Page 131 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

“I’ll make you a copy of that chapter in my book later. In the worst case, a person splits their consciousness into several parts. It used to be called multiple personality disorder.”

I think of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My heart beats faster. “So, I’m schizophrenic?”

“No, that’s something else entirely, Brendan. Schizophrenia is a mental illness that is not caused by trauma. I also do not believe you suffer from classic DID. Then you would have to have lapses and amnesia in everyday life without these attacks.”

I do not understand anything. “What exactly is DID?”

“DID is dissociative identity disorder. Such patients jump back and forth between their personalities in everyday life without realizing it. It goes so far that one personality buys things that the other doesn’t know anything about afterward, for example. Do you recognize something like that about yourself?”

“No.”

“There are a number of mixed and sub-types, including mixed forms with other post-traumatic stress disorders. I suspect that you disconnected your consciousness during a stressful situation. You created a boy who was older than you at the time. Your subconscious thought your older self, an older Brendan, could handle it better. This is how you survived the situation. The boy shouldered most of your grief, but you also gave him fond memories that weighed on you.”

“Why should happy memories bother me?”

“They increase sadness.”

The incense stick burns up. The scent of cedar hangs in the air. I rub my pants with damp hands. I’m completely confused.

Dr. Lee rolls her desk chair a bit toward me. “That was a lot. Do you need a break?”

I hastily shake my head. “No, I just don’t understand.”

“If you had actually developed your own sub-personality, you would not have been able to access it. It often takes years before people with DID succeed in integrating or dissolving the different parts. Many never even succeed. It requires a lot of patience and self-acceptance.”

My head is spinning. So, I’m not completely crazy, just half crazy?

“The walls to the boy were thin, you knew about him. Although he was separate or suppressed, he did not become independent.”

I stare at her and don’t know what to think of all this anymore.

“You’ve already taken the first step and brought him back.”

I drink the whole glass of water in one gulp because I feel like it might clear my mind.

India Lee leans forward. “Why are you here, Brendan?”

“I want to know what I have. It would be…helpful…” I hesitate and look at her questioningly. “Less scary.”

“A shot in the dark, without guarantee. Would that be okay with you?”

I nod.

“You are triggered, you get a flashback that doesn’t necessarily paralyze your entire thinking, maybe only lasting a few seconds. Possibly several in a row with clear intervals in between, hence the feeling of slowly slipping away. But during these flashbacks, your body, or rather your subconscious, mobilizes the best possible protection for you. This is where the dissociative disorder sets in, with which you beam yourself away from reality completely because during the flashback, you do not realize the difference between past and present. Your subconscious thinks you are back in the old situation. I can’t tell you yet what exactly happens in this phase. Maybe you’re going through some kind of dissociative trance.” She gives me a piercing look. “What are you hoping to get out of therapy, Brendan?”

“I want these fits to stop,” I answer truthfully. “Or stay in control during them.”

India Lee nods. “Okay, that’s a good goal. However, you will need a lot of patience.”

I wake up from a scream. Darkness hangs like a shroud in the air, in which the cry for help still reverberates. Sweat runs down my back.

“Grey?” I grope around disoriented, but only find the soft sleeping mat and the cool floor. Usually, Grey lies next to me, huddling against me when, once again, I am startled awake by my own scream of terror. But now he’s gone. Stiffly, I stand. I still can’t see anything but darkness.

I force myself to take a few steps forward, arms outstretched like a blind man. Something is not right.

“Grey?”

The south window should be over there, but there is nothing. No cutout in the walls, no glass, no stars. Nothing at all. Only blackness. My heart is beating wildly against my ribs. I had a nightmare, now what? I blink hard, but it stays dark like in the realm of the dead. I dare not breathe. The strange fear that someone might hear me sends an icy shiver down my spine. But who could hear me other than Grey?

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