my life. It began slowly; I thought I was just getting forgetful
and more depressed and even though I could not account for
what happened during certain periods of time I tended to
just shrug my shoulders. It was all becoming a way of life,
my life, and with time I accepted it. I didn‘t realize that other
people did not live this way, just as Ididn‘t realize that other
people did not feel depressed all the time like me.
Depressionhas been amajor player inthis scenario called
my life. Itbegan inmy teensandhasn‘tstopped yet. I have
beenon antidepressants for twenty-four years and I do not
know how I ever survived without them, especially the

366
pregnancy of my second child. Finally, I had gotten some
help when I was thirty-two. It was like sinking
inquicksand—I just could not help myself out.It got so
badthat the only things I was keeping up with were the care
ofmy older daughter, laundry,and work (all strange
bedfellows). I was so depressed I would sit motionless at the
kitchen tablethinkingof callingapsychiatrist buttotally unable
to even open the yellow pages. I had wanted to go to a
psychiatrist about two years before this but my husband,
slightly lacking in the support department, talked me out of
it. The result is that I got worse. So I finally took myself to a
psychiatrist much to my husband‘s chagrin. Heimmediately
put me onPaxil andafter six weeks or so I began tofeel as if
Ihad finallyopenedmy eyes again, as if a veil had been lifted
from them,as if everythingI saw was crisper and cleaner
thanIhad ever seen it. I remember talking to my sister about
it. Neither one of us could believe that it wasnormalto feel
happy rather thansad, sluggish, disinterested. Suddenly I
waspart of the human race.

367
At 33 I unexpectantly became pregnant with my second
daughter. I had been on Paxil for about a year, and when I
told my doctor and therapist I was pregnant they more or
less yanked me off it inside of a week, insisting on referring
this processas weaning me off of it.At that time at my work
the annual WES conference was being held. It wasone of my
duties to book hotel and conference rooms and meals for the
group of college admissions officers from aroundthe country
whopassonthe equality or inequality of foreign educational
credentials when compared to U.S. ones. Each book covered
the educational system of a foreigncountry.Admissions
officers could refer to the comparison tables in these books
while considering whereto place foreign students. I
rememberoneofficerlosinghis patience with me over whether
lunch was ready. I wonder now if my colleagues saw
anything different inme. Of course, I felt like I was losing my
mind anyway.
I also remember waking up one morning and whenmy
feet heavily hit the floor I felt as if overnight two or three
months had slipped by.Maybe two orthreemonths had.

368
Maybe I had lost two orthreemonths of time andI didn‘t
realize what had happened. I chalked it up to my baby‘s
growth spurt.Somewhere way in the back of mymind I knew
something wasnot right but I let it go. I had to. I had to get
through another day.
WhileI do not have many memories of that pregnancy,
I knowit is when the panic attacks began. At work I would
take breaks and walk around Dupont Circlein the summer
heat feelingclaustrophobic in alandscape of cement
andbricks and tar and people,people, people. My father was
right: There are too many people in the world. On one
ofmytrips around the Circle, a black man with disheveled
hair suddenly leaped out of a crevice between two buildings
and screamed at me. Thatwasmy last sojourn around
Dupont Circle. But evenwalkingto thefrontdoors of the
NationalEducation Center wasdicey. The entireCircle was
heavily populated with the homeless.And they were true to
the fact that many of the homeless were patients released
from mental wardsandhospitalsbecause there just wasn‘t
enough room. One black man stationed himself at the door

369
of People‘s Drug Store and generally hassled for money
anyone goingin. He sat on a lawn chair with a carton of
cigarettes underneath.
I stopped working about two weeksbefore my due date
and my daughter was two days early. Maybe God had
mercy on me. My older daughter was two weeks late and I
felt as though I was going to be pregnant forever.My second
daughter was bornwithin four hours of my arrival at the
hospital. I think things happened far faster than my doctor
expected because by the timehe arrived it was already past
time for an epidural but he gave me some anyway but not
enough. Even the anesthesiologist was asking to give me
more.
When shecameout, bless her heart, the pain stopped.
She weighed seven pounds even. The nurses were all
amazedatthat. And when they held her up for me to see her,
she looked exactly like her older sister at birth. I
thought,‖I‘ve already done this.‖

370
Almost everything converged on me to make me feel
claustrophobic and then panicky. I could sit in the morning
rush hour and lookthrough my rear view mirror at the
endless lines of cars behind me, and look forward to the
endless lines before me and it would slowly dawn onme that
there was no way out. I was surrounded by other vehicles
that did not move. I was trapped. The claustrophobia and
panic reached into the cosmos itself. There wasnowherethat
wastruly openandempty. Theuniverse itself was crowded
with planets andstars and star systemsandasteroids and
comets and spacejunk and galaxies andblack holes and solar
systems.Sosteppingoutside for amomenton Dupont Circle
only made it worse.
My therapist got methrough that pregnancy. She
worked with me to relieve the depression which was like a
heavy winter cloak onmy back. The most successful
suggestionshe had was to find something I like to do and do
it every day. That something turned outto be reading The
Washington Times. I loved the color photographs and
specialty sections and it took me about forty-five minutes to

371
getthrough it on a daily basis, but for forty-five minutes I
forgot my troubles, mental and physical, andforthat amount
of time each day Ifelt normal (for me).
Of course all good things come to anend, but Icould
look forward to the next day‘s paper.
Both my psychiatrist and therapist encouraged me to
hold off beginning Paxilagain after my daughter was born
and nurse but it was one thing Ijust could not do. Knowing
Icouldstart taking it again and become a part of the human
race once more isanotherthing that got me through. I didn‘t
understand how they couldn‘t see that or why they would
even suggest I not go back to antidepressants. And things
gotworse instead of better.I found myself introducedto the
anti-psychotichaloperidol and the benzodiazepine Xanax.
Nothing seemed to really work allthe way. Eventually
Paxil seemed to lose its ―umf‖ and I began to classify myself
again as depressed although I was always depressed but did

372
not seem to know it. That‘s when I was first introduced to
the ―cocktail,‖ which didn‘t seem to help a whole lot either.
With my first daughter I was given only two months‘
maternity leave. I bartered for three with my younger
daughter, and with my husband I bartered to stop working
fulltime and go part-time instead. Heagreed if Iagreed
tomake up the money from what my father had left me. I
knew that was hard-earned money for aman so dedicated to
education that he managed to send all three of his children
through private schoolsandcollege and one onto a master‘s. I
thought long andhard.I decided he would feel it a
worthwhile expenditure for his grandchildren to have their
mother around more. After all, his own children were
caredfor totallyby their mother. SoI agreed.The drain on my
inheritance had already begun. The $18,000 deposit for our
house came from the same place. The rest was in CDs and
stocks, waiting to drain away too.

373
Along with my divorce came the evidence thatI could
not manage money. A lot of times I thought I had more
money withme than I thought. I‘d wonder where it
went.Then again on the other hand I would sometimes find
large bills whose source I did not know. There would be less
in the checkbook than I thought. There would be more in the
checkbook than I thought. It became a wayof life but I did
not realize that.
Through all of this I held four major jobs: for one year
with a salary of $6400as a Latin teacher at a Catholic school
which the chairman of the classics department found for me;
for seven years with a salary that climbed to $10,000as a
Latin and English teacher at EbynSchool;for four years, I
think, as an editor at the National Education Center (I have
forgotten what my salary was); and for eleven years as,
eventually, a managing editor at Goddard Space Flight
Center (again, I have forgotten what my salary was). After
that holding a job became difficult and my life was a
patchwork of little jobs here and there. Those small jobs
included one that worked with the military or might have

374
been a contractor. Yes, that‘s it. It was a contractor. They
needed someone toput together a manual on how to load a
Humvee with certain things I cannot remember. When I got
there, I was told that I could write the manual in Word.
Word? I didn‘t even know you could use Word as
publishing software. It was for word processing. No one
used Word for that. You used PageMaker. Everyone knew
that. But all they had was Word and so I had to learn it as I
went along. It did not make a good impression. At one point
the manager had to show me how to do something inWord.
He ended the lesson with, ―You should know this.‖
What I should have done in the first place was ask why
they didn‘t have PageMaker, that it was the industry
standard at the time for desktop publishing. But throughout
my life I always had a hard time speaking up for myself and
many times it ended with me looking unprofessional, even
incompetent.

375
Anyway, I was ―let go‖ after I delivered the manual.
When I took the job, I was told there would be atthree-
monthtrialperiod. I didn‘t pass.
It was humbling to say the least. More like humiliating.
But the first sign job-wise that something was really wrong
was an interview for a managing editor position in a very
large and well-known company I cannot remember.Some
kind of ―help-you-find a job‖I have no memory of had
landed me an interview inD.C.
First of all, I always hated driving in D.C., and second
of all I always got lost. And I can still effectively get lost
today with a GPS. So I got lost. I drove around and around
and finally I stopped at a pay phone (no cells then) and
called. Well, sheread me the riot act. I was a ―no show‖ and
her anger percolated to the surface until she was yelling
atme over the phone. She toldme that my no-show reflected
on her competence in her job, that she had gathered several

376
people together whom I cannot remember,andthatthey
waited for me in a conference room until they realized it was
far past the interview time.
Tobe honest, had all gone right and had I gotten the job
I probably would have lost it fairly quickly and never
known why.
So I sucked it up, more or less, and feltlike afool. I
cannot change the past and it was not my fault. Baa Baa
Black Sheep.
I was happiest while working at Goddard part-time,
three days a week. I saw so muchmore of my children. It was
a gift from God that, again, I did not realize.I can remember
strapping my baby to my front, taking my older daughter‘s
hand, and walking to a park not far away. It was October—
my second daughter was born in September—and the sky
was crystal clear in a cloudless sky. Like a silver bullet an
airplane flew over our heads glittering in the sun, spiking
the cerulean blue.

378
Chapter Thirty
After my divorce, my daughters and Ilived for a while
at a friend‘s house aboutfive minutes from Goddard where
Iworked full-time again—my manger worked to make my
part-time job backinto a full-time one. I started going to a
psychiatrist nearby and may have started going to one of the
therapists in his office. I can‘t remember. I began to feel,
however, that he could not help me and I found through my
friend another psychiatrist,located in D.C.
We left my friend‘s house and moved into a condo
down the street from Goddard. When we moved in the
person who represented our building in the association (I
can‘t remember his title or his name) came with a cake one
evening. The first thing he said was, ―I feel sorry for you.‖
Apparently, the couple beneath me who owned their condo
had successfully driven out three prior tenants.

379
And then indeed did the games begin.
He would bang on his ceiling everytime—and I do not
exaggerate—we walked aroundupstairs. Sometimes
hewould follow our footsteps from room to room, banging.
The first night there, my daughters were with their father
while I moved everything in. In the morning I gotup and
used a climber I had. Someone knocked on the door—well,
pound—and when I openedit my neighbor below stood
there in his underwear seething over being awakened by my
stepper. I closed the door in his face.
We lived there for eighteen months and in that time I
ended up before the condominium association ina war of
broomhandles, but I had requested the meeting because I
could not take it anymore. Whatno one suspected was that I
had kept careful notes oneach incident—dates, times,
infractions, the fact that they had begun to harass my
children. They insisted that they never bothered them
andindeed had always been fond ofthem and wavedatthem
fromtheir porch as they played smiling and laughing. They

380
ended by saying the girlsalways responded to
theirsalutations.
I said, ―That is a sign of their good breeding.‖
That got a reaction.
But when I began to read outloud fromthat journal I
had kept,the room was silenced. Finally the association
suggested that my neighbor and I goto counseling together.
He said yes, he would go. I said no, I wouldn‘t. The meeting
ended.
All of this reminded me of the elderly womanmy
husband and Ilived above inour firstapartment,who called
the office every day about the noise we made, planted red
plastic tulips outside the building in spring, and sent us
Christmas cards wishing us well.

381
I must wonder now if in these instances I switched and
did indeed make a lot of noise. I do know that recently
someone spending the night with me found me in the pantry
in the wee hours of the morning. She‘d come down to see
what all the racket was about that woke her up.
Things begin to speak for themselves.
We moved from the condominium to a house in Silver
Spring. We had to. The neighbor belowbegan checking his
mailbox in his underwear. He began to exhibit
stalkingbehavior withall three of us. He was always on the
bench at the parking lot reading the paper every time we
passed by. My daughters told me that he would come out
the front door and sit on the steps and stare at them
continuously as they played with their friends.
The fiveyears in Silver Spring were seminal, althoughI
do not remember that much about them. That was whenI
began to slide. That was when all three of us went to
counseling together because I couldn‘t afford three different

382
doctors. My older daughter and I were beginning to have
escalating arguments. She did not like the therapist I found.
Before this, I had taken her to a psychiatrist when we
lived in the condo. She insisted nothing was wrong with her,
started taking Prozac, and then quit on her own. The doctor
wanted her ―bubbly.‖ She did not.
One escalated argument led to my calling the police.
They separated us to talk to us. One policemen took me
outside, another stayed in with my daughter. I remember
looking through the window and seeing her sitting down in
a wing back chair with her legs crossed and a smile on her
face. It was as though nothing at all had happened.
Maybe nothing had.
But if nothing had, where do these scattered incidents
come from? Alters who carry bits and pieces of memories
and unaware that each carried only a part of the story? Had I

383
hallucinated the entireaffair? Did halludreality strike again?
It is most simply a question I cannot answer.
I got permission to telecommute two days a week and
to leave each day in time tomeet my children getting off the
bus. I refused to have latchkey kids. But my beingaround
more didn‘t seemto help.Arguments continued, money was
beyond tight, more time was lost. I almost lost my car to the
repo man.
In desperation, I wentto one of those places that
negotiates with your creditors forlower percentages and
smaller payments. They lumped it all into one payment in an
effort to get you out of debt. About threeyears down the
road, I discovered that the statements showed that my
balance was gettinghigher instead of lower. And, yes, ittook
me threeyears. Didn‘t Icheckthe statementsregularly? I don‘t
know. The only one I remember is the one I just
mentioned.Maybe alters read the statements without letting
me know the facts. On that day wasI as myself the one who
read the statement? Threeyears of alters reading those
statements and not once me? More lost time.

384
It was in the Silver Spring house,mydaughters tell me,
that I began going into my room and locking the door. The
only time I remember somethinglike that was when I was
early in my pregnancy with my second child whenone
afternoon for reasons I guess only the altersknow I locked
myself in the half-bath, wept and wailed and refused to
come out despite the pleas of my four-year old daughter and
my husband. But locking myself in my room for hours at a
time and then issuing forth acting more like myself? This I
do not remember.
Tight as money was, I was adopting cats and wildlife
like acollector. All ofthisis in retrospect. I thought nothing of
it at the time.I couldhave been running ashelter. I was lucky
I didn‘t get reported or something. Not that they suffered in
any way—that is, they were never touched in any way but a
loving one, there wasplenty of food, and they allgot the
proper shots and vet care. Their number was the problem.
People don‘t dothat kind of thing unless something is really
wrong. My daughters tell menow that the house was not

385
clean despite the line of litter boxes, and that they came
home from school and cleaned the messesup. It is as if they
are speaking about someone else, telling the story ofanother
person. I remember little of that. I do remember fifteen cats
all sitting infront ofme waiting tobe fed. I remember fifteen
cats all sitting before a desk behind which an unfortunate
mouse had run. I don‘t remember what happenedto him but
suppose it was obvious.
The cats came from all manner of places. Strays,
abandoned, adoptions from fostering for the shelter or for
Siamese Rescue or people who just nolonger wanted their
cat(s). I guess to anyone else, they were numberless. Amos
Moses, Elvis, Lexus, Phoenix, Dolly Moses, Tarragon, Jubilee
Callisto, Joshua, Jasmin, Zack, Izzy, Mattie, Tigger,
Snowflake. Some came in pairs, some solo. I used to say
thewordwas out on the streetsthat ifyou needed a place to
hang your tail, go to my house.

386
Then there were anoles, African Fat-Tailed Geckos you
could carry in your pockets, rats, guinea pigs, hamsters,
four-foot long iguanas that looked as they had just stepped
out of the Pleistocene, two-feet long Solomon Islands Skinks
with eight-inch prehensile tails, Striped Skinks, an adopted
(but thenagain, whatwasn‘t?) black dog named Maya, Quick
Skinks, cockatiels that rode on your shoulder or stood on
your head, a rough collie named Ireland, fiddler crabs, frogs.
That was the time my psychiatrist beganto wonder if
Ihad somephysical issue that was causing all my mental
miseries because medication after medication didn‘t seem to
make any difference. Neurontin, Zoloft, Klonopin, Lunesta,
Elavil, Wellbutrin, Xanax,and others I have forgotten—I
thinkhe thought Iwas lying to him.
―I just don‘t see how anyone on all the medications you
are taking could possibly still have panic attacks.‖

387
People with DID often havepanic disorder as well, andI
know now that I fall intothat category.
Then all of a sudden all my energy drained completely
away. It wasa struggle to get up, a struggle to stay awake. I
came home each day and went straight to bed. Blood
samples showed I mayhave had monowhenI wasvery
young. Whatever caused it, I couldn‘t function but had to. I
hadtwo children and a full-time job to take care of.So my
doctorput me on amphetamines. And it worked. I started
running again. Then it began to work too well. I became
jittery and sleepless. My doctortook me off it and I have been
fine ever since. Odd, but what isn‘t with DID?

388
Chapter Thirty-One
I had begunmy long andmiserable associationwith the
credit card when I left my husband. What I put on it was
necessities for my daughters, but never seemed able to
payoff the balance in full.Soby the time Igot help creditors
were calling constantly. Their rudeness and unwillingness to
budge on the matter created a war of words, threats, and
intimidation. I watched my bank account like a hawk. I
assumed the accountwas right, yet somehow something
happened and my calculations and the bank‘s calculations
were all mixed up. The bank, yousee, wasone ofmy
creditors. I had taken out a thousand dollar loan just to live
and when it came time to make the payments, I couldn‘t.
The loan only plunged me even deeper into debt.
One day I went to the bank (I don‘t remember why) to
find that the bank had taken payments directly out of my
account without notifying me. My account was overdrawn. I

389
was irate. I stoodin the middle of the bank on thephone
withthe loan department doing my own yelling and
screaming. I can‘t remember much ofwhat I said to them, but
at one point I said, ―You are taking the food out of my
children‘s mouths!‖ It worked. The bank redeposited the
payments they had taken out.
So I called my brother to ask for his assistance in
securing a loan from my mother who when we lived in the
condo refused to loan me money for a second retainer fee for
the lawyer who was handling the divorce. She said it
wasbecause my husband was involved. She had never liked
him.
I was afraid to ask my brother for help. By this time I
was definitely persona nongrata, the official black sheep of
the family. Therewasonly exasperation over me. Everyone
wasbeginningto distance themselvesfrom me. It hurt—a
lot.My brother toldmehe wassick of all the times he had to
negotiate with my mother over money for me. It was the

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first time in mylife that he had raised his voice tome. We had
alwaysbeen very close, but I knew then that those days
wereover. The façade was beginning to show cracks.
I remember only this onetime I asked for hishelp, but
I‘m sure there were others, buried in analterwho agreed to
keep memories regarding getting a loan frommy mother. I
cannotremember theoutcomeof this. There wasatime Iwas in
debtfor$35,000and my mother handledthe situation by
requiring me to go to her lawyer with all my bills so that he
would write the checks for bills due and past due. She
would not give alump sum to me. Icannot say how
humiliating it was. Later her lawyer told me that it was not
that my mother didn‘t love me but that she was afraid she
was goingto run out of money for any contingencies related
to aging.I wish she had told me that herself. It probably,
though, would only have further deteriorated our
relationship.I was, after all,the blacksheep.

391
It happened again last night. I was in the bathroom
parceling out my pills into compartments for morning and
bedtime. I looked up in the mirror and found someone else
looking back at me.The same person as before. A third party
was looking back at me from the mirror, and I was seeing
what he or she was seeing—a completely objective view of
myself. I didn‘t quite recognize myself. It was almost
likeseeing myself for the first time—almost. This alter had
been watching me in the mirror for a long time I think. I just
now became aware of it.I held the gaze longer this time than
last, then broke away. I was afraid of becoming mesmerized.
I wasafraidof a switch. SoI wentdownstairs and told my
friend who was spending a few days with me what had
happened and that I had to go to bed immediately. It was
10:10 p.m. Far past the safety zone. I practically ranupstairs,
popped down my pills, washed my face, brushedmy teeth,
and hurdled myself into bed. It worked. I fell asleep without
incident.

392
There was one other time I remember asking my
mother for money. Sequentially with the $35,000 loan—I
cannot say.But the passage of the money from her tome was
saturated onceagain in humiliation.She said I could pick up
the check from thehouse, and when I arrived I foundI was
not alone. My brother and sister were there and a friend of
my mother‘s who helped her out as she was aging at the
time. Anyway, I saw immediately that my mother had
gathered audience to witnessthispassageof one hand to
another. There was the requisite small talk until my
motherstoodup andwalked toward me. When she handed
me the check she said emphatically, ―Never ask mefor
money again.‖ Why? Because that‘s just how my family was
inthose days about helping each other. You were supposed
to stand on your own two feet (not a great expectation),
handle your own problems outside the family, never ask for
help, andmake somethingof yourself by yourself (a tall
order).

393
AndI was the black sheep.
I hadreached my saturation point with being
humiliated and having afamily thatwould offer me no
support, money or otherwise. No support for my marriage,
for my divorce, forbeing asingle parent, for attainingmy
dreams no matter what. Never apat on the back—a ―job well
done.‖ Ilived inavacuum.
I stood up and handed the check back to mymother and
told her I really didn‘tneed it after all and thanked her
without thinking about how I was now going to feed my
daughters. I then promptly exited the living room before the
tears started when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
―Do it for the children,‖ a soft voice said.

394
And so back I went to the living room, accepted the
check, thankedmymother, and gave hera kiss.
I can‘t say when, though I know it was related to my
asking my brother to secure a loan for me from my mother,
but it all came crashing down. Hail, fire, and brimstone, and
not a soul in sight for help.

395
Chapter Thirty-Two
I bought the house in Silver Spring from a man with a
strongeastern accent and a quick temper. My walk-through
before settlement was illuminating, to say the least. There
were still clothes in closets and rusty shelves in the basement
with partly used cans of paint, none of which matched any
color in the house. There were tools, too, and tables and
chairs and all kinds of miscellaneous stuff alloverthe place.
Norhad it been as much as swept. So atsettlement he was
told he had to remove all those things. He kept arguing that
he had left them because he thought I might want them. His
son, also at the settlement, tried to calm him downas did his
real estate agent. It came down to her saying loudly and
emphatically, ―She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want it.You
have to get it out.” To make sure hedid, it was decided that
a sum of money would bewithheld andpaid backto him only
when he had gotten rid of all the things he had left. Ithink
the amount decided on was only a hundred dollars, but
when the decision was being made as to the amount, I said,

396
‗‖One thousand dollars.‖ I may aswell have said a million
because every eye was suddenly trained on me in horror.I
thought there was evidence enough judging bythe way
settlement went that he wouldn‘t hold up his end of the
bargain. But thesum stood at one hundred dollars.
He did, to my amazement, clean itall out. However, he
just piled itall on the curb anddidn‘t haulit away. Oddly
enough, as the days passedmore and more of the shelves
and chairs and even a mid-twentieth century stove began to
disappear.I never sawanyone takingthingsbut the pile got
smaller and smaller.Another case of one man‘strash is
another man‘s treasure. I can‘t remember how the very last
of it was disposed. Maybe the original owner picked it up
and took it to the dump where it belonged—
maybe.Eventually, the house was empty and broom clean.
We moved in.
I had intended this house to be the last move. I had
built into the wall of a study a huge table with slots for

397
organization for me to do my telecommuting and for my
younger daughter to do her homework next to me. She was
more likely to do the work this way. And she did.
Meanwhile, matters at work were beginning to
disintegrate. As I was aneditorat Goddard for
elevenyears,there was plentyof time for metoslip. But it must
havebeensomethingthathappenedslowly because I was the
highest paid editor on the contract. Still it was not enough to
put breadon the table. It never was and I was constantly
askingfor araise.I couldn‘t afford all the summer activities
otherparents couldfor their children.I could allow my
daughters only one pair of shoes—tennis shoes—maybe a
Walmart brand—and Sunday school shoes, even though
they did not go to Sunday school. It was ingrained in me by
my mother that onehad one pair of formal shoes. But they
went fast because both girls were growing allthe time.
Yesterday‘s shoe may not fit tomorrow.As things got worse,
I told them that I would givethemacertainamountof money
that they could put toward the designer tennisshoesthey
haddiscovered everyone else had and they would haveto

398
earnthe rest. My older daughter began pulling weeds and
doing other garden work forhire on the street where we
lived. She put herself out there, knockingon
doors,offeringher services. And a solid employee she was.
Her sister was four years younger and at that time had no
way of garnering extra money for her shoes.I bought them
for her because I got her your gardenvariety sneakers until
things were different—how I don‘t know. I was beginning
tolose track.
It hurt to see my daughter having towork,that
Icouldnot provide for her enough so that she had to pad her
own pockets to buy the shoes she wanted.
I wanted to afford moreformy daughters. I wouldgo
into Macy‘s and look at all the littleparty dresses puffed out
with crinoline and with velvet bodices. I roamed the
seasonal clothesaisles, the shirts and pantsthat matched, but
I always left empty-handed andfeelingguilty. There
was,however, nothingI could do. The money simply was not

399
there. So there were no fancy Christmas dresses or trendy
summer clothes.
Somehow money just seemed to slip through my
fingers, nor could I tellyou now why and how that was. I
should have changed it, you say? It was the DID, the
hallucinations, the lost time—What was I doing during all
those times? I have no idea, and even though none of it was
my fault because I had DID and didn‘t know it, I still cry
when I think of my younger daughter‘s sleeping face in the
paleness of the moon. She even as achild had insomnia and
oftencrawled into bed with me at thewee hours of the
morning because she need comforting. Was her inability to
sleep linked to my DID? What did she see in her mother and
what did she watch her mother do that may have
destabilized her to the point of insomnia?
This is hard to write, painful, sad. Iremember checking
on mychildren onenight before I went to bed andfound my
younger daughter, asleep at last, almost sliding on her back

400
out of the bed, with the moon shining on her pretty little
face. She looked so pale, horribly pale.
It was while we were in Silver Spring that that Ispent
the heart of my years at Goddard. I really liked my job at
Goddard.I likedthe workandIliked the people andIliked the
atmosphere and I likedworking in a natural setting. No
DupontCircle,no mentally ill trying to survive, no
congestedcity traffic.And Ithink I was doing OK for most of
that time. But my disorder, Ithink, slowly but surely became
more noticeable in my relationships and the adequacy of my
work. I can‘t tell you how,because I could not see myself or
my own behavior.The manager incharge of Publications was
notonly theonewhoarranged things for me to telecommute.
He was also the one to make sure I got pink slipped.
DidI cause trouble at work? Let‘s see, what can
Iremember however perforated with lost time andunusual
behavior? (And I say that not because I knew at the time but

401
because now Ican see that Multiple Personalities Disorder
was making a strange bird of me.)
I remember asking for raises, being chronically late,
watching people‘s attitudes towardme change. I
mayhavebeen the highest paid editoronthe contract, but
Ithink I was generally disliked (not anunfamiliar state of
affairs) becauseI was so thorough. But what can you expect
of an ex-English and Latin teacher? After awhileyou just
can‘t readanything anymore without looking for mistakes. I
had a reputation for turning a manuscript red with my
carmine red pencils.
I made corrections to the newsletter that was the
responsibility ofanother editor in ourtask.Not apopular
thingto have done but I was told to do it.It was always like
an addiction to correct somethingIsawwrong. I rememberthe
chief of the project askingme oncewhatI had against the use
of ―due to.‖ Well, it is an adjective, not a preposition, and
apparently I wastheonly one in the whole building who

402
knew that.Apparently. Then there wasthat day he came to
our basementoffice wanting to know why I was always
changing ―which‖ to ―that‖ and vice versa. And so forthe
first time Ipulled out a book called The Careful Writer and
pointed out the section dealingwith these two words. He
read them, thanked me, and left. After that,I realized I was
going to havetopull out grammar books all the time lest
Imyself get attacked. They just didn‘t seem to getit that their
names were going on the cover,notmine. In fact, my name
rarely appeared even in the acknowledgments.Baa Baa Black
Sheep got closerand louder allthe time.
Finally, the managership of Publications suffered a
change of regime. We were rerouted on the organizational
chart.We endedupina very strange section of the chart but it
was as far away as possible from our manager of several
years. There was a time when mymanagerand I got along
well. He helped me keep contract items at Goddard and
away from the contractor homeoffice where they did not
belong. Thenewsletter wasonesuch triumph. The editor
whose job it was to publish the newsletter moved to the

403
home officeandtried totake the Publications task
newsletterwith her. I got it back with the help of a new
project supervisor. You see, had she been successful, the
existence of Publications would have been seriously
threatened because the work load wouldhavebeen so
light.We managed to get it in writing that no task
publications could be printed without going through the
project Publications task first. Another unpopular decision.
And Ithinkitwas a trailofthese that task leaders quickly
picked up from behind me, effectually leaving me in a dark
corner.
In bringing the project newsletter back to
Publications,the project chief who worked with the editor of
thenewsletter for years had now to work with me. Baa Baa
Black SheepandI bethesawplenty, too. It was an uneasy
alliance.

404
When I got home today, I followed the sound of voices
into the kitchen. There was no one there.
For a time we worked ontwo newsletters, one of the
project itself and one on a task within the Publications
task.Now that onewas another exercise in torment. For a
while I was the editor of it until its task leader wanted a
regime change himself. He gathered meand the word
processor who worked on his newsletterandbluntly
toldmehewasgiving ittothe word processor, as if he had the
authority to do that within a task not his own. As she was a
word processor not an editor, standard formal English
would take a beating. She did not know the King‘s English
or the Queen‘s for that matter, but it wasall Icoulddo not to
cry then and there, but there wasamotive behind it I

405
discovered later, amotive everyone else knew,but,
thenagain, as I‘ve told you, Iamalways the last to know.
A rumor beganto float along the hallways, a rumorthat
they were seeingeach other. The next thing Iknew she had
left her husband and they were living together in her
Crofton home. He was twice her age but just as
manipulative, so perhaps they were a good match. He was
not generally popular among task personnel and I will never
forget what my only co-worker said about him once:
―Someday I‘m goingto pick that skinny little Englishmanup
andsnap him in two.‖ Bravo. Andshe could have done it too.
Half of the staff who had worked under one task leader
and witnessed the hiring of anew one was thehalf that made
ittheir express duty to absolutely professionally destroy him.
From lootinghistrash canto canvassing his desk when he was
not there to going through his online account just because
they happened to notice one day that he had not logged out.

406
They succeeded and that iswhen we were movedon the
organizationalchart.
It was that little fluffy black thing looking much larger
close up that ran up the stairs.
Things beganto noticeably change. The former manager
task leader who had once done so much to create ajob for
meto supportmy children, beganto avoid me, wouldn‘t stop
inthe hallway to chat, was quick to say he couldnot help me
with my salary anymore since wehad a new supervisor, said
to me once after I walked downthe hall into his office, ―I
thought I heard some heavy footsteps.‖ More of the same
from way back when, more of the cruelty, more of the

407
ostracism, andasheep that just got blacker and blacker all the
time. Yes, I hadgained some weight,actually a lot, that left
mestymied. I dieted and ran andran and dieted
andonlygotheavier. NowIknow whatwas goingon there.
Then Idid not and was nothing but frustrated ten-fold. I was
switching at night and eating. I had no recollection of it, I
guess because I switched and managed to leave no evidence
behind. A clever alter.
It seemedin those days I walked the halls of the
building alone. I rememberthe very old but highly polished
floors of the fifties.I remember eatinglunchalone oratmy
desk. Icastabout for allies and found only my supervisor
whose reputation was being systematically destroyedby the
word processing contingency of the Publications task. He
was eventually pink slipped, and an unofficial leadership
fell on me, like Dorothy‘s houseonMunchkin land.
I got my first less than mediocre review when we
emigrated on the org chart. I argued with my supervisor
andtruly thought I could change her mind. When I realized
Icouldn‘t, Iwrote, as was my right, a rebuttalto befiled with

408
my review somewhereinthe depthsofthe contract home
office.
She said the restofthe contractpersonneldidn‘t like the
way I wrotemy emails.
Huh?
That was my reaction then. I told her that I wrote them
in standard formal English and since I was the editor for
Publications I felt they should be correct.
Whatscaresmenowis if I had switches and during them
sent out inappropriate emails to task personnel. Since
Publications was responsible for the Monthly Report on all
the tasks, I interacted with virtually everyone on the project.

409
Not too long after that I was also pink slipped in favor
of anemployee with nobackground in publications
whatsoever.The King‘s English went extinct. She andshe
alone becamethe Publications task. I andI alone picked
myself up and tended tomy children.

410
Chapter Thirty-Three
Foreclosure was imminent. The bank had already given
me one extension and were not going to give me another. So
up went the for sale sign and I began looking once again for
a place for us to live, a cheaper place, a place I could afford.
A man with a strong Spanish accent bought the Silver Spring
house. He arrived before we were to vacate the house, began
tearing it up from the inside out, and flung the boxes out
thatI had not yet gotten to the car to transport. I lost a lot of
fine china, a pair of antique hurricane lamps, my favorite
shining elephant statue with gilded tusks, an assortment of
antique oriental china statues of old men with staffs, sterling
silver individual dining trays on which to put plates of food,
a complete set of silver-plated flatware; the list is
endless.Later, my daughters very gently told me about the
elephant before I had a chance to see it. Bless their hearts.
Most of these things were given to me by my aunt and uncle
who gave to my sister, brother, and me some of their finest
long before they passed away.There were other thingsI never

411
saw again and can only guess asto their demise. I think they
were in boxes we just didn‘t see when trying to gather them
in the dark.
I likedthehouse in Laytonia despite the muddy hill that
had to be traversed to get to the townhouses. It was
surrounded by a large neighborhood of single-family homes.
It was a smalltownhousejust bigenough for thethree of us. I
made some changes there, one of which was to put wooden
French slatted doors in the thresholds of the doors leading
into the living room so the cats and kitchen smells could not
get into the living room.
It was a questionable neighborhood at best, my
children told me later. I guess I was oblivious to a lot of
things. Virtually everyone hadpit bulls, some three orfour.
That did make me nervousandnot, it turned out, without
reason. One day I was walking Ireland behind the
townhouses and all of a sudden I heard someone screaming.
I turned around to see this pit bull traveling at top notch

412
speed straight toward us. How can something so low to the
ground run so fast? Its owner came running after it but it
already had Ireland by the throat. In this my first encounter
with pit bulls, I tried with all my might to pull the dog away
from Ireland.Rather stupid, I know, as I could‘ve endedup
next. Instead, the dog‘sowner was abletocontrol him and
miraculously Irelandwasnothurt.Afterthateverytime I
passed a townhouse with pit bulls(which was just about all
of them) that barked as I passed by, it truly gave me the
creeps. One family tried to make mebelievethat pit bulls are
not aggressive.
As if a neighborhood of pit bulls wasnot enough, there
was an elderly woman who eyed the townhouses from hers
which was further up the hill.My daughters said she stared
at them every time they went by and was knownto never so
much as slip her big toe out of her door. But she was ever on
the watch.I sawher once when we were getting into the car
and mydaughters pointed her outto me.

413
I did not allow my daughters to stay out late atnight
because of their ages, but I was doingthem afavor in another
way. The top of the hill was the summer hangout for
recreational drugs and alcohol.At the time, I did not realize
it. AllI saw was a group of teenagers. No drugs, no beer, no
cigarettes.Howdid Imiss that?Howcould my daughters
seeone thingand I another?They actually did not like going
outside the townhouse because of that group that dominated
the entrance to the muddy, hilly path to our house. They
gathered there next to the house of awoman who eventually
lost herchildren toChild Health Servicesbecauseher house
was so dirty, her children running wild, and twopit bulls
barking in the dusty, grassless back yard. Everything looked
unkempt including the mother, who I thought but am not
surenow was the daughter of the people who owned
Laytonia and lived inamuch finer townhouse with grass and
no pit bulls. They gave it to me one day when Ireland
didherbusiness on the very boundary oftheir yard and the
sidewalk and I was out of plastic bags for cleaningit up.So I
decided I‘d go home and get a bag, come back, andclean
itup. Out came the wife in atirade of anger. I tried totell
herthatI had every intention of coming back with a bagto

414
cleanitup but she could not be consoled. Shedemanded that I
immediately clean it up and ittookme a while to calm her
down enough to tell her I was on my way to get some plastic
bags. She reluctantly letgo of me and her tirade andtold me
shewantedmeto knockonthedoor when I had cleaned up the
mess so that she could inspect it.
Whatmakes people such bullies? Looking back I can see
I wasnot the run-of-themill Laytonian. I hadprinciples and
that‘s all Ineeded to separate myself from them.
Dutifully, I returned with the bag, cleaned it up, and
did as I was told—knocked onher door. Following
herdirectionsdid little to calm her down. I left.
Because I had been pink-listed, I got
unemploymentchecks andthat is whatwe lived on. Once
again I dodged the repo man by hiding my car elsewhere
than Laytonia.I amashamed to say that I enlistedmy older
daughter‘shelp in finding agoodplace to park mycar. A

415
parent should never ask their child to do such a thing. I
suppose it was the harbinger of the worsening of my DID,
and eventhough it was not my fault, I have always feltguilty
for doing it. I managedto keep the carinmy possession.
From here everything got sostrange. There are blocks of
losttime andI cannotrelay anythingina sequential manner.
Ican only report the experiences I wentthrough as disjointed
as they may sound.But I was disjointed myself.
Somewhere in all ofthisI had a friend who said
shewould hire me tohelp her build a website. Later, onceI
had begunworking for her,she informed me that Iwasnot her
employee but a contractor working under her direction. She
made it sound as though I was a free bird, but what itreally
meant was that should for any reason I leave her employ she
would not have to foot unemployment checks. I
didn‘tfigurethat out until years later.
She did nothavemework on thewebsite much atall. I
became her accountant.Laughable now.She kept telling me

416
tofocusandno one had ever told methat before, and so
notknowing that I was not focusing Itried
tofocus.Apparently, it did not work. I lost that situation.
Often she would call her ex-boyfriend, my old manager
at Goddard who lived with her for several years and whom
shekicked out because he wasnotholdingup hisendof the
bargain by being her fix-it man. She would railathim over
thephone so loudly I could hear it in the basement. Hard
tofigure out. Afterall, she did kick him out so whyshe so
abrasively called himto ream him out isunknown.
Well, I made amess of herfinances for which she
heldme responsible. Afterall,neither of usknew I hadDIDand
theworst placeyou canput aperson with DID is in the
accountant‘s chair. DIDby definition isan exercise in
confusion. This was the first time, I think, that I began to
wonder. This was on the heels of my dismissal from
Goddard. Oh, groan. Looking back I see that my
management atGoddard probably began to see, even hear
from me, strange things. ―Strange‖ is the only work Ican use
because I will never knowthe exactitude of whatthey saw or

417
heard. Simply, it just must have been strange. My friend
definitely saw something incongruous about me. I felt alittle
better when it became obviousthatshe worked a person to
the bone andnothingyou did was really good enough for her
to pay money for. She did the same thing to my daughters
whom she asked if I would mind if she paid them to cleanfor
her. While I noticed myself thatmy daughters seemed to be
doingthesame thing on the same spot over and over that I
beganto crinkle my forehead. Later, they toldme
howanything they did was not good enough nor was the
pay. And I blame myself for that. Shedid not pay them
enough for doing the same job over and over but I was
afraid I would open a can of worms if I saidanything. So I
accepted her payment to them, which she had already
cleared with me. I should havestoodup for myown children
andof this Iam ashamed.
The time came when she was ready to getrid of me. I
forget how she accounted for it but I do rememberwhen I
came by to return to her somethings she let me takehome to
work on. When I arrived, a friend of hers sat minion at her

418
steps in a lawn chair, essentially guardingherfrom so
dangerous a creature as I. Butthenagain I had no way of
knowing what I did ordidn‘t door say, even that I most
probably did a fair amountof switching.Completely loyal to
her—and Iforget how she knewhim or howshe turned
himintoher personal bodyguard—he wouldn‘t even let
meput the things on the porch. He stoodup threateningly,
agood five inchestallerthan me, and said he‘d take it, butI
got to the bottom step and left it all there.
I did not untilthen realizewhat adangerous person I
was (?). Was it the DID? Yes, but I didn‘t know I had it. I‘m
sure I switched, maybe innumerabletimes, when working
forher. It was just she and I, and I will never know what my
behaviorwaslike over all and I was probably dangerously
closeto being incompetent. Not aneasy thingto face, but now
I canbecauseIknow that the blame,afterall,did not lie with
me.

419
She wasthe same friendwho had let us stay for two
weeks, no rent, at her house when I was divorcing my
husband. She kind of threw us out then actually, in amanner
of speaking, although it seemsto methatall she had to do was
charge us rent. The three of us occupied only one of her four
bedrooms, all sleeping in the same bed.
Theblacksheep beginto populatemy being. Another
friend lostand menot havingany ideawhy. So asothers had
done before her, she got ridofme just as Goddard had. I
notonly lost afriend but itseemed I had disgraced myself as
well. I was a black sheep.
Letme go back now to our move from Silver Spring to
Laytonia.It wascleartome that even my own family did not
wantto haveanything todo with me and that I was officially
the black sheepof the family. So I asked for no help in selling
my house, finding a newone,and moving. I just moved and
settledinto whatever life I could provide for my children.

420
At some point my brother called me, iratethatIhad
moved with no word to my family. He indicated that he all
but knocked on doors to find out where Iwas (and maybe he
did). Cell phones werenotyet ineveryone‘s hands. Iguess his
appointment to findthe black sheep wasnot a welcome one,
and Inever told anyoneexcept therapists thatI was the black
sheep of the family. So in my explanation to him—which I
have little memoryof—I did not usethe terms eventhough I
could getno help. He was exasperatedwith meand I was
clueless. Icouldn‘timagine why he cared. Perhaps
mynamehad comeup andhe was appointedthemission to
findme. I wasoffthe grid and until I wasfound,relieved. No
one at Laytonia knew me. There was no more Goddard with
friends falling by the wayside for a variety of ridiculous
reasons, one being that I gained weight. Their shunning was
probably compounded by whatever behavior I was
exhibiting. The menI worked with or for began to make it
plain they did not want to converse with me. I saw a picture
of myself then, and good lord, I had gained a lot of weight.
That was because,as I said before, I was switching atnight
andeating. HowdoIknow? Nowthat I ammore aware of what
exactly is wrong with me, I remembereating onamarathon

421
basis during amarathon of nights that did not end until the
suncameup. And Ihad been doing itall along andno amount
of dieting or running or gymexercising changed it.Itonly got
worse.
We got into the houseat Layotnia and put all the
boxesin the living room because I could close and lock the
French doors and keep thecats out. I did not realize it then
but they were spraying andhad been in the Silver Spring
house.So I locked them out of the living room andof course
theyfound other placesto spray. That firstmorningat
Laytonia, I went straightto the living room (Idon‘t know
why) to find red liquid everywhere as if someone hadtaken
abottle of somethingand justhurled itscontents everywhere;
every box, every chair, every wall.My daughters and
Icleaned itup andtried tofigureout whathad happened. It
was at the Laytonia house that we all agreed that I walkedin
my sleep and the living room wasevidenceofit. What we
never quite figured out is how I got out of there because the
French doors were locked from the outside as was the
sliding glass door too.

422
Oh, these alters. They canbe such nimble little
creatures.
Since then I havesolvedmost of the mystery. I had
switched and didn‘t knowit orrememberanything Ihaddone
while switched. I kept in the refrigerator some wine coolers
the color of Hawaiian punch. I had taken at least one bottle
and thrown its contents allover the living room. Why? Oh,
how I wish I knew. Maybe I was beginning to realize that I
was slidingever lower and didn‘t understand why.
And here is ahard tale to tell. My older daughter and
her boyfriend moved in with me and the living room
became their room. I look atmyself here from the outsidein.
There was the matter of asofa that sank slowly with the rains
and remained dejectedly in the front yard. I don‘t know
what wentwrong with me becauseno one could see the
sofaoutthere as there was asix-footfence. In ahail of fury I
toldthemto leave—now. Although I was deluded that I had

423
anything at all to fearfrom them, I asked the black man who
satin the lawn chair ―guarding― my erstwhile friend tocome
with me as backup.
Oh, Lord. How manymistakes I made. And to have
kickedmy sweet daughterout. What was that about? I will
never know butshe bears the scars of ittothis day, scars that
can never really heal, scars I put on her. How could I have
done that? What prompted it? Was it all a colossal switch to
an alter keeping score not of my daughter but of someone
else he/she had confused with my daughter? The same
daughter who satonmy bed punching holes in the paper of
my books and poetry and putting them in binders?At
somepointintime, she droppedout of school. Icannoteven
rememberwhen. Later she got her GED but hermother had
messedwith her enough for herto fallthroughthe cracks. I
will never forgive myself.
Now shepays her mother‘s bills and safeguards her
mother‘s credit cards, researching DID in an effort to
understand hermother, learning to recognize aswitch, at 29
taking care of three children with another on the way and

424
ahusband. I wish I had beenasgoodamotheras sheis. I always
wanted to be. I alwayswanted to be astay-at-home-mom, but
that dreamrequired myhusband‘s cooperation
andhewouldnotallow it. Nor is there any viable excuse for
that. Mydaughter is astay-at-home-mom and her husband
works overtime.She takes care of the home front and he the
western.
My daughter realized before anyone I think that there
was something just notright. Shehas told me of my own
temper tantrums not just with them but with my husband
when we were married. He told her that one day I came
down thesteps and I just wasn‘t the same person anymore,
so when my older daughter‘s boyfriend first met me, he
affirmed thatit was nother. There was definitely
somethingwrong with me.
Amen.

425
Chapter Thirty-Five
Then cametheloss of the townhousein Laytonia. I was
on unemployment twice in a row and wasnolonger
eligible.So I sold the Laytoniahouse and bought atrailer in
oneof the last two trailer parksinthe county, packed up, and
took myyounger daughterwith me to livethere.
It was a traumatic event for her. I can stillhear her
saying, ―But mommy, you said you would never move into
atrailer.‖ Did I?
It was my custom(since I‘d hadsomuch practice) to
relax in a new homethe first night. To do nothing but get
ready for the grand unpacking that would begin the next
day.But my younger daughter, fighting her humiliation,
broughta friend and unpacked the kitchen that night.She

426
was trying to make ahome out ofthis place in which she
found herself.
The trailer park turned out to be the place I needed
tobe. I ownedthe trailer and had only lot rent to pay.
Wecould survive there, I thought. Ihadastring ofoddjobs and
couldn‘t seem to keep any of them. It was in the trailer days
that I ended up in the mentalward of ahospital for three
days.For food I went to food banks and carried paper bagsof
necessities home.Oncewe—and I can‘t remember if it was
while we were in the Silver Spring house and so my older
daughter would have come to—went to awoman‘shouse
that functionedasafood bank. She gaveus two
bagfulsoffoodanda stuffed toy to my daughter. I wrote tomy
congressman about somethingandendedup with a
Thanksgiving dinner for us.
I went to the sprawling Christian church and school
across the road from Laytoniato askfor assistance. When I
arrived, the only people there were two secretaries. I asked

427
to see the minister and was told noneoftheninepastors
wereavailable. They wereall off for the day. Huh?
Nine?Countthem.Nine whose salaries had to be paid. Nine
for whom the luxury of being Christian did not allow for
compassion.One secretary told me that, no,they couldn‘t
give me any food because they would be taking it from their
congregationwho might need it in some ethereal situation.
I wentto social services and got Medicaid for my
daughter. Because they wouldnot giveitto me, I handled my
medications with apharmacydiscount card.
My younger daughter and I all but came to blows.I
knew how unhappy she was. For weeks she camehome from
schoolandstayed in her room no matter howmany
invitations to come out she got, which werealot. Finally, she
did beginto go out. Later she told me that the Spanish
contingencybought casesof beer after work anddrank
andyelled tilldawn. Shetoldme about the drugs. Shetold
meabout thewoman in the trailer next to ours where
teenagers seemedtocongregate, though I cannot remember
why now. I knowonly frommyown observations that she

428
was an alcoholic. Why allthe teenagers went there I did not
know—how naïve can you be, or justplain blind—but
eventually she wentthere too. I remember chattingwith this
neighbor and something came up about mydaughter and
she said tome,‖Oh, she‘ll come tomyplace.They alldo.‖
Huh?
I was destined to losemy second daughter. She elected
of herown accord to leave and go live with her father. I
sawher atmymother‘s funerallater and she lookedso forlorn.
I washorrified atmyself. Where on earth did everything go
bad? I heard rumors that she wasnothappy with her father,
his second wife,andherdaughters and son. I really don‘t
knowwhat she did or didn‘t do,but I knoweveryone in that
house thought that completely destroyingherselfesteem was
the answer, but to what?
What my daughter saw in the trailer park was
completelydifferent from what I saw. You would think we
were living in twocompletely different places. She saw

429
yelling drunken men, drugs being dealt and used, the
shadier side of her contemporaries. But this is what I saw.
Everyone called it Stringtown and not out of any
feeling of affection, although it did have a proper business
name as printed on the receipt of every resident once a
month. It had trash ambling through its streets, but so did
Elderbury Woods, so what made the trash of Elderbury
Woods different and acceptable was difficult to say.
Stringtown had gargantuan trees and plenty of them
and the cool shade they imparted. Elderbury Woods had
saplings and what builders refer to as monarch trees, trees
spared the backhoe, left standing in their old age to prove
brand new housing developments could look well-
established via the optical illusion of mammoth trees left not
at random but in such a way that suggested they alone and
no other had always commanded the land into which they

430
were so deeply rooted. Wetlands helped, too, if not
somewhat untidy in appearance. Nature left unchecked
often does look untidy to the human eye.
Well, Stringtown‘s trees were indeed the genuine
article. They were not left over or spared the shovel. They
were not saplings left to grow in the baking heat of summer
in small, dry, yellowing holes. Nor were they plowed over
with tar to create the much-coveted community amenity
known as the walking trail.
But nature often rebels against such tidiness. Tree roots
crept beneath the tar of the trail and grew until they had
broken its smooth, onyx surface. And once there were
cracks, the grass triumphantly, after peering out carefully for
some months, stood tall and green along the cracks.
Stringtown, on the other hand, did not seek to curb
Nature with walking trails and bike trails and nature trails
and hiking trails. The narrow roads were all that were paved

431
and Nature did not seem to mind for there were lumberous
roots that crept beneath Stringtown‘s roads and kept to that
course.
Nature was kind to Stringtown. It was Elderbury
Woods it objected to. Nevertheless, there were many
―Elderbury Woods‘s‖ but only one Stringtown. Only one
place for the trees to feel unthreatened and unfettered by
human planning. But Nature was the only thing kind to
Stringtown.
At the top of the hill across from the cluster boxes and
various signs near the entrance stood the domiciles of
Vikings. They were huge, muscular men with pickups and 4
x 4‘s parked all in a line before their doors and windows.
They would emerge from the abyss of their trucks or homes
to gather at one or another‘s vehicles, shirtless, loud, dirty,
and Huns. All they surveyed was indeed theirs by the
default of fear. These men had families although no one ever
saw them. The screen doors opened into subterranean

432
shadows and darkness cast by the trees. Each bore such a
collection of pandemonium in the yards that one could only
conclude it all had some practical purpose for it would be
impossible for anyone to consider that it might be observed
as decorative in nature. Often, it was difficult to ascertain
exactly what individual parts made up each collection of
whatever it was, and there was no telling what it was. Some
items could be discerned—tires, dirty and rusting lawn
chairs and old stoves, paraphernalia lifted from construction
sites where its new owner was presently employed, rolled
up carpets—and everything thoroughly drenched during
each and every rain shower or storm. The snow alone could
hide it. From thence, especially in the humid summer air, an
odor arose and with every breeze wafted its origin down the
street in search of new piles of rubbish.
It was here at the mouth of Stringtown where the Gallic
element staked their claims that was the busiest of all. So the
Goths and Visigoths had to be vigilant lest the trash in the
public trash cans waft its way their way or they were not

433
able to back their trucks out because of the constant stream
of cars at rush hour.
Here were eight cluster mailboxes. So it was right
under their noses that all of Stringtown stopped at least once
a day to pick up mail. A fair amount of socializing went on
as residents stood in line to pull up to their mailbox. And
there were people with dogs and young Spanish women
holding babies and high school students walking in the
roads from the bus on their way home. All passed too the
uninhabited white clapboard rancher that marked the
entrance proper. It still had the sign ―Watch Your Step‖
although rumor had it that it was flooded. A lucky
coincidence, that sign.
There were other signs in this hub of activity. A
collection of signs riveted to a pole one on top of the other
faced the entrance visible to those leaving Stringtown. One
said ―This is not a dump‖(contrary actually to what most
people thought of Stringtown) that unsuccessfully

434
discouraged this unsavory act of dumping. They were
written in both English and Spanish and read
No Dumping
No es Baurero
This Is Not a Dump
Then below it
No Dumping Allowed
And below that in large plastic adhesive black letters
100
DOLLAR
FINE

435
A sign reading ―Office‖ with a row of black stairs below it
pointed its arrow ambiguously in the general direction of
the white clapboard building and in the particular direction
of the series of dumping signs. Not too far away was an
enormous dumpster swelling up and spilling its contents
with disdain on the bare ground below.
On the other side of the mailboxes was another sign, by
all rights seasonal but carrying on through winter, spring,
summer, and fall its miserably grammatically incorrect
message. It delivered its message in a confusion of parts of
speech, dangling participles, misspellings, run-on sentences,
and fragments. Although written in red and vehement in its
text, it went largely ignored. Perhaps this was because it was
written in such deplorable English that the English-speaking
residents could not decipher it any more than the Spanish
contingency. Or perhaps it struck fear into the hearts of its
readers since by the time one read to the end of the sign, it
seemed to be saying that residents who did not mow their
lawns would be in turn mowed themselves.

436
The English of this sign went on for seven lines. The
Spanish took up only two. The wonder lay in the brevity of
the Spanish and so whether or not it conveyed the same
message as the English, or for that matter, if it was even
correct Spanish. It read
Corte su propo pasto sino.
El Park lo cortara en La renta.
But not to worry. Lawns continued to burgeon forth
into the froth of summer until they edged their way to the
road itself.
The shiny, sparkling hubcaps of highly waxed cars
zipped past the entrance to Stringtown more often than not.
And a steady stream of vehicles in various states of decay
exited Stringtown at its entrance. But they always came
back.

437
On the right side of my trailer lived a single and
alcoholic female, although it was arguable that most of the
residents of Stringtown were alcoholics judging from the
cases of beer cans disposed of each evening. The only
difference really is that that segment of Stringtown society
went to work each day at some laborious construction site
or, leaning against telephone poles, waited for a construction
manager to pass who said, ―Need four men—no! Only four!‖
—while the white woman on the right had the luxury of
remaining intoxicated from dawn till dusk.
―They all come to my place sooner or later,‖ she waved
to me alarmed now that my fifteen-year-old daughter might
too end up there. And did she mean ―end up at myplace‖ or
was she educated enough to be speaking allegorically and
meant ―end up likeme?‖
―I drink a lot,‖ Charlotte‘s friend Marjorie told me once
without guile. ―I‘m staying here with Charlotte. My old man

438
kicked me out again.‖ She slugged a beer, then sparked to
life a match to light her cigarette.
―I‘m on disability,‖ she announced. ―How about if I
mow your lawn this summer?‖
Marjorie‘s glances eyed the threadbare lot and its host
of ephemeral weeds.
―I got a weed whacker.‖ Marjorie spoke to the point.
―You don‘t have to pay me in money. We could work
something out.‖
Marjorie talked very fast, and in- and exhaled cigarettes
in a steady stream.
―I‘m on disability,‖ she repeated. Well, it was clear she
was on something.

439
―It‘s my liver.‖ And with that singular detail she struck
another cigarette to light and exhaled holding her beer at a
forty-five degree angle, and just before it seemed imminent
that the can would tilt far enough for its liquid to escape she
would stare off into the distance and bottom-up the beer.
―You are not allowed to go next door without my
permission,‖ I later counseled my daughter sternly.
―I‘ve already been there.‖
―Oh, shit,‖ I thought to myself.
―There‘s a lot of alcohol over there—―
―I don‘t drink, Mom.‖

440
Trying not to be suspicious but finally giving into sheer
curiosity I asked, ―Why do you go there?‖
‖Everybody goes there.‖
Yes, and that was precisely what I was afraid of.
But not everyone in Stringtown was Charlotte‘s friend.
One night someone in an artistic mood decided to decorate
the side of her home facing mine. Various colorful and
slanderous words were sprayed on with black paint.
Someone tried to undo the graffiti for her by spray-painting
the offensive language but in a paint color just off the color
of the rest of the home, so the angry statement written in
black and painted over in white was still apparent and
intelligible.
Marjorie leaned closer and pointed across the road.

441
―He does it every year, then leaves it right there where
you can‘t miss it and right here on the main road.‖ Marjorie
stopped to take a drink.
―I don‘t know why he does it. Hell, nobody knows. It
looks like shit.‖ Marjorie took another swig.
―I don‘t know where he thinks he is.‖ She straightened
her stained T-shirt and pushed aside her lusterless and
stringy blonde hair. Her complexion was pasty and lightly
pocked.
Just then a little girl of about five came tumbling out of
the door across the street and skipped across the road.
―One of these days that kid is gonna get hit,‖ Marjorie
observed with disgust.

442
―I‘m looking for stones,‖ the little girl chirped. ―Oh, but
you have some pretty white ones,‖ she said to me.
Why, thank you,‖ I replied, ―but they‘re for decoration,
not collecting.‖
The little girl titled her head and looked a little aside,
glancing now and then at the white stones.
―OK,‖ she finally popped and then turned around and
skipped back to her yard.
―Uhg, ―Marjorie grunted. ―Right where his kids play.‖
I strained my eyes to try to find what in his yard was so
objectionable to Marjorie. But I could see nothing. The dark
shade of the tree in his yard blurred the extremity of his
home. It was a beautiful tree, generously spreading its shade
over almost all of the lawn. And it was big, too, splitting
itself here and there like the antlers of a buck.

443
When we had first moved there, for at least the first
three weeks my daughter didn‘t leave the house except to go
to school. I encouraged her to take a walk now and then. My
daughter would reply with agitation,‖ You don‘t know
what‘s out there, Mom.‖
True. But what was out there knew that my daughter
was inside. Slowly but surely a steady stream of teenagers of
both sexes and all colors and creeds were knocking on my
door and asking for my daughter. Sometimes she would beg
me to tell them she was asleep or didn‘t feel well. Others she
would go to the screen door and speak only through it to
some shadowy figure. The encounters were brief. I shook my
head.
―Just don‘t expect to get any sleep around here,‖
Marjorie advised one day. ― It‘s a fuckin‘ circus around here
at night. See?‖ she waved her hand toward some
anonymous offender. ―Mexican music all night long. Do you

444
hear that? It‘ll go on all night. No wonder they‘re stuck
here,‖ she continued most obviously not considering herself
among their number. ―They drink all night and God knows
when they fuckin‘ sleep.‖ Marjorie was on a roll today.
―Want one?‖ She offered me a beer. And under other
circumstances I would have accepted it except that
Marjorie‘s hands never really looked clean.
The exhaled smoke of a cigarette drifted in the
humidity. ―Look,‖ Marjorie began. ―I hear you made some
business cards for Jack. I mean, you do that sort of stuff,
huh?‖
―Yes—business cards, pamphlets, brochures,
whatever.‖
―Steve needs business cards for when he goes down to
Savannah. I got an idea,‖ she moved closer as if in collusion.
―What if I mow your yard for you, weeds and all, and you
make up some cards for Steve?‖

445
I thought a bit. This had taken me by surprise.
―Um, well,‖ I stumbled because I wasn‘t sure I wanted
to ever be around Marjorie as long as it took to mow a lawn.
―Well, OK. But I need some information from him—―
―Sure. Sure.‖
―—his name, telephone number, logo—does he have a
logo? Actually, that‘s no problem. I can work on one. He‘ll
have to let me know what he wants it to say and generally
what he wants it to look like.‖
Marjorie kept shaking her head up and down and
repeating , ―Sure. Sure.‖ It struck me as a little curious that
Marjorie was not writing this down or even asking for paper

446
to write it down. But Marjorie, I seemed not yet to
comprehend, was not an employee of the Hughes Aircraft
Company who needed business cards while traveling. Well,
apparently Steve did travel and for right now there was
enough similarity to expend mytwelve years of editorial
expertise to create a custom business card. So I went inside
and began to produce professional business cards for the
favor of having my lawn mowed.
Well, at least I was out of danger of being mowed
myself, as warned the sign at the cluster boxes.
Marjorie did indeed show up to mow the lawn. I
repeatedly asked Marjorie when Steve needed the cards—I
was not used to working without a deadline. The response
was always the same: ―Anytime will be fine.‖
One day when Marjorie and I were outside my home
talking about her broken weed whacker, a truck crept slowly

447
up the road. Marjorie practically threw herself in front of it
to get it to stop and then motioned the driver toward me.
―This is Steve,‖ she said very quickly and breathing
hard, smiling almost frantically.
―Steve, this is the person whose making your cards.‖
―Hello,‖ he said leaning across the passenger seat and
smiling abashedly.
―Hello. I was just asking Marjorie when you need your
cards.‖
―Well, I‘m going to Savannah in three weeks and I
could sure use them then.‖
―Three weeks then.‖

448
―Bye, hun,‖ Marjorie said to Steve, who blandly
replied, ―Bye.‖
Then she turned to me.
―I‘ll get Steve to look at that weed whacker. Don‘t
worry; I‘ll get those weeds.‖ She picked up her beer can on
the wrought-iron porch.
―I‘ll get all this cleared out from under your porch,
too.‖
―Be careful, it‘s mostly thorns.‖
Marjorie disappeared around the corner of Charlotte‘s,
blowing out copious amounts of cigarette smoke between

449
dregs of beer, her voice trailing off, ―I‘m staying at
Charlotte‘s. My old man kicked …‖
―…me out,‖ I finished in my head. ―What a way to
live.‖
I went inside to wait for my daughter to return from
school and to work on business cards.
―Jack,‖ I thought with disgust. Yes, I had tried anyway
to produce cards for him he liked. But he could never make
up his mind. He seemed somehow distracted.
He never got any cards. One day I was hard at work on
them and Jack showed up at my door. I asked him to come
in to look at my ideas for a card. It seemed he wasn‘t
concentrating or something. He made a few suggestions and
when it was time to go, he thanked me profusely and asked

450
for a hug. I, whom he had seen coming a hundred miles
away, obliged him.
―You‘re so sof,‖ he said stretching out the hug.‖ I knew
you was going to be sof but I didn‘t know you was going to
be this sof.‖
I extricated myself from him. Something unspoken
passed between us and he never came back to claim his
business cards. I would see his two sons playing in the road
a ways down, lighter skinned than their father but with the
same close cropped black hair. He never went anywhere
without them. For a while the children would always speak
to me. Then, little by little they stopped. And although I
frequently saw his sons, I never again saw him.
One day I opened my door to find the little girl from
across the street gathering the white stones of my walkway.

451
―Please put the stones back,‖ I said sternly. ―They are
for decoration, as I told you.‖
The little girl carefully poured them from her hands
and then skipped back across the street. Her father called his
daughter gruffly and then waved from across the street.
Once again I strained my eyes to find what in his yard was
so objectionable to Marjorie.But as always I could see very
little indeed. The dark shade of the tree in his yard blurred
the extremity of his home. It was a beautiful tree generously
spreading its shade over almost all the lawn. And it was big,
too, splitting itself here and there like the antlers of the buck
hanging from it.
Aside from that,Ilived in the trailer never hearing the
loud cries and yells of drunk men—no, I never heard them.
Never. I livedon anislandthat wasmy trailer and I was
contentinasmuch as I was surviving.It really wasn‘t so bad a
place. It was adouble-wide withtwo full baths, a master

452
bedroom with one of those bathrooms,a large second
bedroom, a living room, eat-in kitchen, and laundryroom.
I most efficiently began adopting cats from Siamese
Rescue and fromanyone whonolongerwantedtheir cats.
Wordgot around. One ofthose cats began all the spraying in
the trailerand the territorial fight was on. I do not know how
many sprayed in there. One female found a nook under the
kitchen bench to do her business. I had to find something to
stuff in there so she couldn‘t get in. She kept trying and
finally after some time succeeded in pushing her way back
in. Boxes? I kept the lineup in my bedroom so my daughter
would not have to smell it. I still did not see that the odor
had penetrated all corners and closets and behind all the
furniture, beyond anysteam cleaner although I didsteam
clean the rugs.All to no avail,and of the two of us in there,
Iwasthe one who hadnot the slightest idea. Itreeked but
somehow I didn‘t smell it all those years until I came back
when it was sold to fondly say goodbye to what seemed an
old friend.My younger daughter told me later that that was
one reason she stayed in her bedroom all the time. The smell

453
was overwhelming, yet I never smelled it. How could that
be? But it was and it was for five years, most of which
became lost time. And during those times I guess someone
came out who wouldn‘t cleanup and that at the very least.
People came into my trailer, too. How was it they did not
smell it? It was beyond all hope. Yet, Jack had come in.
Siamese Rescue had come in. I myself came and went.
Tigger, who started it all, who put the whole thing in
motion,followed me to my next residence as an outdoor cat
brought inonly during frigidwinter days and sweltering
summer ones.He came with Little Cat from a neighbor at
Laytonia. Their owner said they were scratching his
furniture all up and the furniture was his father‘s legacy to
him. So in Tigger came. Quickly I realized that it was not
scratching furniture that expelled Tigger. It was spraying.
And among all those cats, male and female, the games
began. AlthoughI provided a home for three of the Siamese
catsSiamese Rescue had rescued, the founder really did
notlikemeatall. I adopted Lexus and Phoenix in SilverSpring
and they came with me to the trailer.I had myself rescued

454
from the shelter as Siamese Rescue‘s representative in the
area a very rare blue Siamese. My olderdaughter loved that
cat,but Siamese Rescue refused to let me adopt it. They
suggested another catinsteadandsaid she had a nasty
temperament,butas soonasshe was released from the
carriershe followed me everywhere I went and chastised
mewhenever I camehome.She drank from my coffee mug
every morning and from my wine glass every evening.
Shedied of aheart attack. Hername was Baby.
Through the years cats began to dieand
disappear.Joshua, Jubilee Calisto, Dolly Moses, Tarragon,
Zack. So I now had nine cats (some with ninelives). I
knewwell that when ananimal senses its
demiseitoftengoesoff somewherealoneto die. Phaethon had
done this. Mattie, a pastel calico who came to me with Izzy,
another calico, and was easily eight years older, disappeared
one day. I can‘t remembermythoughtson this, butI think in
the back of my mind I knew she had probably gone off to
die.I used to call her ―the sleep cat‖ because the moment she
would jump into my lap I‘d feel really relaxed and fall

455
asleep. She was strictly an indoorcat and I could not find
heranywhere. Then one day asI was putting clothes in the
washer from my clothes hamper, I lifted the last garment
from it to discover Mattie dead on thebottom. I began to
scream and could not stop.My younger daughter,bless her
heart,put Mattie in a shoe box, showed it to me, and helped
me bury her.
There were other thingsalong with cats that began to
disappear. The most popular items were my glasses. They
would disappear, reappear, disappear again. I got spareafter
spare until I decided to get contacts. In the end a single pair
of glasses made it out of the fourth dimension, out from my
little pile inthere of glasses, pens,pencils, paper, lipstick,
jewelry, and any other MIA object.
I know now that alters were taking the glasses. I also
know nowthat myolder daughter as achild did not take
herself off the bottle. Bottles began to disappear one by one.
Andit wasnotshe who disposed of them, but me, an alter.

456
They can be so pesky sometimes. They have a
propensity for taking things that they may or may not
return.Sometimes I have to bargain with them to return an
item. Ifthat is successful, then I get the object back and stop
using whatever item I hadpromised to them in exchange for
the missing one. As there are ten alters, plentyof lifting could
and does go on. But my therapist tells me that they do not all
share the same knowledge, that they each hold certain
memories or onlymaybe one and often do not know what
the others are doing.
They wake up, as I call it, to protect me from whatever
memory I may have. That way I do not have to go through
the experience or one like it again. They come outand I go—
somewhere with no consciousness of anything.
The trailer park was anice placeto justwalk around
since there were a lotof bigtrees. I used to walk Ireland
through itandthere was onelotwepassed thatcaught my eye

457
one day. It was awhite trailer that looked morelike a house, a
neat brick drive way, a carefully tendedlawn with a stalk of
corn planted at the paper box, a swing setonwhich
severalOriental childrenplayed. The next day that
wewentout I wanted to seethatcorner lot again.
Whenwecameto it,I was stymied at the change in it.The grass
was overgrown and peeping throughthe bricks of the
driveway. There was no car and no swing set, just the paper
box and the corn stalk. ThenI beganto lookmoreclosely at
thatcornstalk and Irealized it was brown and ready to
harvest. If I had not grown up ona tobacco, corn, and
soybean farm, its status would have meantnothing to me.
The day before, however, it was perhaps only kneehigh and
green, but there it was thentaller than I and crackling dry.
I had lost about three monthsoftime. Now that is lost
time. I remembernothing between Irelandand my firstsight
ofthis homey trailer lot and the sight of the decimation of it.

458
Of course I functioned during that time, or rather an
alter, maybe several, did. The yelling of drunk menevery
night, yelling I neverheard? John, who worked on the farm,
would spend his Saturday nights in the stripping room of
one barn, yelling in adrunken stupor so loud you could hear
it at the house, after which he would go home and relieve
himself through the screen of an open window. It wasa
memory,a sad one now, because soon the farm wouldbesold
andeven John‘s bellowingwould go with it. Iloved thatfarm.
There isnowhere else onthis earth as beautiful as it. It was
there onan English assignmentto write adescription of
something thatI realized I could write. I described the old
slave graveyard close to the barn‘s stripping room where
John got roisteringly drunk.
But no more. And someone held that memory while
another stepped out to blot it.
WhileI was where I needed tobein the trailer park, I
beganto fallapart. This was when the hallucinations gathered

459
momentum. When I would walk Ireland down a path
outside the trailer park, I would seepeople I didand did
notknow.I remember the clearest, my chiropractor.Hewould
materialize on the edge of the path,cross it,and disappear.
Thestring oflittle jobs I managed to findalways came it,
seemed, to an abrupt end. The oneI remember thebest,
besides trying tomake a living out of Avon, was a service for
daytime care providers.While the person I cared for and got
alongwith verywell, her daughter bullied me (once again)
about my arrival time which wasatbest only fiveminutes
late. Andnotevery day. Her mother and Iusedto watch
Animal Planetall day. I fixed her lunch and cleaned up after
it.Sometimes I even vacuumed and cleaned bathrooms.
Herswas always the dirtier, andshetold methat herdaughter
added a bedroom to the house for her and used all her
money to doit. She added not just a (small) bedroom, but a
bathroom, a study, and wrap-around deck.

460
She remained at home every day, butthere were
othersthere that went specific places for the day. There were
three disabled peopletherealso, ayoung black
woman,ateenaged white girl, and aman of indeterminate
age. This woman seemed to collectdisabled people. I don‘t
knowif she was a foster parentorwhat. I just knowthatas
strange asI might have been toher she was just as strange to
me.
The morning ritual consisted of having everyone ready
pretty much at the same time, which meant a lull in
between,then so be it. Theyoung black woman was stationed
on the wooden bench infront of the garage where she waited
for close to an hour for her bus. She was always already
there when I arrived. She always greeted me with
enthusiasm. The young teenage girl was kept
shutinherroom, dressedand ready, until her bus came and
she had to be led to it. The manwasmentally disabled. On
the wall hung a framed copy of his story from the
newspaper. He had apparently been found chained to a bed

461
and had been foryears. He left before I gotthere in the
morning.
I kept the log assiduously. A paper trail. I wrote
volumes. Nothing intimidated the lady ofthehouse. Nor was
she grateful for anything thatI saw. She ruled that house
according to her own dominance. She wore the pants. She
lined everyone up for the day.She maderefrigerators full
ofcontainers of an unappetizinggreen cole slaw-like dish.
Iremember when I first saw it, I thought, ―Geez. Don‘t they
getreallysick of itafter a while?‖ The grandmother ate it
everyday for lunch along with a sandwich whose fillings
were rather sparse. So she dictated the evening meals, justas
she dictated in the day through me what hermotherate.
Other people I took care of in the day didn‘t have an
overseer. One young woman alwayswantedmeto takeherto
McDonald‘severy morningforbreakfast. And if she
wantedmorethanher originalorder, she asked me
severaltimesifI thoughtit was OK to get more. Her

462
apartmentwas mostly one big room scatteredwith chairs and
papers and books and her bed,all at sixes and sevens on the
floor and each other.The trash shoot was downthehall,and
she would collect her trash and then insist that I put it
downthe shoot. She came with me to make sure I did.
The next person I cared for was a man in hisnineties.
He insisted on doing everything for himselfby himself,but I
could tellthat needing someone to help him shower was
uncomfortable for him. I gothisfood ready, washed the
dishes, filled the dishwasher.And by thattime it wastimeto
go.
The last was anelderly gentleman man who had
recently losthis wife. Icould tellthey hadloved oneanother
very much, and I remembered my mothersaying thatcouples
that close tendednot to live too far beyond the demise of the
other. He was ill, thought the doctor did not understand,
and, Ithink, felt that his time wasclose. Iwouldlookoutthe
window and see the flutter of a white gown.

463
I left the agency in good standing. Later I went back to
apply again, but the woman who manned the telephone
lines and all the caregivers confusedby medicine bottles was
another bully in my life. I nevergot as far as an application. I
couldn‘t get in to see the owner. All I accomplishedwas
following her around while she told me that because of
methey hadlosta client. I knew who that client was: the
mother of the controlling daughter. She probably withdrew
from the agency‘s services more to reflect on me somehow
than to provide care for hermother.
Then again, I had no way of knowing how I appeared
to her or if there were switches. However, she musthave
trustedme with her mother because it was I who left not her
who withdrew.
So I followed the bully around the office as she ignored
me and wouldn‘t lookat me, wouldn‘t speak to me. I‘m not
quite sure how the matter ended. I was being punished for
doing to good a job, apparently.

464
As I wandered around in a fugue I haveonly bits and
pieces, if that. I went somewhere that was supposed to help
someone like me who was more or less at the bottom of the
barrel. I only remember walking to the front door.
Then there is nothing until someone whose
identification has been lost to DID forever who suggested I
try to get disability. I was still going to frustrated
psychiatrists but more understanding therapists, so I was
trying but I just wasn‘t functioning. At the behest ofthis
person I applied for disability. I got the paperwork, filleditall
out, and waited for anappointment. Nowhere in the
paperwork did it mentionthe hallucinations. That wasnot
until the appointment itself with the psychiatrist who
weeded the menfrom the boys that I mentioned it. Her face
constricted, she slapped her notebook closed, and she
popped out, ―Go seeyourpsychiatrist!‖ and exited
promptly.Baa Baa Black Sheep. No, we won‘t help you. It‘s
all inyour head.

466
Chapter Thirty-Four
At the refusal of social security came aletter from a
group ofdisability lawyers. I think Imust have figured it
would be worth atry. And I was surprised at how they
handled payment: If they could not get you disability,they
charged nothing; if they did they took a percentage out of
your first social security check. They accepted me and I
guess they accepted pretty much anyone they thought could
get disability. It didn‘t make any sense to do a lot of work
and get nothing. My older daughter drove me. Iwas led with
my lawyer to a small room over which a person of import
lorded.Only two questions were directed straight at me.
―Do you think you should be driving?‖
―No.‖

467
―Who brought you?‖
―My daughter.‖
Maybeit was just enough to do it. I got disability.
Life beganto change after that. I went back to a
psychiatrist I used togo to decades before.My perception of
him then was that he was remote and unconvinced and
couldn‘t help me. Maybethen he couldn‘t. Or maybe I had
been seeing him through the eyes of DID because he seemed
very different at that time. I began sessions with one of the
therapists in his office. I don‘t knowhow many sessions I
wentto, but in one, he himself appeared. At first I couldn‘t
even process what he said. All my life I believed I fought
depression and panic. It had never occurred to me that there
might be a bigger picture. And the picture turned out to be
huge. HetoldmeI had DIDor dissociative identity disorder or
multiple personalities disorder. My therapist had figured it

468
out. How, I don‘tknow. I don‘tremember if I asked. I had a
hard time honing inonwhat this meant.
For one thing, itmeantI needed atherapist whose
expertise was DID and eventually apsychiatristwhose
expertise was inDID. A needle in a haystack. It took quite
some time.So I continued with this psychiatrist and looked
first for a therapist while he handled the medications until I
found theright kind of doctor. He was the one who
revamped mymedications with the warning that there is no
pill for DID. He was shocked at how much Klonopin I was
taking, more than anyone in his whole practice, he said.The
prescribing of that was a former frustrated psychiatrist. But
for meit was a life saver. The panic attacks had become
unbearable and rendered metotally non-functional. I
wouldhave to take someKlonopinand lie down on my bed,
breathing hard as my world came and went in fits and starts.
Sometimes, I could barely getthemedicine in mymouth
before another debilitating panic attack. He didn‘t lessen the
dose, thank God. He kept the Prozac and added Limitrogine,
Seroquel, and Lunesta. That was an antidepressant, two

469
mood stabilizers, and some sleep. The panic attacks,
however, are stillastaple in mylife.
One event made payingforall this medication and both
therapeutic andpsychiatric treatment possible. It was
somethingofa takingaway with one hand and giving
backtwo-foldwiththe other, which God is fond of doing.
The farm sold.
We hadspent at least a decade working on it. I was not
happy to see the farm go because I knewhowmuch it had
meant to my father. But notonly was he notthere but he
wastryingto sell it too when he was ill. He knew the time
would come.
So equipped with a new therapist and psychiatrist and
money from the farm, I moved out of the trailer that had
made my survival possible, sold it, and bought a townhouse.

470
I know I was accompanied there by Lexus, Little Cat,
Phoenix, Elvis, Amos Moses, Snowflake , and Tigger(I had
adopted him and Little Cat from people I had known in
Laytonia and whose name I cannot remembernow.) I
thought it was he who began spraying andturnedhim intoan
outdoor from an indoor cat except for extremes of
temperature in winter and summer, which timehe spent in a
large crate inside andin which he continued
tospray.Hedisappeared in the winter. Thenone day I saw
himinthe front garden tryingto walk. I took him to the vet
who revived him. I know he died but I do not remember
when. He had spent that winter under the front porch and to
think that as many times asI called him right there he never
came out. I blocked the hole that he somehow squeezed
through. Meanwhile with him gone some spraying was still
going on because I could smell it. And I knew the smell well
because the spraying began in the trailer. It is
anembarrassment to me now but DID was slowly
unchaining me from reality. I noticed the odor only when I
went back to the trailer to make sure I‘d gotteneverything.

471
The odor was awful. The cats must have sprayed every inch
of it. Recently, when I remarked to my older daughter on
something to do with the spraying in the trailer, she said,
―Well, you can‘thavefifteen cats and nothaveterritorial
issues.‖ Ialways callher ―The Voice of Reason‖ and reason is
something DIDhas robbed me of.
It began again in the townhouse and I narrowed it
down to Amos Moses and Elvis. Poof! The were now
outdoor/indoor cats with a catpen in which to spend
inclement weather. They sprayed all over that and out onto
the vent and the floor.Covering the sides with plastic coated
cardboard did not discourage them in the least. Then when I
thought I‘d be moving and selling my house, I consigned
them pretty much to the outdoors except in intensely
extremes of weather during which time I brought them into
the laundry room with foodand water and a bed, but
stillthey sprayed.
Finally, Amos Moses, who is small and wiry,began to
deck hop from house to house andturnedup for food less
andless frequently until I decided he had probably gone

472
feral. But no. He returned once looking well fed and a friend
and Idecided someone had taken him in—what a mistake. I
guess whoever took him infound out soon enough that he
sprayed. He comes around oncein ablue moon but pays no
attention to the food. He‘ll bask with Elvis who regards the
deck ashis home, then poof! Disappear for weeks. He won‘t
letmegetnearhim.
Soon after Imoved into my townhouse I went to
theshelter to find adog. I am not a dog person, mind you, but
something led me to wantone. I found the right one on the
first day.A huge sheep dog and St. Bernard mix as happy go
lucky as any mammal could be. His namewas Dylan.
Dylan and his companion Jagger had been cruelty
impounds. The womanfrom whomthey weretaken took it to
court and after 18 months the dogs were taken out of the
unadoptable section and put into the shelter proper. The day
I came to officially adopt him, one of the shelter employees
sat medown and told me that I was to take care of ―her‖ dog

473
(never figured that one out) and treat himwell. I expected
the shelter to come look atmy home because they often do
before an adoption, but no. I think they were afraid no one
would adopthimbecause of his size and heandJagger were
showing signs of bonding to one another.The first day in
theevening Dylan gavemethe rideofmy life downthe hill
behind myhouse and to the banks themselves of the swamp.
I had to wait for daylight to find my shoes. To build a strong
bond she told me to get a long leash and leash him to me for
aweek sothat he would go with meeverywhere. Ikept him
leashed for two months and abond wasbirthed.
He becamemyservice dog. I trained him, PetSmart
classes trainedhim, a private trainer trained him and with
time his wild-as-a-bluejay behaviorimproved to the point
that I can take him places with me. He has a harness and
avest that says, ―Service Dog—Do Not Pet.‖ In the pouch of
his vest is allthe information someone would need about me
to help me in an emergency: a Medic Alert
membershipcardwith all my medications and diagnoses on
it and the Medic Alert phone number, a Psychiatric Service

474
Dog membership, a prescription from my psychiatrist for a
servicedog,the law onwhere service dogs can go. He goes
with me into PetSmart, to mytherapist, to my psychiatrist,
and to mychiropractor. In pleasant weather he waits in the
car for me to grocery shop. He sleeps with me,lies down at
myfeet while I do such things as writing, takes his station
when I eat dinner. (You see, my breakfast is my breakfast
and my lunch ismy lunch, but my dinner is our dinner.)
WhenI first moved in I turned autility room into the
laundry room and createdanother room, my library,where I
keep my cherished Latin and English texts and books, my
New Age spirit boards,runes, practically every Tarot deck
evermade, a wand, angel cardsandboards, books on the
afterlife, handwriting analysis, palm reading, astrology, and
DVD‘s of television shows, movies, and cult classics. I
keepmy CD‘s there, too and afewStones CD‘s, but my Keith
Richards collection is upstairs inacloset. It includes CD‘s,
DVD‘s, T-shirts, vinyl records, books, coffee table books,
biographies, his autobiography, framed signed pictures, and
an action figure of Keith Richards as Captain JackSparrow‘s

475
father, which means, of course, that I have the Pirates of the
Caribbean collection.Generally speaking,I have Keith
Richards covered.
Anyway, I had to do something with that utility room
where the cats stayed because they were clawing the
insulation and disappearing into it. Little Cat went in one
day and never came out. I haveno idea what happened to
her. She was afeisty little thing.
My cats began to go oneby one. Lexus died and so soon
after did Phoenix because I think they were soclose. Ihad
adopted them from Siamese Rescue after a debacleover their
removal from the shelter by Siamese Rescue. I was the
representative in the areaand wentto getthem. I had seen
them before and decided Iwanted to adopt them. They were
leftat the shelter by a man who said their owner died, but
left neither his own name nor that of the owner. The two
were inseparable, lying allmixed up ineach other‘s feet.

476
SoPhoenix died soonafter Lexus did.My sister‘s cats, Buddha
and Mitzy, didn‘tlivemuch beyondeach other or my sister.

477
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was agreat reliefto finally have an accuratediagnosis,
but it did not change anything really. I don‘tknowif I‘m
better now or not. Only more aware. I wenttwice to theOut-
Patient Psychiatric Program ata local hospital, but they were
not really equipped to handle DID. Border-line Personality,
alcoholics, and those suffering from depression made up
most of the patients. Everybody had a say about their
conditions for feedback from the group. Whenit became my
turn, I was met with onlyblank stares. Some of the other
patientswerecurious and the group leader began steering
such curiosity away from me, especially the second timeI
entered the program. So Idon‘t knowhowmuch good itdidto
attend.
There followed the parking garagedebacle. I have never
been back to downtown Frederick or even its boundaries
since. Icannot explain my behavior. I did not understand it

478
myself. There was, however,little excuse forwhathappened
to me.
I hadhad a string ofaccidents before this. Twice I
raninto theback ofthecarinfront ofme during rush hour on
270. Although fire and rescue didn‘t look at my Medic Alert
ID either, they were far more compassionate. I knew they
wondered ifI was alright because I only nodded in answer to
questions. Finally, they decided I was OK.
What happened in the garage was awhole different
experience. In backing out of my space I hit the car
nexttome. Great. Ididn‘t knowwhattodo since the owner was
nowhere in sight, so I drove down to the entrancetoaskthe
attendant how Ishould handleit. A woman came running
down the lastflight of stairsandacross the entrance. BeforeI
knewitthree police cars blocked the entrance and ordered me
to stop, even though I had already stopped.A fugue
ensuredthat rendered meincapableofhelping myself.Two
male officersand afemale one came over. I toldthe first
officer, one of the men, that IhaveDID. When the second one

479
approached they talked softly but I heard,‖She says she has
DID.‖
―What is that?‖
―I don‘t know.‖
Had anyone bothered through the whole event to read
my Medic Alert bracelet it would havecleared up a lot of
things early on. Instead, thefemale officertold me toget out
of the car. She told meto stop the engine and take my hands
off the wheel and put them both on top of the car (how can
you do that?). I don‘t remember much after that. I found
myself out of the car on a walkway with one of the male
officers shouting, ―Did you take any medications this
morning?‖ I couldn‘t answer. I felt asthoughIwere a
thousand miles away and everythingthat washappening was
in slowmotion.As the male officer kept asking about
medications, I stood and looked at him, throughhim. I could
notspeak. Had Dylan beenwith me itwouldhave made all the
difference in the world,but I didn‘t wantto leavehimin a

480
garage and he was still a little toorambunctious to take out
into the city of Frederick.
So I was alone in more waysthan one.
I remember beingin handcuffs after thatandthatthe two
male officers seemed to havedisappeared. The female officer
put me in her backseat and started looking for the car I
hadhit. I don‘t remember if she found it, but on the way and
possibly after, she spent agood two hours creeping along
throughthe garage, asking me where the carwas (how did I
know?) and talking in low tones to someone in the front
passenger seat. She had a laptop whose keyboard she kept
punching. She neveronce lookedatmy Medic Alert ID which
had on it my diagnoses and the Medic Alert phone number.
Finally, we reached the detention center where she took my
fingerprints and another female officer began taking off
allmy jewelry. She lifted my arm by the Medic Alert bracelet
and asked the arresting officer, ―Should Itake this off?‖ and
she replied, ―No.‖

481
So she knew what it was after all.
They put mein acell with other women. Nobody talked
to us, nobody answered us. Finally, I started yelling that I
wanted alawyer.
―After you seethe commissioner,‖ came the abrupt
answer.
After awhile I was sentto the commissioner and
remember of the experience only thatshesaid,‖ Obey
alllaws.‖
All laws? There us be twenty zillion of them. It was a
miracle I had not broken one beforethis inmy state.

482
So I was released, my son-in-law picked me up, andI
felt like anutter fool but still out of it.And Imust still have
been out of it thenext day when I went to the same garage to
park. I don‘t rememberwhy Iwasthere, but I ended up
repeating the same mistake whilebacking out. I went
immediately to thePolice Headquarters and more
orlessturned myself in or tried to. They were very nice but
unconcerned, said they appreciated my coming in, and sent
me along my way.
Huh?
What parts of this made no sense? I‘ll be damned
ifIknow. I did appear in court for the first infraction, but all
wasforgiven. I did seethe arresting officer and Idid have
lawyer. End of story.
DID had struck again this time without benefitof an
alter to help me through it.

484
Chapter Thirty-Six
I went back twice. One time to find the old well that my
daughter believes is the heartof the place and another time
to gather as many of the grave markers in the old slave
graveyard where fifty years ago I discovered I could write.
The markers were field stones,the big heavy rocks the plow
turns up every spring. I thought that perhaps they could
come with me since their fate was obvious. There‘s one
smaller stone that cannot seem to stay atop the rest. And so
if you breathe it falls off the pile in the copper bucket.
Someone I think is trying to say something. I filled my
pockets withas many stones as I could, lonely souls, destined
to wander and wail. I filled mycoat pockets, my pants
pockets, myshirt pockets, my purseand lumbered out. They
wereprodding me to leave. Any step I took entangled me in
thorn bushes. Just a lonely clusterof trees in the middle of a
farm that once wavered with tobacco leaves and the tasseled
heads of corn stalks. Birds singto them now and the
emboldened thunderstorms no longer chase the reedy white

485
wisps that begin to fill the field. They have all been raped by
tomorrow, atomorrow that can never exist for them. They
too are memories now, memorieswithno one to hold them,
to tell themwhen to come and when to go and where to be.
Like the mist mymother andIsaw. Others think they own the
land now but it is the ghosts of the past that do.
It took with it my motherand my sister. Long ago it had
released its hold on the man who loved it most, my father.
The hallucinations tapered off to a degree. My foot-
and-a-half statue of Kuan Yin still opens her eyes sometimes,
and the two in the china press smile now and then. It seems
more auditory now, unfamiliar voices speaking
unintelligible words.

486
Always behind me it seems. A wooden box snapped
closed with an echo as I woke up.
What a ride last night was. Most of it is a blur, but I
remember feeling incredibly awake.I got all wrapped up in
Facebook texting former students,never agood idea when
you‘re in a switch. I got up at 1:30 in the afternoon. The first
thing I noticed is that I had taken only some of my meds.
How I decided which would go and which would stay I
have no idea. So I assessed the situation and decided which
ones left I shouldtake and which I would take at bedtime.
Someonehad run the dishwasher and it was only half
full. I found some cryptic notes by my cell which was on a
table charging. I can‘t evenmake any sense out of them. I
must read themover again.One text I remembered was
missing altogether. I remember it because it degenerated as
it went along and in the middle of everything—

487
Comedy I’m not with this sh** shut up e I aly take so many
medsnow, the pain isexcruciating between 4 and 5. in the early
eveningwhenthe horse threw meface first into atree.They did not think
I would live (But i did, you lucky dog). My body remembers whatmy
mind has forgotten.
No those are not typos. Someone was trying to say
something,perhaps to me, perhaps to the other alters.

488
Chapter Thirty-Seven
My sexual exploits werenothing short of ridiculous.
Like mymarriage, it was always crash and burn. I did my
fair share of online dating and would not take that avenue
ever again. They seemed strange to me and I am without a
doubt sure I seemed strange to them. Although it wasnot my
fault, nobody knew that, including, ofcourse, me.There was
one who worked for FEMA, toldme he wasn‘t married. Then
he toldme he and his wife were estranged and living in
different parts of the house. I think going out with other
women was how he handled the stress of his job. Anyway,
estranged or not, that wasthe end of that.
Thenthere was the guy who had recently broken up
with his girlfriend. He told me they were goingto get
married. Something must have happened with him. He
called me up out of the blue and asked to come over and
then sat there looking colossally bored. He surfaced again to

489
take me to eat at a place we used to go, and then was nasty
through the whole meal. I don‘t know if Iswitched or what
and said something untoward. Whatever. Another crash and
burn.
There was theguy who led me on, then didn‘t wantmy
company, insisted I knew he was drunk when I met him at a
restaurant, and was making mead with St. John‘s wort on his
stove top for depression. What apparently had happened is
that he got a taste of his ownmedicine from a woman who
administered it. The player that got played.
And then there was the guy who was a lot younger
than I, who took my daughters and me downtown for the
Bicentennial fireworks. What amesshewas. I should never
have let my daughters gothrough seeing their mother with
someone other than Daddy. It is a blur now and should be.
One promise I had made to myself is that I would not have
aparade of men going and coming through the house for my
daughters to see.But they did see a couple of these. I

490
conducted my exploits largely in restaurants, bars, and the
house only when the girls were with their father.
And yet another, who was a visiting scientist from
Canada, a blueprint of the guy trying to cure his depression
with mead and St. John‘s wort. He spent far too much time
in the company of beer bottles. His wife had thrown him out
and he was not taking it well. He cameon to me and then
saidhewanted nothingserious. Too late forthat. Another
crash and burn.
Then last butnotleast was the guy who moved in with
me in my present house and when my daughters were full
grown and leadingtheir own lives elsewhere. They did,
however, meethim.So did my closest friend, who said
nothing about it until it was over. She could see himfar more
clearly thanIcould. She askedmewhy I ever went out with
him let alone live with him. I couldn‘t form a sentence to
answer herquestion becauseby thenIwas wondering too.
When I first met him, hetold mehehad droppedout of school

491
in the eighth grade. Later down the road he told me
hestopped goingto school after fifthgrade. And there I was
with a private school education; a college degree with two
majors; several postgraduate classes in Latin, English, and
the Upanishads.; eight years as a Latin and English teacher
and nearly twenty as an editor. And there is something very
wrong with this picture. DID. Only a mammoth switch
could have made him seem acceptable on any level.
Street smarts, that‘swhathe had. And he must haveseen
me coming a mile away. He was getting divorced and his
house foreclosed. He wasliving in someone‘s unfinished
basement.His only possessionswere a really big TV,
mirrorwall artof the twin towers, and a small statue of the
twin towers. Heasked meonceifhe could have thestone frog
door stopper from my childhood because he had afriend
who really liked frogs. That should have
toldmesomethingright there because my gut was telling me
this ―friend‖ was another woman. And there wereother
things that shouldhavebeenscreaming at me. He talked me
into keeping a propane tankin the house to fuel a gas

492
fireplace—a very, very old one. Hecovered it with acloth.
The owners of the next place hewentto rent a room said no
when he asked about the propane. Yes, that was just plain
stupid of me. Ican‘t tellyou why I let him bring propane into
my house. I realized much laterthat if it had ever caused a
fire, that fire would probably have demolished the entire
row of townhouses.
He had a small business ofpicking up and disposing of
other people‘s junk and kept some of it for himself. He
toldmeonce he never boughta broom. He just cut the
bristlesdown instead when they began to curl. He was the
perfect example of one man‘s … His divorce and foreclosure
all but destroyed his business.
I made his business cards and flyers. He paid for none
ofthem. He refused to pay rent (How is it that people think
they can do this?). He refused to split the grocery bill in two
equal parts. No money for rentbut plenty forChristmas. It
was ludicrous, all the presents he gaveme. That money

493
should havegone into rent payments. So I wasnot all
thatflattered with the gifts but I was confused. Ifinally did
get a rental agreement from him and gave him receipts and
copied themfor myself too. He didn‘t like that at all.
Huh?
He would tellme that before his life began to come
apartat the seams, he had so much money from his business
that he carried rolls ofhundred dollar bills in his pocket. He
said he lent his friends money,yet not one would pay him
back when he was essentially homeless (hedid sleep in his
truck at times). But most of his friends, itseemedto me, were
lukewarm about him at best.
Heliked heavy women. Very heavy. He told me once
that at bars he‘d look around and see all the heavy women
and think, ―They need love, too.‖ And that‘s the favor he did

494
them. For himself, his complexion was striated withacne and
although he professed tobe skinny, skinny, skinny, he left
the top button of his jeans open because he could not get it
closed. It was noticeable next tohis white T-shirt.
My best friend said he was trying tofatten me up. She
told one of my daughters that she‘d never seen me eat so
much. I‘m still tryingtoundo that favor he did me. His
cooking was bland, but he would produce plenty of
itespecially breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast, bacon,
sausage,and scrapple. What‘s in that stuff, scrapple,
anyway? I wasn‘t a stranger to it because we had it once in a
while at camp.
He said that he had not wanted tomarry the woman
with whom he lived, but she did. It ended in debt and
foreclosure. She drained a joint savingsaccount buying food.
Yet she in the interim of their divorce gave him
severalthousand dollars for no quantifiable reason
whatsoever. Then she called and texted him incessantly.

495
His mother cut him out of her will. So there must have
been big trouble somewhere along the line.He toldme that
when his mother died he wantedher Baltimore townhouse.
Sincethere was no likelihood of that, he sneaked into her
emptyhouse several times and gathered all her cash from all
her stashing places (including the refrigerator freezer), and
netted six thousand dollars. After a while the executor of the
will,afamilyfriend,changed thelockson the door.
Whenwewent to visithis mother before she died, she
gotup out of her chairandoffered it to me. Her
granddaughter told me that meant something—she never
gave up her chair for anyone. I don‘tknow. Maybe she felt
sorry for me.
In the endit really was my alters dealing with him
because I wasn‘t. He said he couldn‘t stay any longer when
he didn‘t know to whom he wascoming home. I had told
him from the start about the DID.

496
Well, yes, I was frustrated and I do remember a night
when he came down into the kitchen to find out what the
noise was allabout and found me in the pantry. I remember
being particularly nasty to him but notwhy. Anyway, I
helped pack up his few possessions. When I got to the
twintowers statue, I started carefully packing it in
newspaper. Once Istarted taping the newspaper aroundit,I
couldn‘tstop. I wanted to make it almost impossible forhim
toopen.
Well. Hebrokeittryingto unwrap it. He laid the blame at
my door and paid his renttwenty dollars short to cover the
cost of hisstatue.
He called after that but my older daughter played
offense for me. She called himandtold himthat
anythinghehad to say to me he could say to her.He called
her once ortwice after that,then dropped off the end of the
earth dripping like an oil spill.

497
Today has been adouble whammy. I woke up before
my alarm to the sounds of human voicesin the kitchen.
What is it about the kitchen?
I as usual could not understand whatthey were saying.
Then Dylan came and got on my bed and the voices
resumed. Dylan made no move nor barked, so I knew no
onewas in fact in the kitchen talking.
Later in the morning I went to the grocery store. There
were three heavy items I bought: two ―cases‖ of bottled
water and a sack of dry dog food. I bought the water because
in Prince George‘s Countyandin D.C. a water main break
had occurred and people there would be without water for
three to five days. I wasworried becausemy older daughter

498
and her family live in Prince George‘s County. I called her
and she said the main break affected the other side of the
county, and if they weretobe affected by something like that
she would have called me. I told her for future reference
they were allwelcome—she and her husband and three
children, their grandmother, and their pets—to come tomy
house, justbring a lot of toilet paper.
When I got home I backed into my space(always a feat
for me) so I would not have to gofar with the heavier items. I
was upstairs getting the National Consumer Panel scanner
when the doorbell rang. Dylan randownstairs andI
followedhim. It was apoliceman and I thought(having DID
and dealing with several personalities) ―Oh,dear. What did I
do this time?‖ He said he had come by to check on me, that a
friend ofmine in California called and asked them to check
up on me. I told him yes, I did have afriend in California,
and Iwas OK. There‘sonlyone personI know in
Californiaand thatisthe life-long friend I mentioned before.
And hehad indeed called. Why? He had received a call from

499
my number over which he could hear background noises
and heavy breathing.
He said he hadn‘t been sure if it was me or an alter.
Well, it wasanalter, which oneIdon‘tknow andIhad had one
of those split second switches. I imagine some of the heavy
breathing was part of loadingthe water and dog food
in.Someone was having a hard time lifting.
My friend said he decided that it was better to be safe
than sorry lest I be on the floor way past having my whole
life go before my eyes.
Thank God he checkedup on me. Itmade me feel less
alone.
What happened next I think was not a full switch but a
co-presence because I knew what Iwasdoing. I went
backtothe grocery storeand bought eighty-five dollars‘

500
worth of vitamins. Someone was feeling we ought to be
taking some supplements.
Well, now wehave supplements, practically a lifetime
supply.And nearly a lifetime supply of drinking water and
lemon seltzer water. I‘m beginning to feel as though I may
be floating along with the tide. But I have no intention of
going to the beach anytime soon.
The next thing to happen involved my cellphone. There
were all kindsof contacts whose namesI didn‘t know, names
like
topcatbiker48@yahoo.com;tough251@aol.com;Toughcrabpon
der;WDBfourty@yahoo.com; Williams Scott;
wwjjdo_2@yahoo.com; yourspot@hotmail.com;
228guy1969@aol.com;
zigzag1317@yahoo.com, mostly email addresses.

501
What was with this? Certainly somethingto talkabout
with my therapist. There were othernames further up the
alphabet but I had begun deleting before I realized
mytherapist should see it. The ones left were
topcatbiker48@yahoo.com; toughcrabpounder;
WDBfourty@yahoo.com; Williams
Scott;Wwjjdo_2@yahoo.com;228guy1969@aol.com;
zigzag1317@yahoo.com. The impression I get from these
email addresses is that of an ―easy woman‖ or an ―easy
mark.‖ Is there a difference?
This is truly one of the scariest things about DID. Not
knowing what you have been up to. Did an alter(s) make
contact with all these people? Had I been conversing with
them through e-mail? What other explanation could there
be? After I have deleted them all, willthey show up
againbecause someone is writing emails?
It is as bad as realizing you have been driving andnot
knowing it. Clues include odometer changes, gas level,
changes in seat positions, the presence of a LoJack where

502
there oncewas none, and missing items like icescrapers and
DVD‘s.
One time I was in a switch and a co-presence with a
particularly nasty female alter, so mymemory is spotty as to
what happened. About midnight I drove to the bar where
Mr. StreetSmarts was and just laid into him. I ordered a beer
but the bartender said he would not serve me. I asked why
and he said,‖Because you‘reslurring your words.‖ It didn‘t
seem to me that I was. Then in a moment of total
irrationality and combativeness I addressed them both
yelling, ―Maybe if the two of you talk you can figure out this
DID thing.‖ Then I turned on my heeland left. I wasn‘t even
awarethat everyone in the entirebar was watchingme. How
could they not? I was screaming and slurring. After that I
remember nothing, but patrons of the bar saidI was driving
on the wrong side of the road.
I had not been drinking. I don‘t even know ifany liquor
was in the house, and if there were it would be wine.

503
However, you can get just as smashed on wine as on any
other alcoholic beverage if you want to. To my knowledge if
I did have wine inthehouseit wasn‘t much. My psychiatrist
sized it up by saying, ―Maybe somebody has their own
stash.‖ That was creepy. I have found and lost things and
time but nothing that dangerous as far as I knew (Isn‘t that a
joke? I‘m always the last to know.) had happened to me yet.
Yes, all in all, today has already been quite a day.
Now my mind thinks in slow motion, left practically
blank when I desperately cut onein half and take one half.
Already wondering if I had enough time to take it andstill
make itto the bedin time. In time for what, you ask? I have
never known but I think I would fall on my knees trying to
do those two simple things so that I could survive another

504
one, lie down with clutched hands waiting for it to abate.
How long does it take? There is no regularity to it. It may
take fifteen minutes, an hour, two hours. It is best if I just fall
asleep but that cannot be doneuntil the rest is done.
I knew something wasnot right as Iput on Dylan his
harness and service dog vest. I was moving too fast. There
wasno needtomove so fast, but I couldn‘t stop the pace. I
filled the fanny pack with three plastic bags in which to
deposit any waste, checked the cheese to distract Dylan
when we came upon other dogs, folded three paper towels
to wipe the sweat from my forehead, slipped my cell into the
back pouch, and clicked the pack belt closed. Wewere ready.
I told him, ―Sit!‖ then ―Wait!,‖ and found my keys in my
purse. Then I gave Dylan a treat and said, ―With me.‖ And
out we went, penetrating the wall of heat. The temperature
heat index was 110°, which I think is also close to the low
setting on my oven.

505
I just did not feel right and after an hour‘s walk we
made it back home. Itook Dylan‘s paraphernalia off him and
divested myself of the fanny pack which wentinto the
refrigerator because of the cheese. No, I did not feel right. I
had some cereal, read some Yahoo! News, began to feel to
overcome.
Could I take the pill and make it to the bed on time? I
felt nauseated, scared. I was breathing harder all the time.
Ijust had to take the pill and make it to the bed. Just those
two things. Only two. But I forgot I hadto cutthe pill in half.
Every moment was aprecious one.I couldn‘t drop anything.
It threatened the likelihood of my making ittothe bed. A
headache began. I felt cold. The fear built inside me as I
leaned against the bed. Fight or flight. I was still breathing
hard. I lay down breathing ashardas my body would letme
as if that was going to somehowmake it all stop. Time and
half of one pill are the only thingsthat makes it stop. I pulled
the quilt over me. I heard Dylan coming up the stairs.
Iheardhimlie on the floor.I couldn‘t move. The pit of my
stomach railed against hope.I called Dylan to get on the bed

506
with me.NowI wassafe. The symptoms were still goingon,
but now my whole body was stiff. Merely standing up took
some doing. I felt a hundred years old—at least. I could
hardly straighten my back; my knees did not want to bend;
the muscles in my legs and arms were sore. But I was atlast
safe. Mercifully, I fell asleep. Falling asleep is always a
barometer of how intense the attack is.
When I woke up an hour later—it‘s always onehour or
two hours, never more, never fewer—thesymptoms had at
last subsided, but I felt tired, exhausted from the battle I had
fought. I yawned and yawned, my mind stuck in quick
stand. My face began to ache. I yawned more. I was looking
out through someone else‘s eyes. I could say that from the
walk I was dehydrated from the heat, but I know a panic
attack when I feel one andthis had been a bad one.
Now all I‘m worth today is fixing typos.

507
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I don‘t make new friends anymore. It‘s just not worth
it. I mean, it‘s not like I can hide this thing. The façade
always crumbles.
Another dismal night last night. I don‘t know exactly
what happened that I stayed up until 4:00 a.m. A couple of
hours I can‘t remember so they go into the slot marked ―lost
time.‖ I started with one NCIS show on DVD, one of my
favorites about Tony and his father, played by Robert
Wagner. ThenI decided I was goingto put the NCISDVD‘s to
rest for awhile and watch TV instead. After all, watching
NCIS seemed to trigger somethingbecause as Iwatch more
and more of them, the less sleep I get.

508
The Mummy was on, a pretty long movie itself, and of
course its sequel The Mummy Returns. I was captivated, an
audience of one, and having watched the first movie I of
course had to watch the second. Then somehow I found an
old black and white Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers movie.
I watched enough of it to realize it had plenty of dancing but
no plot. I rememberlying down several times with Dylan as
the TV droned on. I remember talking to people on
Facebook. A friend who was on told meto go to bed ―dear
friend.‖ I needed that, but Istill didn‘t goto bed. Itwasaround
4:00 a.m. that I took my meds and returned to the TV. After
that I remember nothing, but judging by the clues left I did
cover the birds, listen to Mind Body Spirit—Vibrations, and
reset my alarm clock for 10:30 a.m. I got up at 11:02 a.m., so
the alarm just ranand ran till I finally got up and turnedthe
wretched thing off.
So Dylan did not get his walk and had to wait two or
three hours for his food. I woke up with him pressed so hard
against me that I could through the covers feel his warmth.

509
Alters were out having a bangup time while Dylan waited to
eat. When alters take over they don‘t seem to care about
anything and they sicken me when because of them Dylan
suffers. He doesn‘t deserve that.
This morning themoment the alarm woke me I knew
something was wrong. I felt tired but there was no more
sleeping no matter how long I lay there andthat was until
8:00 a.m. I was disgusted with myself because I had planned
my day and once again it was blown to smithereens.I was
surprised I felt so tired. I had tried out anew schedule the
night before, ever searchingfor thesecret of getting into bed
the night before and not the morning of.So at 3:30p.m. I
beganmy usual habits, beginning with walking Dylan. Then
at 4:00 p.m.I continued my ritual wateringthe flowers on the
deck; changingthebowls of water there; feeding
Elvis;watering the flowers, herbs, and vegetables; feeding
Dylan; and watering the garden in front.Then I went

510
upstairs, changed into pajamas,washed my face, parceled
outmy pills. Then I went downstairs about 5:00 p.m. and
watched the news, which Iusually don‘t do because it‘snever
good.After that Isearched forsomething to watch at 6:00 p.m.
through 7:30 or 8:00. I found a little something here and
there. I cooked my dinner and ate. Icleaned up and sent
Dylan out for his ―last call,‖ gave him a biscuit when he
cameback in, turned on the stove night light, watched TV till
7:45 p.m., and then headed upstairs to begin reading
‖Natural Healing‖ in Mind, Body, Spirit.
All of this in an effort not to switch and stay up. It rules
my life. All of this beginning at 3:30 to get upstairs to read
by 8:00 p.m., a different nighttime pursuit since TV seemed
to keep me up.
So allthat workedinthat it got me relaxed and ready to
sleep.But when I woke up I felt exhausted. I literally
pulledmyself out of bed, showered, fed Dylan, spent ayear
putting on those infernal running shoes, and beganour hour-

511
long walk. I could barely do it. I took two Advil because my
body felt drained and my back hurt. But for DylanI added
on the dead end of our street, which added about ten
minutes to the walk.
I was so relieved to get inside. I was sotired I began to
doubtif I was going to be ableto take Dylan to the vet for his
weigh-in. As I ate my breakfast a facialmigraine began
relentlessly. I called the vet and rescheduled Dylan‘s weigh-
in. I needed to go to Weis to get him some green beans (part
of his diet because the vet thought he was getting too
heavy), which Idid, butIended up wanderingaround in
Weis. It was hard to think. I couldn‘t remember why I went
into certain aisles. IthoughtIwanted to get some beef, but it
all was sliced so thin and cost so much I instead combed the
entiremeat counter to find something appetizing. I saw
awoman scrutinizing the ham slices and I almost bought
one, but on second thought reminded myself thatitwas pork
and I don‘t eat pork. Cornish hens poppedinto my head. It
took me some timeto find them—only two left,but on sale.
So Igot them both and a salad mix for dinner.

512
By now I was really dragging around. Theheadache
was getting worse and worse, showed no signs of
retreating.I paid for my groceries and after I had put it allin
the trunkI noticed a package of batteries thatI had not put on
the belt. So back inside I went to pay for them.
When I got home I recorded allI bought for the
National Consumer Panel andput it all away.
Then I decided I wanted to bring up thetwo boxes
thatheld items sent by Mind, Body, Spirit, things relating to
the chapters like jossing sticks and oils and candles and
stones and quartz and everything to help you feel better. But
while in the library I decided to find the books I
hadonSouthern Maryland history andall its societies.Now I
had tomake two tripsupstairs. By the time Ihad brought the
books and boxes up, I was breathing heavily andmy facewas
a hotbed of pain.

513
I wondered if this wasmore a matter of panic than a
headache. I could not go on. So I took the panic med and lay
down.Dylan jumped up beside me and I drifted off for about
an hour.When I wokeup,theheadache was gone, but I felt
sleepy. That was at 1:00 p.m.
Sohalfmy day hadbeenswallowed up justtryingto live
through it. I felt frustrated, but there was no reasonto
getangry because the day so far resembled so many others.
And it was all, quite simply, out of my hands.
Whenmytherapist askedme in July when Ihadstarted
this book, I told her mid-June.However, when I went back to
the beginning to correct typos, I realized I had started it at
Christmas. So I had begun it in December 2012 amid caveats

514
and warnings. From December 2012 to mid-June 2013 I have
little if any memory of anything I did or said or wanted or
hoped or dreamed. I had lost five months of time.
With the help of my therapist I managed to recapture a
fewthings, but thatperiod of time is largely a blank, yet
during that time I wrote this book. Or was it me? Is that the
problem? It has not been aneasy thing to do, write this book.
Writing it has kickedoff countlessswitches, mostly of theall-
nighter variety. For example, I am in the middle of
recuperating from an abscessedtooth. (kitchens and teeth—
they mean something because they pop up all the time). For
five days straight I have devoted this Percocet-tinged time,
reading back over this book, trying to catch typos and extra
spaces and misused words and punctuation (or the need for
the lack of it), and have gone through I don‘t know how
many all-nighters as well as panic attacks. And that‘s just
five days.

515
I had forgotten it. It cameout ofhiding as if it had been
surrounded by moth balls andkept in a dark closet. It was a
trip to Richmond with my mother. Iwas not in the room
where Islept when I was there. Iwas in one of the other
rooms. Why is itso dark? Everythingseemsashadow,
aStygian shade. The darkness slithers in tendrils throughout
the room. There is no sound. Why am I here?

516
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Now my house is clean because I clean it every two
weeks,cursing through most of it, insisting on giving the
carpet on the stairs a lick and a promise with the
broom.Now there are no spraying cats living indoors,
picking a favorite spot until the wood of the floor begins to
rot. I don‘teven use airfreshener because the air, atlast, is
fresh. No longer do I have fifteen cats. I have two that live
outdoors because oftheir propensity forspraying. Theone,
Elvis, has adopted the deck ashishome. I realizedthatafter
talking to a rescue group becauseI felt bad for leaving him
out all the time, especially sinceheis ahomebody.
Buttherescue group said (of course) that noonewould want
to adopt him and thatif he is staying on the deck eating and
drinking and sleeping, thenthe deck is his home. Out to the
deck is a sliding glass door as much a part of his home as his
favorite place to bask. He will lieup against the door on his
sideand yawn. He comes in, as always, to spend a sizzlingor
arctic or stormy or snowy day in the laundry room. Since he

517
does not have to claim it as his territory, I don‘t think he will
sprayin there—at least he hasn‘t yet. He‘svery grateful to be
takenin during bad weather.
Amos Moses,however, is a different cat altogether. He
elected upon being expelled from the house togo
deckhopping. He has always been a little skittish; now
hewill not let metouch him at all. Heshowsup nowand then,
hereand there, sometimesbaskswith Elvis.For a period
oftime Amos looked very well fed when he‘d return and I
thought,‖Someone isfeeding him. I hopethey don‘tlet him
inside or they will understand why he‘s an outdoor cat.‖
Well, slowly but surely he began to lose weight. Somebody
did figureit out.When he comes here, he sniffs Elvis‘s food
and then leaves.Recently, however, he has decided, although
heis hardly ever here, to attempt to claim the deck orthe
house (it‘s hard to tell which)as his territory. Ithinkthis could
be aimed just as much at me asat Elvis. On his visits,
hehasbegun to spraythe very bottom of the glass door and
along its track. Hebegan with three bags ofpotting soil I kept
near the door in a corner of the deck. I though he had

518
sprayed the recycle can beside them. Even with the
disbursement of air, that odor is unmistakable. I realized
when I used soil to plant flowers on the deck that he must be
spraying them. No doubt about it. Nowhe‘s moved his
activities to the door so that every time I go in or out I smell
it. I‘ve bleached it and spray it with ―Odor Gone.‖ The only
thing thatwillreally workis‖Amos Gone,‖ but I have hadhim
too longto banish him forever. He won‘t, however, getinto
thelaundry room. Ifhe were to do that, the games would
certainly begin. He thinks everywhere and anywhere is his
territory.
No, I can‘t tell if he‘s claimingthedeck or thehouse or
just letting me knowhowpissed off he really isabout his
outdoor life. Hewill try to runinside, oftengets disoriented
probably because I‘m running madly after him to get him
before he has a chance to spray. Because he will spray. He
won‘tletmetouch him, so I can‘teven put flea and tick
protection on him. He has, Ithink, for all purposes, gone
feral.I think helivesin a world of memories, one ofwhichis
that he used tocurlup on the beds in the house and given all

519
the attention in the world because he has such a lovely and
endearing face, even now in his waning years.
So I‘m down to two cats who do their business strictly
outside, my dog Dylan, andthree cockatiels who tendto
beloud and demanding. Oh, well. They‘re in a cage I hate to
cleanjustbecauseit involvesthe actof cleaning.Theircrests
stand high, though, meaning they are healthy and happy.
They spill seed all over the floor and spit it at me when I am
at the desk. Their names are Dido, Apollo, and Junior.Junior
is an adoptee, hence the silly name (he came with it) and the
other two are from pet stores, their exotic names the product
of ancient Rome.They will be with me for awhile because
cockatielscanliveupto thirty years. My alters messwith both
them and me. On several occasions I have found the cage
door open and them flying blindly allover the room.
Apparently, after cleaning the cage I or someone else doesn‘t
alwaysclosethedoor. Thenthere are the nights I am sure I
have forgotten to cover them and the mornings that I find
them covered but don‘t rememberdoingit.

520
That more or less brings us to the present. A book
about DID can never be finished because DID never goes
away. Things might get better, but they will never stop.
DIDis the onlything inthis world for whichitis notthekiss of
death to usetheword ―never.‖ Because the terms are
interchangeable.I learned, actually not too long ago in the
scheme of things, not to use that word because it willalways
(a word that should be usedmore often than it is) come
backto hauntyou. It is the queen of ―what goes around
comes around.‖ It got me into trouble with the trailer
episode. I probably did say I‘d never live in a trailer judging
by the fact that I ended up in one.
I realize that my life as I thought I knew it long ago will
never be the same.

521
Last night was another hard switch. I call it hard
because it consumesme completely. I totally lose it and
myself, or whatever part of myself I still have. Once again I
didn‘t go up when I should have and so I switched. The
reason I didn‘t, however, is different.
Lessthan a week ago I had an abscessed tooththatcalled
for Novocain anda thorough cleaningout. As always, where
theneedle went in spawned more pain than I could dealwith.
The dentistthat given me antibiotics and Percocet. It is the
Percocet that mixesmeup. Thishas happened before whenI
wastaking Percocet for an dental procedure (and Lord
knows I have had a lot of those). I think the Percocet gets me
just woozy enough so that someone or someones can come
out, stay out, and run my body ragged.
I remember parts of it. Lying down with Dylan on the
floor. Taking dozens of pictures of a photo of my
grandmother, which must have been taken shortly before
the turn of the twentieth century. And dozens more of a

522
picture of my older daughter as a small child and me. And
of one canvas portrait of anancestor whose name has now
been relegatedto oblivionas there is no one left alive who
knew his name. I kept seeing a ball of light in the photos of
these pictures and took photo after photo to see if it
appeared from all angles. It did. It did not appear, however,
in photos of other pictures and canvas portraits. Could‘ve
beena reflection, Iguess, but it allcaptivated me at the time.
Through the next day‘s detective work I surmised that I
had stayed up after the light of dawn. I had made coffee and
the light wasstill lit. Before thatI had made alargecan oftuna
with mayonnaiseand celery seed so I wouldn‘t haveto
chewit—I could not chewanything and another tooth was
beginningto hurt. Sympathy pains for its fellow acrossthe
way?Anyway, several eggs weregone, too, and I know that
not just because some were missing, but also because some
ofthem wereon Dylan. He always lies at my feet when I am
fixing or eating food, waiting for what falls because most of
what I eat ends up on the floor or my shirt. Apparently, egg
musthave fallen on him or he just didn‘t get it in time.I must

523
have reset the alarm, which went off at 11:30. I could hardly
get up but did for whatever reason and reset it for 12:30.
Then at 12:30 I had to getup to turnit off.
I got in bed and literally could not move. I was
morethan tired,more than exhausted,beyond consciousness.
Dylan jumped on the bedwith me, but I could not
moveamuscleand stayed that way for at least two hours.
I got up in a haze because I realized I had to walk
andfeedDylan. I don‘t know how on earth I walked him—it
was only about a ten-minute walk, but Ifelt so out ofit I was
afraid I was going to fall, which has happened before.
Whenwe came backto the house, I sat on the deckfor agood
hour, again, unabletomove.Dylanlay at my feet. I
droopedmy head downbecause holding it up wasusing
precious energy.I didn‘tsleep. I couldn‘t sleep. I couldn‘t
doze. I couldn‘t nod off.I could only sit there. Icould only try
to follow the schedule of every day—

524
3:00—walk Dylan
4:00—feed Dylan
4-5:00—decide on dinner; go upstairs to change into
pj‘s; parcel out pills; set up the equipment I needed to scrub,
wash, spray, and generally make amess doingwhat the
dentist toldmeto
5-6:30—make andeat dinner
7:00—cleanup and let Dylan out for last call
7:30—giveDylan his biscuit
8:00-8:30—head for bed
Sitting there on the deck, I noticed the planter of
petunias was fulloflittle weedspopping up all over it. I
snatched them all out. Why? Perhaps to beable to say I did
something productive for the day. As for wateringthe
deckflowers and the front garden, I just could not do it.The
petunias were like a crystal ball asI stared atthem realizing
allI could do iswait for bedtime. Forget the flowers, forget
the tomato plants, forgetthe ferninthe frontand the hastas

525
and English ivy and periwinkle and mounding annuals.
Forget everything. I couldn‘t feelanything anymore.
When I went insideit was still too early to feed Dylan so
I just sat on the stool by the lap top in the kitchen and waited
for time to pass. And that was all I was capable of doing. I
said to Dylan, ―NowI know how you feel.‖ He passes a lot of
time on his own. But thankGod he was there with me. I will
not let myself even think about what it would be like at that
moment without him.
It was also near the Elvishour, so with droopy head, I
changed the two bowlsof wateronthe deck andmade sure he
had food. I was doingthese few things and yet within the
time at which I was doing them I was not there. I was an
automaton, a robot.
Then as I was making Dylan‘sdinner something, well,
incrediblehappened. An infusion ofenergy. I wasn‘t on top
of theworld and I was stilltired but I was ages away from

526
where Ihad been a second before. I had scrounged aroundfor
something dinner thatdid not involve chewingandcameup
with spaghettios. Instead I made my own spaghetti. My
teeth didn‘t hurt anymore.
If I had been released, itwasanother switch. If itwas
wholly me, I don‘t know. Maybeit wasoneof those co-
presences, but something lifted meup out ofthequicksand
andstood meonmy feet to takeproper care ofmy pets (birds
included) and myself. It wasjust enough energy to make my
dinner, eat it, cleanup, put Dylan out, give him his biscuit,
go upstairs and successfully perform microsurgery on my
tooth with all the proper dental paraphernalia. I had even
gone up earlier to put on pj‘s and parcel pills. If this is
sounding familiar, it‘s because it was all I had to hold onto.
This morning was better. I slept twelvehours and
through an alarm for an hour anda half. I was tiredbut not
drained,so Dylan got his morning walk andtrip to the vet.
Thensomewherearound noon when I wasgoing to cleanthe

527
bird cage, I felt exhausted again and lay down with Dylan
for about an hour. Ididn‘t sleep. Being horizontal was
enough.
Ten years I have waited from the time she walked out
of the trailer atfifteenwithher father until her twenty-fifth
birthday nextmonth. Ten years. A decade. A decade waiting
forthetime shewould be ready. It isnotunlike the monthsshe
was ababy. Everyone kept taking her out of my arms. I
cannot hold her in my arms anymore, I cannotdemandher
back from herself, from anyone.I am fifty-eight hoveringon
the blackened borders of sixty—I do not want to be an old
woman before Iget to know my daughter, the one I
struggled to carry, the pregnancy only God Himself could
carry methrough to surviveto see a tiny, seven-pound infant
on whosename her parentscould not agree.I placed the
portable infantbed on the chest next to my side of the bed. I
would wakeup in the morning andthink, ‖My baby! I wantto

528
see my baby!‖, my heart filled with joy and excitement. I
took her everywhere with me as I had her sister but pressed
against my front, her little feet dangling from the sling. No
one could takeher from me then. Itied herto me. No one
could remove her from me: She was belted andbuckledin,
strapped to me.
But she is an adult now and only she can make the
decision. She talks about her father through tears that his
hair is gray and thinner, his face linedand wrinkled. She sees
him slipping away intoage, then old age. The passage of
time has become apparent to her. Her friend‘s father so
recently deceased, helping with funeral arrangements and
identifying the body. She has discovered that we are all
mortal and there isno living forever on this plane. Perhaps
she understands that you haveto value people while they are
aliveand in your life because if you don‘t you shall surely
losethem in the end.

529
She has always been my little flower, runninghere
andthere, building barracks of boxes in the living room
andjumping over them, whirling and swirling and dancing,
crawling into bedwith me when she could not sleep.
My flower. Ifeel ahundredyears old. Beneath thecolorof
my hair strands of gray like the tentacles of ivy reconnoiter
and lay themselves to root, weary with my effort to hide
them. Shelves of day creams and night creams and
serumsand oils and cleanser exfoliators and enzyme
exfoliators and thermal exfoliators and peel-off masks and
mud masks and vitamin C masks and eye gels and eye
creams and eye serums andrefrigerated clear, roll-on serums
to coolyour eyes. Thelist goes on and on, but I will not. There
will come a day when I am too weary to pat or smear or rub
allthese concoctions into my skin, and I will look in the
mirrormyself and speak mymother‘s words: ―I look in the
mirror and I see what time has done to this face.‖
Oh, my little flower!

530
They turn into rack and into ruin in a single passing
hour. They hidein bushesblack with shadow as I walk
on.They leap in front of me, put my body on like a coat and
masquerade as me beforeany andeveryone, sometimes in a
hail of jokery, others in the cold, black, soupybottom of a
pond breeding mosquitoesand jumping spiders and long-
legged bugs thatskitter along thetop of thewater as if they
were Jesus ChristHimself. But there is no religion inthis
place. Into this subterranean existence the light of
TheMessage hasnotyetpenetrated and may never. The gooky
bottom sucks atmy feet. Bits and piecesofthis and that
flowpast me, through me, on me.I have no choice but to
inhale the putrid black miasma of this place, waiting for the
light. But not even can the sunlight peer into this black,
watery tomb. I suck it into my lungs always smothering,
always. No hand reaches down for me, for since the

531
beginningof time have I been flawed, and unto the end of all
time, unforgiven.
Let me leave it all in the words of Eric Clapton, who
shot the sheriff but not the deputy.
Every day the bucket goes to the well,
But one day the bottom will drop out,
Yes, one day the bottom will drop out.

Baa Baa Black Sheep, Herding Multiple Personalities

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