I've Moved!

The Humor in Insanity

"Out of the way!" Brian cried.

"Oh, 'tis fun," giggled six-year-old Julie, as the car swung from one lane to another.

"Hey Guys! Adults, front and centre," Brian screamed to the others.

All at once a number of "people" came to the rescue and slid Julie back to where she belonged.
"It's time for a council meeting," Brian said.

As Brian was organizing the meeting of the heads of the compartmentalized sectors, I was in another reality. The outside world saw the body of a 36-year-old woman, with short spiked hair, wearing a black leather jacket, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and new black Levi's.

I was oblivious to this. In my sphere, I was calmly driving along the highway after an uneventful afternoon. I didn’t hear the honking of cars nor did I see the stares from other drivers. I had long, wavy, blonde hair and did not own a leather jacket. It wasn’t until I arrived at home that the shaking began and with it the confusion of pieces of memory returning. I felt like I had been caught doing something wrong, yet I had no idea what that was. Had I known a whirlwind of reality encompassing acknowledgement and acceptance of something so far fetched and bizarre, that even the psychiatric world would be divided down the middle, I would have run and never looked back. In my ignorance though, this was no longer an option – the wheels had begun to turn and it was out of my hands.

After spending years denying and pushing memories and feelings attached to them away, I became like many others, a victim turned survivor. I have been misdiagnosed through out my adult life as being afflicted with Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality, Manic Depression and so forth, until the final ruling that fit my life was confirmed – a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly dubbed Multiple Personality Disorder by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, occurs as a result of prolonged emotional, physical and sexual abuse usually started in infancy. This, further administered by means of starvation, sleep deprivation, drug use and other fear driven actions terrorize the child into submission, especially if the abusers are family members. Relying on these family dynamics, the child becomes isolated with no real feelings of safety or independent identity.

A young child can survive in a phenomenal way. She can learn to split off parts of her mind into separate compartments where each can take control of the child's body and mind, without the knowledge of the original child or the other split off parts.

Over years of continued abuse, the child could create essentially tens or hundreds of these split off parts (alters); each performing the task they were created for. As in the case of our little Julie, it was another alters's 'job' to make me aware of the existence of my other alters in 1996. He was created over thirty years ago for this purpose and has been missing ever since he completed his job. Though it was effective, putting a six year old in the driver's seat was dangerous and could have had dire consequences. For those guarding the system (a system encompasses all alters), it is imperative that some alters, especially the children, participate in age appropriate activities.

From that night forward, the message reverberating through the system was clear: "She knows about us."

My alters introduced themselves to me in unique ways and at times it was embarrassing or frightening, but looking back there were times when it was comical.

Having been shopping one afternoon, one of my adult males needed to use the bathroom. Which bathroom did he choose? Scaring a little boy senseless brought the building manager to the men's room where I was made to explain myself. Unfortunately for me, I had not just walked in when the terrified little boy reacted, but was in the middle of undress as my male alter was looking for his penis and could not find it. He was unaware he lived in a woman's body.

In a related episode, Christine, who was a heavy drinker, was in a physical fight with another woman in a pub one night. The fight carried them to the washroom. Shouldn’t have been a problem, right? Female alter going into the female facility? Wrong. At that time, Christine had hardly any hair, wore a black leather jacket with Hell's Angels biker tags, black leather pants and boots, blood clearly seen from a split lip and was twirling a stick not unlike a policeman's baton. Christine terrified a young girl who started to scream at the top of her lungs. Her mother came rushing in and grabbed her child. In the end Christine was escorted to the door by bouncers. It didn’t end there. The woman Christine was fighting turned out to be our bosses' sister-in-law, so after a 10 year career, we suddenly found ourselves unemployed.

We have what we have termed "Hallmark Days." Just like the greeting card, we have memories of abuse for specialized days, like birthdays, Easter, Christmas, etc…. All of our doctors are quite prepared for a Hallmark Day approaching and prepare for battle on some level. Over the years, things have become more bearable on these days, but we like to think that when Hallmark began the greeting card business, they had a DID person in mind.

As our healing over the passing years has brought many hills and valleys, and as we attempt to meet each incident head on from a place of respect for each in our system, we have come to realize the importance of humor in the context of living with the horrors
from our past. As our psychologist tells us, "I sometimes think the human race is like one gigantic multiple personality and each of us are just another part of the system that makes humankind what it is today."

Dear Dad In Heaven

Dear Dad:

I want to thank you for being the best dad of all.

As I entered this life you could not suppress your happiness over the tiny bundle in your hands- your first and only daughter in a house that already contained two boys. You bathed and clothed me, and did not put up a fuss when it came to change my diapers.

As I matured into a toddler, you held my tiny fingers by your strong, safe hands and took those precarious first steps with me. When I fell you laughed right along with me. When I cried you held me and wiped the tears away.

As I matured to part time school age, you introduced me to kindergarten. We both had tears in our eyes that first day- me for the insecurity of something new- something beyond your presence, strength and love. And for you, recognizing even then your little girl was growing up and already you to accept the process of letting go.

As I matured to full time school age, you taught me fair play, how to help others, how to make friends, and the gift of learning. You taught me how to ride a bicycle capturing the thrill and the freedom of the moment.

As I matured into puberty, you watched me move from child to budding woman and bestowed upon me the respect and responsibility this entailed.

As I matured into my teenage years, you taught me just enough I needed to know about boys and dating. You took a step back, watching from a distance, always diligent, waiting to pick me up when I fell and learned my lessons from my mistakes.

As I matured through high school, you taught me to drive, having the patience for an over eager student. You watched me start my first job, and as I stumbled through this new responsibility, you taught the value of a dollar, and tutored me in finances.

As I matured into graduation, you were the first on your feet and with tears in your eyes, you applauded the loudest as I received my diploma.

As I matured and left your house to make a place in the world for myself, I had all the life skills you had taught and our bond became even more pronounced and stronger, as we struggled fiercely for independence and dependence.

As I matured in life, I gave you your first grandchild and your tears of joy were felt through out the hospital.

And as you matured dad into your last days, we just sat with each other; no words needed- it had all been said before.

Then why………

A Mother's Birthday Card

A time for a daughter to show appreciation to her mother for bringing her into this world.

A time for mother and daughter to rejoice in their love for each other.

A time to say thank you for all the love she bestowed upon you growing up.

A time to show love to the woman who worked endlessly, providing the foundation of life that is a vital part of you today.

A time to say thank-you for all the guidance and knowledge she passed onto you.

A time to forget petty disagreements from the past.

A time to make amends and carry on.

A time to say thank you for giving you a childhood- one you will never forget.

A time to reflect - on a lifetime of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse- from the woman who wants acknowledgement on a special day-her birthday.

********************************************************************

I lie awake in my square, box-shaped room as if one could fold the flaps, seal it up, and the room and its contents would be stored away, leaving emptiness where I once existed. I would go too, transported to a different dimension, an unknown entity where I could live in peace. I open my eyes to reality and see- a single bed, much too small to accommodate an extra person-willing or not- a three chest drawer wardrobe, a halogen lamp-to pick up all the dark, dank corners where someone could be lurking- an alarm clock and a fan. If I let people into my cell-like room, they would certainly pose questions for the lack of personalization-no knickknacks, no pictures adorning the walls, no clutter to be seen anywhere. Literally no personality to be discovered. That’s the way I like it- an uncomplicated room to contradict the tangled mess of a body and soul. Upon my bed, a small, thin, cold alloy dime could repeatedly bounce itself off the institutional, hospital-like cornered sheets -awaiting me as I lay myself down nightly in a highly agitated, anxious state.

Most nights I lie awake feeling the terror and the scream that has long been silenced. Eventually sleep overtakes my fatigued body and it shuts down, while my mind continues to whirl.

I awake in the early morning, with the frost on the ground and the sun barely up. For these precious fleeting seconds, I forget about my past and as the excitement builds and escalates - what will not come to pass- actuality sets in. Time waits for no one. Time is painful. Time is cruel. I release myself to the retching that will accompany yet another day.

I am not alone. I am one of many. One of many millions of women, abused as children, who survived the atrocities of their childhood. We are alive, we did not walk away unscathed and we paid a price for our lives- a constant struggle to hold onto sanity.

"Childhelp USA® exists to meet the physical, emotional, educational, and spiritual needs of abused and neglected children." In one study, it found "More than 2.67 reports of possible maltreatment involving 3 million children (were) made to child protective service agencies in the calendar year 2001."

Presently, child abuse is discussed at our schools and around the dinner table. It has become a household word and children are being taught about safe touch and how to scream NO in strong, vibrant and formidable voices. However, "the actual incidence of abuse and neglect is estimated to be three times greater than the number reported to authorities. Child abuse is reported-on average-every 10 seconds," relates Childhelp USA®. It is the responsibility of our caregivers and society to ensure children's needs of safety, protection, and emotional stability are met. Because, if they are not the child looks forward to even a greater set of statistics- well into their adulthood. I did not report my abuse for forty years. Forty years of keeping it in, slowly watching my life ebbing away from not having learned how to protect myself, living in a sickness so putrid, all I wanted to do was die. It has been forty years of being alone. I didn’t reach out and no one reached in. I, therefore, became just another statistic- forty years of alcoholism, drug addiction, psychiatric hospitals, self abuse, and constant illness.

Although this state of being is grim, physically I'm alive. What made me live through the abuse? Why did I not just become another homicide victim? What made me so 'special?' I can only hypothesize. No one will ever be able to answer those questions, because so many don’t survive. "Each day in the United States, more than 3 children die as a result of child abuse in the home. More children (age four and younger) die from child abuse and neglect than any other single, leading cause of injury death for infants and young children," Childhelp USA® reports. When the statistics are placed in front of me like this, I feel the pinprick behind my eyes, a yearning for all those lost to us, and a hope that the programs being put in place will decrease these statistics.

It is programs and agencies such as Childhelp USA®, The National Center on Child Abuse and Neglect(NCCAN), Families Anonymous, Child Welfare League of America, Daughters and Sons United, and the National Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act, that we have to place our hope in.

I can't thank my mother. Nor do I care to wish her a Happy Birthday. I do, however wish to send her a Birthday card, the inside reading:
A time to reflect - on a lifetime of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse from a daughter to her mother.

The ChildHelp USA National Child Abuse Hotline is open 24 hours, 7 days a week at: 1- 800- 4- A- CHILD
1-800-422-4453

A Refusal to Die- Support People and Childhood Sexual Assault

June 05 1983. Tonight's the night…The deadly cocktail... I have taken an enormous amount of pills and alcohol …4.3 seconds is all it will take me to drive off the cliff and into the brush. My body will not be found for days...4.3 seconds…I do not want to wake up tomorrow...4.3 seconds…I'm floating out of my body, weaker and weaker...4.3 seconds…My mind has never been so lucid...4.3 seconds…I want freedom…4.3 seconds…I want out. How can a person carry so much emotional baggage...4.3 seconds...A history of Childhood Sexual Assault…4.3 seconds…To keep up the fight for survival...4.3 seconds…I can't breathe…It's closing in on me…4.3 seconds…All I'm asking for is to simply die.

...0 seconds…Flat line

Childhood Sexual Assault is one of the most avoided topics of conversation; residing mostly inside therapy sessions where survivor and therapist try to unravel a past few want to acknowledge.

The world is often perceived as cruel and harsh. People deny what frightens them and it is this fear the perpetrators rely upon to commit their acts. For the most part, their fear extends to the mere mention of the words (Childhood Sexual Assault) in connection to their fellow man. Faces cloud over. Nobody looks you in the eye. It's too revolting to be taken as truth. More often than not, it is the victim who is blamed and is used as the scapegoat. For a victim turned survivor of horrendous sexual, physical, and emotional abuse, this becomes a reality in which few people-laymen, including friends- venture to offer support.

But all is not lost. Children have an uncanny ability to shut the world out when they do not like what they are being told to do, say, or act.

When placed in highly traumatic situations such as Childhood Sexual Assault, children can do a phenomenal piece of mind work, which allows them not to be present while being abused. Have you ever watched a four-year-old with the glazed eyes, and a no-see stare? In simplicity, this is a child's dream come true.

"If I don't like vegetables, then I won't eat them. If I don't want to wash my hands before dinner then I won't. If I don't want to go to bed when I'm told to, then I won't. If someone is doing something to my body that feels yucky then I will go away."

And here it stops. It's not a dream. It becomes a life long struggle to find oneself; picking up the pieces of a very scattered mind. If this sounds too superficial it's not, because the body of that child is eating her vegetables, washing her hands before dinner and going to bed when she is told to.

The mind is very active creating other inside people, called alters, to do each of these tasks. As the child grows, this splitting of her mind will intensify as more and more splits are required to cope with age appropriate life and continued abuse. All the while, the inner world of alters reside in one physical body. This state of being is known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly dubbed Multiple Personality Disorder and from this point forward will be DID). Unless there is intervention in early childhood, this child could go on to create ten's or hundred's of alters.
Feelings of depression, suicide, and anxiety leave us in isolation, which only breeds more sensations of despair and despondency. We need to be functioning actively in life in order to find ways to a healthier environment. But, it cannot be done alone. We all need connections and support from the human race through the turbulent times, as well as the good times. For a survivor of Childhood Sexual Assault this is most important. Our perpetrators silenced us in horrendous ways and years later, it is this isolation and silence that still bind us to them.
In the beginning, desperate for reassurance we sought out our friends. They bolted. The fear in their eyes, the fear of the unknown, reminded them quickly of an important appointment they just recalled or a child needing picking up. Conversations of "You just need a hobby or Your doctors are wrong. - they are just throwing a new label around, or I would have noticed if you were different," all undermined my sense of self and left fear in the wake. I was very lucky; however, to find one support person, where some survivors; sadly, never get this opportunity. A friend willing to accept the unacceptable and face the unknown stayed with me even knowing the toll of being a friend to someone who is a by-product of Childhood Sexual Assault is a commitment no one volunteers for.

From the ages 25-35 years, I would have become another statistic. Another depressed, alcoholic, drug addicted 25 year old woman with a history of hospitalizations, who committed the final act of suicide that she had tried many times to inflict upon herself. It would not have made the headline of the news nor would it have been investigated. It would end there and my life would not have mattered except to a select few.

This is not over dramatizing. This is fact. I am alive today because of my one friend who refused to see me die. On the onset of our relationship, she (nor I) had any inclination to the depth of the commitment I needed from her to heal from Childhood Sexual Assault. Besides, this is something that happens to other people, not a child from middle to upper class family, highly respected in the small rural community.

Nevertheless, it did happen. Moreover, it happens everywhere.
At the beginning of my learning of my diagnosis, it rocked my world, shook it up, and dropped it in a pile on the floor for me where 20 years later I'm still trying to put the pieces together.
Those 4.3 seconds are as momentous today as it was when they were written, but thanks to my best friend and team of doctors we are beginning to have that novelty people call- A life.

© Lisa Bri

A Survivor in Therapy- Published Many Times in 2005/06

A Survivor In Therapy

A girl- 6 years old
Curly brown hair
Frilly blue dress
In a picture frame
Bent over her task
Frustration and fear on her face
A girl- 6 years old
A porcelain china doll
Will she shatter if dropped?



In childhood, severely abused emotionally, physically and sexually, I refused to die. My perpetrators, including my own mother and father, did not mildly abuse; they subjected me to the horrors of Incest and Satanic ritual abuse on a continual basis.
Fearful of the slightest noise at night-beds creaking, house settling, pipes banging, or a door opening-left me cowering in the corner of my bedroom. I knew they would be back to twist, and warp my mind for their sadistic purposes. They always knew where to draw the thin line between death and sanity. I always waited in fear, with my heart pounding through my chest and cold, sweaty and clammy hands.
At the age of twenty-five I ran. In running, I found therapy.
Three thousand miles away, in hiding, I approached my first therapy appointment. I was about to break one of the cardinal rules of the cult- you do not disclose to outsiders.
Body shaking, icy, freezing hands and feet, knees feeling like they would buckle with every step, I reached Linda's home- scared but alive. She would guide me through the next five years. I left my car on the road, and thought of a hundred reasons why I should not continue and each was just as feeble as the last. During that two-minute walk, I convinced myself I had not escaped, and behind that door lay my abusers ready to punish me for my indiscretion. As I stood at the door, ringing the bell, hearing the sudden bark of dogs, and what sounded like a thousand troops pounding down the stairs ready for battle, it took all my inner reserves not to take flight as the internal pull to run or stay clashed in my brain.
Those first few years with Linda were turbulent with many valleys and hills. I would reach the crest of one only to fall down the other side. Linda did more than guide me; she broke her own ethical rule of conduct by laying no boundaries. She spent one on one time with me in her home. I would have dinner with her family. She spent her time off frequently having coffee at my house. I could call her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and she bought me presents.
Within four years, I had moved from the city to the small town that she resided in. I became part of Linda's other life away from therapy. Playing to my constant insecurities, Linda consistently told me, ' I will never hurt or leave you,' and I believed her.
Looking back upon it now, telling me this was as cruel as it was kind. With no set therapeutic boundaries I had no sense of myself. I was living Linda's life and I was bound for hurt or betrayal. Instead of helping me find independence and growth, I grew increasingly dependant on her and when the blow came, it hit the core of my being.
The message I received on my answering machine in the midst of intensive memory work, told me she had renewed her faith in God and overnight believed only God could save me. Linda would no longer work with non-Christians. Scared, hurt, disbelieving, and having been so dependant on her, I could not comprehend life without her. Desperately not wanting to lose Linda, I ignored my own instincts and the daily growing knot of uncertainty in my stomach. I went to Christian counseling and to her church for a year, until the fear completely overwhelmed me.
I recognized coming from such a horrendous background, it had left me spiritually raped and unable to cope with any religious denomination. I finally had to accept that I had lost Linda in more than a therapeutic way.
After shopping around for almost a year, I found Christyne, but with a different resolve. I chose her, not from an overwhelming sense of urgency and neediness, but from an educated place of having learned a harsh lesson. I talked to Christyne on the phone prior to making an appointment and she said, 'I can guide you, I can help you find yourself and what that means, but first we have to set boundaries.' I made an appointment.
I must have reached for the phone twenty times from that day to the date of my appointment to cancel. I didn’t.
I arrived at my appointment with Christyne, weak kneed with a parched mouth and throat, and feeling like I could not string two words together. I wondered how I would find the strength to master the walk up to her office; it looked like there were 30 steps, straight up with the last stair not in sight. As I stood on the ground floor, looking up to the top of that mountain of stairs-I knew I would climb it-more than once in my lifetime. All I had to do was take one-step at a time. I would falter and take a step back, but in strength and support, I would regain my holding and advance to yet another step.
Today, the mountaintop seems closer and with boundaries set out with Christyne, I am learning independence and with it a sense of pride. I don’t know where Christyne lives, nor do I have her home phone number. With proper guidance, I am in charge of my healing, and I am doing it. Having a consistent structure has been a major growth experience for me.
I still have days when I want to cry and rage, 'I don’t want to do this anymore!' yet I find the strength and with Christyne's support, I advance to the next level of healing.

A girl- 6 years old
Curly brown hair
Frilly blue dress
In a picture frame
Bent over her task
Frustration and fear on her face
A girl- 6 years old
A porcelain china doll
Shattered
With four hands
Instead of two
The pieces fit back together

A Legacy to our Children- Published "The Phoenix" Apr 06

Today's headlines contain many terrifying facets of life: terrorism, illness, spousal abuse, childhood abuse, alcoholism, drug addiction, anorexia and bulimia, and suicidal ideation among others. This is the legacy we have handed down to our children, a world we have created for them where they can't walk on the street for fear of physical harm by terrorists, gangs and fellow classmates, never mind in their own homes with family members and outsiders known to the family. In doing so, must we not have the responsibility to make reparation? If we don’t, who will?
The form of healing ranges from the most typically traditional psychotherapy to the return in many cases of complimentary alternative therapies such as: Reiki therapy, Art therapy, Crystal therapies, Kinesiology, Shaman, Yoga, and other general energy healing.
Psychotherapy is the meeting of therapist and client dealing mostly in 'talk' therapy, where patient and counsellor begin to heal emotional, physical, or spiritual pain either from the present or childhood issues. These facets often are seen in the form of depression, panic attacks, self harm and other destructive ways which we have learned to cope.
Reiki therapy comes from the Japanese words REI meaning spirit and KI meaning energy and life force. Reiki therapy uses spiritual or universal energy to aid the healing process on physical, emotional and spiritual levels.
Art therapy, quite popular with children and young adults turns destructive energy into constructive artwork as a release therapy, often due to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Chrystal therapy has a long history for healing energies, meditation and a personal look into the self. Again with many energy form bases, crystals work to move, direct and diffuse energy in the body.
Kinesiology is a holistic therapy that helps the body to recover from illnesses, stress and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder by restoring the body energy balance.
Shaman therapy, from all over the world, maximizes human abilities of the mind and spiritual healing and problem-solving.
Yoga uses physical body movements, breathing techniques and relaxation methods to train the body to rid stress and other emotional and physical ailments.
These are just some of the many age old therapies making comebacks from over tens of thousands of years.
As each individual is a unique human being, our choice of therapy must be geared to this uniqueness. To receive the most out of our chosen therapy, however, we recognize it has many parallels to each person and each type of therapy.
When we are in physical, emotional or spiritual pain, it is often difficult to see what the problem is never mind the light at the end of the tunnel. We feel we are bound for life with ropes we can not cut through to enjoy freedom. We must therefore, be willing to acknowledge there is some aspect in our life which needs healing, a part however big or small that we push aside in the back of our minds, saying 'Oh, I will get to that next week.' But often times next week never comes. We must make the move now as soon as

we are focused on our problem and seek professional avenues and hence, begin the healing process. It is never too late to start and it is never too early to try.
As we begin our journey from acknowledgement we must come to the realization that with acceptance, do we start to pool all our energies into health. Until acceptance occurs, healing will be shunted. Isolation is our biggest enemy. In isolation we breed fear, and this fear turns into panic attacks and anxiety and a general unrest sometimes too heinous to name. Its hold on us is great and we must therefore dig deep into ourselves to break its strong hold.
As we continue with our therapy we will see growth, sometimes at the beginning only small steps, but as we embark further we will grow in strides that will astonish us. The panic attacks become manageable, the physical pain will lessen, our hearts will be lighter and we will be able to look at ourselves in a mirror from a place of inner serenity and smile – reaffirming our life is worth living.
We reach a point where pure survival is not enough for us. We have the tools that we have learned from our respected therapies. We do not want to just survive, we want to thrive! Just getting by is not in our therapy vocabulary. We begin to feel one with our world inside and out. It's the simple things we take for granted as one day nature shows us a beautiful and glorious spring day unfolding with big, white clouds looking like overstuffed, fluffy pillows dotting a turquoise ocean sky. A golden ball of fire promises a day of warm temperatures. Slowly our eyes open to the beauty of what is before us.
The true art of healing is what each of us do individually and combine collectively as a parent, friend, or society to make the world a better place for ourselves but more importantly for our children.

Death Sentence - A Short Story

July 15 2007 9:00 AM

"All stand. The Honorable Judge Thornton is now residing," the bailiff bellowed out.
"Case number 134298, McGommery vs. the People of Santa Bernardo is now in session."
"You may be seated."
"Bailiff?"
"The charges, Your Honor, are two counts of assault and battery, and one count of attempted manslaughter."

January 15 2006 6:45PM
"Um, dinner was magnificent, dear," I sighed happily at the feeling of a full tummy of food.
Snapping, Andrew retorted, "A skeleton has more flesh on it than you and you're a ruddy doctor, for Christ's sake. That hospital food is a poor excuse for nutrition."
I didn’t comment. This was a sore point between the two of us. My long hours and pages to the hospital at all times of the day and night left an ill feeling with Andrew. Not that I didn’t understand his position, but people can't predict when they get sick or have an accident.
The scraping of a chair brought me out of my reverie and I looked up just as Andrew came around the table and playfully began to nibble my ear lobe.
"I'm sorry hun, I just worry about you. You are my life. So whats for dessert?" he said as he moved down to take my mouth with his.
"Umm," I said, "Let dessert begin."
"This is something else that needs addressing more often," he said huskily.
"Well I'm off duty until noon tomorrow," I said, the stirrings of passion beginning to heat every nerve ending and every cell of my being.
"Lets move this…,"
"Shit! It's your beeper. Just ignore it, honey, just for tonight. Please"
"Umm, okay," I said as the fire began to spread from my core.
But the shrill of the beeper was too much.
"Hon, I gotta get it," I said untangling myself from a hodge-podge of limbs. "It’s the hospital," automatically reciting the phone number on my call display.
"Big surprise," Andrew grumbled.
"Dr. Hollis, here. Yes. How long ago? Who's on call tonight? I see. I will be there as soon as possible," I signed off.
"Sorry Hon, there's been a bad accident on Route 17, multiple injuries, 2 casualties. County is closest so it's receiving. Sounds like a helluva storm. Can you fire up the 4X4 so we can get out?"
35 minutes later
"Dr. Hollis!" Deborah exclaimed. "Thank god you're here!"
The blur of bodies and machines whirling and beeping assaulted my senses as I headed toward her.
"Fill me in, Deborah," I said, shucking my parka, at the same time allowing a lab coat to drape over my shoulders, pulling my arms through as I walked into the frenzy of doctors calling to hurrying nurses and residents.
"We are expecting 3 more victims from the Route 17 crash scene. ETA 2 minutes. All rooms are overflowing, the critical are stable, and double, if not triple bedded in the trauma rooms," the head nurse continued.
As I held the charts being handed to me, I glanced at the universal television screen in the uppermost corner of the nurse's station. Whiteouts, bursts of red, white, and blue lights gave testimony to the worse storm of the year as emergency vehicles flashed across the screen.
"Aside from the usual weekend stampede, and the accident, we have a drive by shooting involving 3 teenagers – one serious; he is on the table now. The other two have superficial wounds and are being treated in the non-emergency enclosure we erected in the waiting room to deal with the less serious."
My eyes followed her words and whipped to attention as I saw Andrew in the thick of things, distributing blankets and coffee to the homeless. As much as he complained he never hesitated to lend a helping hand and in a fleeting thought of what tonight could have been, I smiled as I listened to Deborah drone on.
"Help me, please help," a body gasped, pulling at my lab coat just as an ambulance, lights ablaze, pulled up in front of the ER doors.
As I raised my eyebrows to Deborah she shook her head, "Officer, I need you" and in an instant the blue appeared at her side, leading the body aside, kicking and screaming.
"What do we have?" I asked the paramedic, rushing out to meet him.
"Victim is Ethan Allen, age 54. He was hit head on. Roads have black ice. The white outs show almost zero visibility," his words came out in short, gasping breaths from the exertion of high winds and practicing medicine outside in a snow storm. "With what history we could gleam, he had a heart attack six years ago. BP has been consistent at 140/90. We started an IV in the field. He has major blood loss. The tibia on his right leg has pierced the skin. The Jaws of Life yanked him from the vehicle and his wife, the driver, was DOA at the scene.
"Deborah?"
"Take trauma 2, Doctor."
"Next of kin?"
"A son. He's on his way."

15 minutes later
We struck the doors to trauma 2 and rolled Ethan parallel to another gurney, IV pole, instrument table and Wendy, an ER surgical nurse, who was waiting for us.
"Okay, on the count of three we move. 1, 2, 3," and Ethan was smoothly transferred to the gurney.
"Thanks guys. Take care out there in that storm," I said to the paramedics who wasted no time preparing their ambulance gurney for the next patient.
"Good luck, doc," the muffled reply came as they left.
Wendy wasted no time. Within seconds, Ethan's clothes were cut off and he was wrapped in hot flannel sheets, which quickly filled with blood.
"BP?"
"Still consistent at 140/90."
"Set up an IV with Arfonad. He's been stable at that reading for over an hour now. Let's look at that leg. Keep the BP cuff on him and check it at 2 minute intervals. Any variation then we worry."
"What do you have there Peter?" I asked my resident.
"Drive-by shooter. Took a bullet to the gut, seems to have missed all major organs, lucky stiff. I can't pump blood into him as fast as it's going out. I keep coming up against more bleeders."
"Keep at it. It's gotta stop sooner or later."
All of a sudden a swish of cold air hit me, forcing me to look up at the source. In a span of 3 seconds before dropping my gaze to the job at hand, I startled with a look of recognition. It was the drive-by gang shooting teenager who accosted me at the ER doors, only minutes ago.
"You need to leave. Go to the waiting room and someone will be with you very shortly," I overheard Wendy saying.
"I've been waiting for hours. I need help now," he exclaimed, rubbing his hands over his face in a frenzy of activity as if he had a rash he was trying to scratch away.
"There has been a terrible accident, as a result of the storm. Surely you can see that. You don’t appear to be having emergency difficulty. So please leave."
Clearly agitated, he shuffled from one foot to another screaming, "Not until I get something," and continued to ramble, repeating now over and over again.
"What is it that you want?" Wendy asked.
"I-I Give- I just told you to give me something," he said stammering.
Jolting us all at his sudden uncontrollable giggling, he started singing, "something, something, I need something, something, ya ya ya, I need…" Abruptly, his voice trembled, "There's a bear here. Everyone, look out! A bear!" he screamed and raced to the corner of the trauma room.
"I sure would like to know what he's on," mumbled Peter, not looking up.
"He's not wearing gang colors so I wonder what his story is," I said.
Clearly exasperated, Peter told Wendy to do something about him and in an instant regretted the order as a resounding crash was heard and the terror in Wendy's voice rang out.
"Oh shit! He smashed the red needle disposal container and …let go of me," came Wendy's cry.
Reflexes born from years of training for the head of an emergency room left my hands steady and my head cool as I tried to defuse the situation that was readily out of control.
"Peter, what's up there?"
"Can't look, still sewing the bleeder," came his reply
For a second time, I glanced up just as Wendy let out a string of swear words followed by even more profanities, this time from the teenager as they struggled moving towards us again. He was hopping on one leg, the reaction from having his foot crushed by an irate nurse bent on breaking a threatening hold and impaired co-ordination on his part. I only had a second to note his drooling and sweat pouring off him.
"Wendy, call security and the police that were with him," I said without looking up.
"To hell with that, lady doc," he said in complete control of his faculties, approaching me with Wendy once again caught in a headlock and a needle pressed against her neck.
Ethan Allen picked this time to flat line.
"We have a flat line, get the paddles," I said adrenaline kicking in.
"No one is leaving this room," he said.
Angered, feeling my heart pumping in my chest, I let loose on him.
"If he dies, I swear you will be on this table next. And if he dies, so will you. At my hands. Now get out of the way," I said calmly and toughened. Before he could take what I had said, I ran full out, crashed through the doors, screamed for security, grabbed the paddles and in an instant, was jellying them. Time seemed to stand still. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched the monitor with its squiggly lines monitoring Ethan's heart. At the moment there was only a straight line.
"Clear." I jump started his chest.
No response.
"Come on, Ethan. Don’t die on me. Fight it. I need some activity. Clear."
No response.
"Damn. Push me up a 100. Clear."
With abated breath I stood poised, paddles still in my hands.
No response.
"Again."
No response.
"Damn, again"
No response.
It was then I felt the arm on my shoulder.
"C'mon Katherine. Time to call it," Peter said softly to me.
"No!" I screamed, "150 Clear."
Flat line. As I lowered my arms, I felt the defeat that every doctor must bear. Looking at the clock, I began, "Time of death…,"
It was subtle, and by the looks of those around me, I knew they heard it too. A faint beep from the monitor. It signaled heart activity.
With renewed vigor, I said, "Okay folks. Let's get an IV started, keep that blood pressure cuff on him. He may just make it."
With a bang, I looked up for the second time towards the doors as two security guards charged through.
Instantly they summed up the situation of blood everywhere coupled with a teenager's arm around the throat of a nurse, needle poised and ready. They dropped their hands to their holsters and drew their guns.
"Okay, son. Whats your name? Let the nurse go and we will talk about what is going on here," one of the guards said.
"Look, we are going to put our guns away, okay, see," as they holstered their pieces.
Moving very slowly they forced the young man back away from the life saving we were attempting to do.
"Just let her go, now."
"No!"
"No ones going to hurt you."
"No!"
"Look the police have one of your gang members outside, the other is on the table, and there is only you. If you co-operate, maybe they can make you a deal."
"I'm not part of that gang. I was looking for s-something and got mistaken as one of them and brought here. I need something! I can see what you're doing. If you don’t stop moving now, I swear I'll jab this needle into her neck."
"Okay. Okay."
For a second time that night, Wendy moved like a bolt of lightening, thrust her arms upward, broke the hold, dropped to floor and rolled away from her attacker.
Like a crazed animal in a cage he made a dash for the door, but a security guard brought him down to his knees, as the needle in his hand plunged into my left hip.

July 15 2007 9:10 AM
"Defense, please call your first witness," Judge Thornton asked.
"The defense calls Dr. Katherine Hollis to the stand."
Whispered murmurs vibrated off the polished ceiling beams overhead.
Rapping his gavel, the Judge called for order of the court.
I entered, my face expressionless. After my affirmation the defense approached the Judge.
"Your Honor, this is a highly unusual case where the victim is a witness for the defense," he said.
"We respectfully ask the court to consider dropping all charges against the defendant, pending this testimony."
"I will take the matter into consideration, Counselor. Proceed."
"Dr. Hollis, are you HIV positive?"
Murmured talk among the spectators began again.
Banging his gavel, the Judge said, "I will clear the courtroom if I have to ask for quiet again. Doctor, please continue."
"Yes, I tested positive three months ago."
"Please explain to the court the circumstances surrounding your illness."
"I was paged from my home," I said. All eyes and ears were focused on me as I related the storm, the shortage of hospital beds, the doubling up of trauma victims in rooms, and the eventual stab from an HIV encrusted needle. "I just couldn’t keep up with his mood swings and behavioral changes," I concluded.
"Dr. Hollis, how is it you came to be a witness for the defense?"
"At the time of the attack Patrick was in a state of psychoses. He was withdrawing from something and we noticed that although he was brought in with the drive by gang shooting, he had no gang colors."
"What conclusions did you reach, then?"
"I ran the blood panel twice to ensure its accuracy and it showed no signs of illicit drug use. After reviewing his history and the super human strength it took to tear and break into that needle container, came from a state of high adrenaline. I determined he did not fit the typical stereotype of a junkie looking for a fix as one would expect in that type of situation."
"Were you able to determine the cause of his psychoses?"
"Yes. Traces of an anti-depressant, Fluvox was found in his blood and urine analysis. Patients taking the medication need to be supervised as the side effects can cause psychoses. The system is guilty, not the young man present."
"Finally, Doctor, what is the prognosis for people afflicted with HIV?"
My voice steady, I answered, "The length of time it takes for symptoms of AIDS from the HIV infection may not appear for years or I could be dead in six months."
A gasp could be heard through out the courtroom and the tears streamed down Patrick McGommery's face. Dr. Hollis had been given a death sentence, but each and every minute of that time would be felt by the sixteen year old whose doctor prescribed him a drug without any monitoring.
"Your Honor?"
"I find the defendant not guilty."

Vanity is Only Skin Deep- Short Story

Vanity is Only Skin Deep


What a wonderful sleep, I thought, as I yawned.
Glancing at the clock, I jolted.
"Shoot, its 8:30 – my exam's in one hour."
I jumped out of bed, scattering my clothes in different directions as I headed to the shower. I could sleep in tomorrow, for now I needed to be on time for my final four hour exam, which would license me as a Chartered Accountant.
Late or not, there is no excuse for anything less than perfection when it came to one's appearance. I chose my clothing with care since you never know who you are going to run into. I picked up and discarded a pink cashmere sweater. It wasn't a pink day. Next, I tried my white silk blouse, soft and elegant against my skin, and with the top two buttons undone it accented the right amount of cleavage without being vulgar. I put on my black skirt, but no, there was not enough leg showing. Instead I chose a navy blue skirt with a slit from my thigh to my ankle from a pile on the sofa. A dress jacket finished my ensemble, and, as I looked at the finished product I marveled at how enticing my blue eyes – reflected with flecks of gold, shone against my blonde hair. Thank God I'm a true blonde – not a dark root anywhere. My flawless complexion required little makeup, so with mascara, some red lipstick and a spray of Crystal Noir, I was ready to go. At the age of 35, standing 5'5" with my weight proportioned in all the right places, I knew I was irresistible.
As I brushed my teeth, I watched the pounding of the rain, remembering last night's gale front that moved across the peninsula. Even though it was thunderous and the rain was coming down in sheets, it looked like it had been downgraded to a storm.
Without a minute to spare, I ran for my umbrella and car keys. They were not on their pegs. I had my handy man build nooks for them, just to avoid this eventuality. His good looks came back to me in a second and I allowed myself to reminisce about the day he installed them. Shaking my head to rid the image, I focused on where they could be. I searched the living room under reams of computer printouts until I remembered I dumped them last night along with everything else, on the kitchen table.
A minute later, I was out the door and in my Jeep calculating the time it would take to get to the college if I drove a little over the speed limit.
Pressing harder on the gas, I sped up and flew through the first intersection and would have taken the second had the car in front not slammed on his brakes. Just my luck, I thought, as I pulled up behind him. My eyes wandered over to the field where a
football game was in progress. The light turned green and my foot began to depress the gas pedal. Suddenly, what felt like an invisible force pressed the gas pedal to the floor. It certainly did not feel like my foot. I smashed into the car in front of me. I bounced off and with the impact forcing me backwards, I smashed into the car that rear ended me. This went on one, two, three, four times! Finally, the shock wore off; I released the gas and hit the brakes.
The inside of the car became soundless, still, hushed. I was in my own little world until the pounding of a fist on my window brought me back to reality. It was a man and what looked like an angry man. I felt myself being pulled from my car and frog marched to the sidewalk.
He yelled, "Why the hell didn’t you put your foot on the brakes?"
Angered, I screamed back, "Because you idiot! I was in shock and still am, so out of my way before I make you."
Laughing he said, "Right, you and what army?"
"How about that army, you bastard!"
I followed his glance as he viewed the football team who had stopped playing when they saw the accident. Football players make an impressive group when they are all shoulder to shoulder. Wow! What a formidable sight! All that male testosterone kicking in. God, I loved it. But what I loved even more was the effect it was having on my would-be assailant.
"Do you have a problem here, miss?" one hunk asked.
"As a matter of fact I do. This idiot hit my car, removed me bodily when I could have had injuries, and has been yelling at me. It was his fault. He rear ended me. I was afraid he was going to hit me and he has ruined my makeup, too," I cried, playing the damsel in distress role and loving every minute of it.
"Is that true?" my hunk asked the man.
"Well, um, no, I mean, yes, but I was just in shock. It was my fault. I was taking in the game and didn’t see that she wasn’t moving until it was too late. I'll just get my insurance information, and then we can all go," he replied.
After passing around my phone number to a few of the players, I was on my way. I knew I would be late, especially after having to stop to fix my makeup. I wasn’t worried; I knew I could play the scene.
Reaching the door, I grasped it, flung it open and exclaimed in shock, "Oh my god, it can't be."
But it was.
"This is one situation where your looks aren’t going to help you," sneered the examiner.
I saw the menacing look on the face of the man –who less than fifteen minutes ago I had threatened with a football team.
I knew I should have stayed in bed.

Published Jan 07 by ReachOut Magazine- ezine disABILITIES

pen name LisaBri
Email: Lisabri6@hotmail.com
Web: http://www.lisabrietc.blogspot.com/

Dissociative Identity Disorder

I don’t require the use of a wheelchair.
I have use of my legs and arms.
I have my sight.
I can hear.
I am not physically challenged as a result of genetics or an accident.
Some would say I'm mentally challenged. I like to think of myself as a 'victim turned survivor challenged.'
I had been diagnosed with PMS, Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality and Manic Depressive until the final ruling that fit my life was acknowledged – a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly dubbed Multiple Personality Disorder.
As a result of prolonged emotional, physical and sexual abuse which started at the age of five (perhaps earlier), I was terrorized into submission time and again and made to act and think as my perpetrators saw fit, leaving me isolated with no real feelings of safety or independent identity.
My perpetrators were my mother, father, brothers, aunts and uncles.
I trusted them.
They betrayed me.
As a way to stay alive and sane, I created alters, separate identities within myself, to cope with every aspect of my life. I did this without my knowledge.
When I reached adulthood without psychological intervention, I became aware that something was amiss. Suddenly, there were voices, confusion and lost time. Friends said I acted or behaved in a manner I didn't remember because it was another alter performing. I began to hear conversations between alters in my head and thought I was going crazy.
During this time, I spent the majority of every month in and out of hospitals, treatment centers for alcohol and drug abuse, detox centers and admissions to the local psychiatric ward.
It was here I found therapy. And in therapy I felt my first stirrings of freedom. I learned about my disorder and how to work with my alters. I learned they, including myself, had jobs to do, whether it was to hold the anger for the system (encompassing all the alters), or to hold the sexual feelings and the shame and guilt that arose from it.
In the therapeutic environment we learned to communicate our needs and wants and most importantly, to trust all of ourselves, after all, we had survived when so many didn't.
I can't say this would have been my first choice on how to live my life. But I can say it has never been dull. It is both exciting and terrifying to learn about yourself and all your complexities. For me, I live each day as it comes and learn to love those inside me, who saved me over 40 years ago.
It is for them that I celebrate life, but this time – on our terms.

Honorable Mention By-Line Contest Jun 05: Published Nov/Dec 04 by Alone Together Magazine

Words: 1122
Monday, November 06, 2006

FRIENDS ARE A DIME A DOZEN …

June 05 1983.

Tonight's the night…4.3 seconds...The deadly cocktail...4.3 seconds... I have taken an enormous amount of pills and alcohol …4.3 seconds is all it will take me to drive over the cliff and into the brush...4.3 seconds... My body will not be found for days...4.3 seconds…I do not want to wake up tomorrow...4.3 seconds…I'm floating out of my body, weaker and weaker...4.3 seconds…My mind has never been so lucid...4.3 seconds…I want freedom…4.3 seconds…I want out...4.3 seconds...How can a person carry so much emotional baggage...4.3 seconds...A childhood of Incest…4.3 seconds…A childhood of Satanic Ritual Abuse…4.3 seconds…To keep up the fight for survival...4.3 seconds…I can't breathe…It's closing in on me…4.3... seconds…All I'm asking for is to simply die.
...0 seconds….Flat line

Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA) and Incest are two of the most avoided topics of conversation; residing mostly inside therapy sessions where survivor and therapist try to unravel a past few want to acknowledge.
The world is often perceived as cruel and harsh. People deny what frightens them and it is this fear that the perpetrators rely upon to commit their acts. For the most part, their fear extends to the mere mention of the words (SRA and Incest) in connection to their fellow man. Faces cloud over. Nobody looks you in the eye. It's too revolting to be taken as truth. More often than not, it is the victim who is blamed and is used as the scapegoat. For a victim turned survivor of horrendous sexual, physical, and emotional abuse, this becomes a reality in which few people-laymen and the psychiatric community- venture to offer support.

But all is not lost. Children have an uncanny ability to shut the world out when they do not like what they are being told to do, say, or act.
When placed in highly traumatic situations such as SRA or Incest, children can do a phenomenal piece of mind work, which allows them not to be present while being abused. Have you ever watched a four-year-old with the glazed eyes, and a no-see stare? In simplicity, this is a child's dream come true.

"If I don't like vegetables, then I won't eat them. If I don't want to wash my hands before dinner then I won't. If I don't want to go to bed when I'm told to, then I won't. If someone is doing something to my body that feels yucky then I will go away."
And here it stops. It's not a dream. It becomes a life long struggle to find oneself; picking up the pieces of a very scattered mind. If this sounds too superficial it's not, because the body of that child is eating her vegetables, washing her hands before dinner and going to bed when she is told to.

The mind is very active creating other inside people, called alters, to do each of these tasks. As the child grows, this splitting of her mind will intensify as more and more splits are required to cope with age appropriate life and continued abuse. All the while, the inner world of alters reside in one physical body. This state of being is known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly dubbed Multiple Personality Disorder and from this point forward will be DID).

Unless there is intervention in early childhood, this child could go on to create ten's or hundred's of alters.

When the child reaches adulthood with no intervention, things begin to unravel. Suddenly there are voices, confusion and lost time. Me becomes we. Friends say we acted or behaved in a manner that we do not remember because it was another alter(s) performing. We leave to go to destination' A' only to 'come to' at destination 'B' sometimes days or weeks later. Again, another alter(s) is present for that time. We hear conversations in our head and think that we are crazy.

Feelings of depression, suicide, and anxiety leave us in isolation, which only breeds more sensations of despair and despondency. We need to be functioning actively in life in order to find ways to a healthier environment. But, it cannot be done alone. We all need connections and support to the human race through the turbulent times, as well as the good times. For a survivor of SRA/ DID this is most important. Our perpetrators silenced us in horrendous ways and years later, it is this isolation, silence and fear that still bind us to them.

In the beginning, desperate for reassurance we sought out our friends. They bolted. The fear in their eyes, the fear of the unknown, reminded them quickly of an important appointment they just recalled or a child needing picking up.

I was very lucky, to find one friend, where some survivors; sadly, never get this opportunity. The toll of being a friend to someone who is a by-product of SRA and DID is a commitment no one volunteers for.

From the ages 25-35 years, I would have become another statistic. Another depressed, alcoholic, drug addicted 25 year old woman with a history of hospitalizations, who committed the final act of suicide that she had tried many times to inflict upon herself. It would not have made the headline of the news nor would it have been investigated. It would end there and my life would not have mattered except to a select few.

This is not over dramatizing. This is fact. I am alive today because of the one friend who refused to see me die. On the onset of our relationship, she (nor I) had any idea what we were dealing with. Incest we could cope with, but DID and SRA- no that is something that happens to other people, not a child from middle to upper class family, highly respected in the small rural community.

Nevertheless, it did happen. Moreover, it happens everywhere.

At the beginning of my learning of my diagnoses, it rocked my world, shook it up, and dropped it in a pile on the floor for me where 18 years later I'm still trying to put the pieces together.

Those 4.3 seconds are as momentous today as it was when they were written, but thanks to my friend we are beginning to have that novelty people call- A life.

My Wretched

To start things off, I have decided to put up my short story I wrote sometime last year. I would welcome any feed back from it if you wish to share!

Otherwise, stay tuned for articles I am revamping dealing with my dissociative identity disorder in two weeks time.

In the meantime, have a read and enjoy!

Lisa Bri


Words: 1992

My Wretched

Happy hour should be renamed misery hour, at least to the majority of people who frequent my watering hole daily for the reduced cost of drowning their sorrows. I should know, I hear it all. Willing or not, it goes with the territory.

Leading the pack is my wretched, as I call her, who enters my bar at precisely 5:00 PM everyday. She is always under my scrutiny, a fixation of wanting to know her, needing to know her. Many times I have tried to engage my wretched in conversation, all ending in defeat. Her bland, dirt crusted clothes with no apparent attention paid to cleanliness, wearing no makeup and long, stringy, greasy hair in need of washing earns her her name. And those glasses! They must be an inch thick.

Looking at her now I try to go back in time to a point when she wasn’t here. My memory fails me. My wretched has become a fixture here for as long as I can remember.

It's always the same: she enters my place, comes to the bar, gets my attention, and with a slight nod of her head I send a beer sliding down the bar. It's caught and downed by the time I have prepared her second.

My wretched is one of a kind, but I still have a minority of people laughing and having a good time, not taking in any sense of unhappiness around them for fear of it impeding on their fun.

A group of happy drinkers sit at a table of solid oak, full of graffiti and topped with a red and white checkered tablecloth. Snatching pieces of conversation –today, I heard…received a raise…honey, lets eat…let's order B52s…let's take the bus home – their joy rings out, and from the corner of my eye I watch my wretched lift her head from the bar and look directly at them with a look of revulsion on her face. She seems to be asking, 'Who the hell has the right to be so damn cheerful?' After all, misery loves company.


The filtering of sunlight from the door opening causes the cry, 'Close the damn door, its too bright' from my already inebriated customers, as a small group of people enter murmuring to themselves, seemingly unable to reach a decision where to sit. It seems that all are in agreement with each other except one woman whose voice can be heard as I hop the bar and begin my approach.

"I want to talk to her. She needs friends. She is a recluse and I want to help her!" exclaims the woman.

"Look, Leslie," a strapping good-looking young man spits angrily, "she is a snob, she doesn’t talk to anyone at work, so why bother? If you can tear yourself away from your new 'friend' please join us."

"Fine! I'll do it myself, David. With the pain in your life, I would have expected you to be more sympathetic," and with a shrug Leslie turns and approaches the bar to where my wretched now sits nursing a rum.

One of the benefits arising from owning a bar is my prerogative to listen in on the conversations of my patrons and picking up the thread of conversation from one night to the next as if no time period has expired.

So, it is not unusual when, having taken the drink order to the newcomers , I return to the bar and under the guise of polishing glasses to a sheer shine, I position myself in such a way to listen intently to my wretches' conversation with the newcomer Leslie.

"Hey, how are you?" Leslie coaxes in a low tone. "I don’t know if you know me, but we work together at the nursery. The dirt is so caked into my pores, my hands are never clean. It can get pretty embarrassing at the grocery store. I have to hide my hands constantly. What about you?"

When no response comes, Leslie battles on, "Look, my name is Leslie and my friends at the table are David, Kelly and Pat. We all work together and want to get to know you. Look, see David? His son was killed by a drunk driver sixteen months ago. Kelly is trying to cope with the loss of her mother and Pat is trying to understand a divorce from her high school sweetheart." Leslie continues, ''We've all got our problems and each of us is dealing with it, collectively as a group. Talking about our pain and fear is a catalyst to us. It's like we all have these anniversary dates, which brings back the pain evermore. But …," Leslie trailed off, and with an audible intake of breath forcing me to look directly at them, a sense of unreality fills me.

My memory is tweaked. The sudden white silence in the bar stops and in a flash of lightening, the crackling of electricity, my wretched swings her arm back poised to strike as the whole bar holds their breath in anticipation. 1 second…2 seconds…3 seconds and in that space of time, it ends.

Without a care for the scene she has created, my wretched suddenly rises, throws some bills on the bar, and without looking back turns towards the door.

Our eyes follow the back of my wretched until she opens the door and is swallowed up by the night.

Within a matter of seconds the whole bar is talking about what just transpired. To see any kind, any type of emotion from my wretched has shocked me to the core of my bones. It's like the basic sense of humanity; all that I have held true and dear to me has been thrown into question.

As my nature is, I listen in on the conversations as I roam between tables and booths trying to retrieve any information unknown to me about my wretched.

As the conversations grow louder, one table stands out – my wretches' co-workers. "Does anyone even know when she started?" Kelly asks, "I've been at the nursery for five years, but Pat, you started before me, do you know?"

"No, not a clue."

"It's like she doesn’t even exist except on a tangent line. She does her work, never speaks, nothing. It's really spooky in a way if you think about it," Leslie says as a visual shiver runs through her.

"Oh c'om on. How can someone live a life like that? Christ, we don’t know her history," continues David, obviously aggravated. "Let's talk about something else. She's nothing."

"David!" Leslie and Pat begin at once, "How can you be so uncaring? This isn’t characteristic of you. What's with the attitude?"

"Look!" David shouts, waving his arms around the bar. "Why am I the only one who sees her for what she is? All this attention is just a ploy. There are real people in the world, who have real problems. If she wants to be snob, thinking she is better than us, and not wanting to talk, then I say let's leave her. I don’t have the time or energy for her games."

A murmuring of whispers goes around the room.

"Well, I don’t think it's over!" Leslie interjects. "Something pretty awful must have happened to her, for her to be the way she is. People don’t spend their lives hiding and not speaking. Look at her reaction to what I said. Anniversaries. Something happened to her. I just know it and I am going to try and help her, if I can. Kelly, Pat, are you with me?"

"I don’t know," Pat sighs.

"Me, neither. If she doesn’t want to talk to us, maybe we should respect her privacy," Kelly says.

"Thank you, Kelly!" says David.
*****************************************************************

Sometimes I see a fleeting look in your eyes and I panic. I can't afford for you to know me after all these long years of playing the game. It is at these times I must make myself look more forlorn and pathetic.

Many times I have wanted to give up. The energy required to keep up the facade becomes too great, but all I have to do is look into your eyes, as you slide a beer down the bar to me. It’s your eyes. They give you away all the time. I never knew a person's eyes could change so much, but I didn’t know a lot of things, then.

But I know now. I will not forget.

Your eyes changed to meet the array of emotions that were playing out. The natural color of your eyes, aquamarine, left me for a second feeling relief as questioning and indecision seemed to flicker and override your anger.

But again, I was wrong.

When your euphoric cry of ecstasy brought, yet another change to burnt ocher, I again thought it was over.

But it wasn’t, was it?

It wasn’t until the icy blue showed the contempt and disgust towards me and I quivered like the scared, young girl that I was.

But I'm not young anymore. Nor, am I scared.

And now your eyes are older. I know you watch me, this time with steely, grey eyes, contemplating me from the time I walk in to the time I leave.

Oh yes, I know you watch me. I know you question anyone, trying to retrieve information about me that I will provide – no one else will.

I have sacrificed my life to regain my liberty from you. Until the final breath escapes your mouth and the terror in your eyes all but consumes you, I will continue to fight even harder than before, because the end is now in sight. The world will know you for what I have always known, and then I will take your life as you have taken mine.
*******************************

"Stand up and back to the bar," I say in a low, agonizing growl sounding like a bear issuing the first sounds after a long hibernation.

"What the hell…"

"Move it or it ends here."

"Sit on top of the bar and face the room, I want everyone to see."

As the bartender is about to complain, I place the cold, hard steel object on the right hand side of his head. I can see the wheels turning in his head and finally, the look of recognition as he is taken back 13 years ago.

"Ahhh… I wondered how smart you would be. You remember don’t you? "I snarl.

"It was thirteen years ago, on a night much like tonight. I was in my sophomore year at Yale, the world at my fingertips. I was smart, pretty, popular and voted the most
likely to succeed.

Returning from the library in the evening, I was just entering the university's causeway when…," I stopped and turned to him, "would you like to continue the story?" I ask him in a menacing voice.

I take pleasure in the small, fearful sounds he is emitting.

I continue on, "Your local bartender here, raped me. I begged for my life and he laughed. He ruined my life to this pitiful existence. And now it is time for my revenge."

At the sound of a chair being scraped across the floor, I look up and see Leslie coming to the bar. She doesn’t get far.

"Look, this isn’t the way to settle this. The police, us, we can help, but if you kill him your life really will be over. Let me help you, "Leslie says.

Losing control, I scream, "You have meddled enough in my life! This isn’t about you, so sit the hell down! Now!"

Laughing shrilly, I put the gun to his temple and say, "Say my name."

"I, I…," he stumbles.

"Say it now!"

"My Wretched."

In a fury of anger, I shout, "My real name you bastard, say it!"

"Laura."

"That’s right, and that is the last word you will utter out of your mouth.

Goodbye."