God is a God of Miracles!!

My Dear Friends,

You have come to this blog because you felt something, some kind of connection or spark that brought you to this very place to read the words of my heart. Thank-you for acting on the feelings of your own heart. There are no coincidences in this world. You are here for a reason, to learn, to grow, and to understand things that your Heavenly Father needs you to know. There are things you need to understand and feel, truth that only comes when your heart is touched by God’s Spirit. Things that will help you understand God’s love for you. Those things that I am about to share are real, I know it, and if you pray and ask God yourself, you will know it too. I plead with you that you will ask God, your eternal Father, in the name of Christ if the things I am about to share are true and I promise you, through the Spirit, He will manifest to you the truth of ALL things.

I try to be very careful about what I share with others, especially when it comes to spiritual experiences. God has so many gifts that he has given His children. Some have the gift of healing, others have the gift of prophecy. I have been given the gift of dreams. I dream dreams that have specific messages in them that come directly from my Heavenly Father. They are dreams that I have used to direct my life and the lives of my family. I have kept all of my dreams mostly to myself because I hold them very close to my heart. However, because my Heavenly Father has asked me to, I know that this is the time to share those things that are most precious to me. I understand that there are those whose hearts are not ready to receive these things and they will mock them. But I also know that many are fearful and unable to find peace right now, and many are worried about the things to come, and they are searching for a place where they can find safety and peace. I know that there can be great peace in the days ahead, regardless of what happens. I know this, because in every dream I’ve had, that is the message.

GOD LOVES YOU

It is my hope that you will read these dreams and understand them in the Spirit they are given. I am not trying to predict or prophesy. These are my personal dreams, given especially for me, but I have been directed by the Spirit to share them now with you, because God loves you and He wants you to know these things for yourself that you may take the necessary steps and be protected, Please pray to know what God wants you to do with them through His Spirit. I received a priesthood blessing from my husband last Sunday that told me that I needed to teach others that they do not need to fear, that God loves them and is with them. So because of that, and other experiences, I have been directed by the Spirit that now is the time to share some of the things that Heavenly Father has given me, because I am certain there are people who need to hear them. I want to share three dreams I’ve had about the days of tribulation, just prior to Christ’s coming. The first one came nearly four years ago. The other two are more recent, within the past two months. I’ll share them in order.

Dream #1:

I was in the community where I live right now, but it did not look like it does currently. There was obvious devastation and we had rebuilt the city into smaller homes made of wood, kind of like cabins. There was one larger cabin that was like a town hall where we met for church and other gatherings. I was outside gathering things when I thought one of the buildings was on fire but there were no flames. There was a billowing, thick black smoke pouring from the roof of the building. The mist of darkness took the form of a winged bird flying through the air and began swooping down, catching up people in the city. I was watching from a place where I was hidden, but those who were in full view of the darkness, and paid attention to it, were paralyzed by fear and could not move from their place. They were trapped. Although fear gripped my heart because I knew it was Satan, and he had come to try to bring darkness into our city, I was not paralyzed like the others. I ran into the meetinghouse where my husband and children were and told him that Satan was here to take people. We huddled over our children (who were very close to the same age they are now) and told them not to look, that if they did not give in to the temptation to look, Satan could not harm them. The meetinghouse door opened and the angel of death, who was an old woman dressed in white, was standing there sweeping the steps. She looked at us and smiled and my husband and I were the only ones who saw her even though the room was filled with members of my neighborhood. There was peace in her smile and it brought peace to my heart. We knew she was not there for us, but she was there for the wicked, those being taken by Satan. The doors then shut and the mist of darkness came into the room through the fireplace and took the form of a man. It was Satan and behind him were his legions. They were everyday people, teenagers dressed immodestly, men in business suits, women lavishly dressed, and all from all walks of life. All of them feared Satan yet looked to Him for direction. Satan’s presence evoked fear that I had never felt before. He spoke in a loud voice and said, "You have seen my power and my destruction. Bow to the earth and worship me." My husband stood and I stood beside him with our children behind us. My husband stood firm and said, "We will not bow to you, we know who we follow." Again, Satan said, "I am all powerful and I can destroy you. Bow down and worship me." Again my husband said, "No! We will not bow to you. We know in who we trust. We know our Master." A third time Satan said, "Bow down and worship me or I will destroy you." By this time, I was so afraid that I was ready to turn to my husband and tell him to do what he said but just as I was about to give in, the angel of the Lord appeared (he was an older man with graying hair and wore a white suit) and said, "Fear not, for as long as I am with you, he cannot harm you. God has sent me to protect you." He cast Satan out and Satan and his minions left and we stood there together with the angel of the Lord. And then I woke up.

Dream #2:

I was in a building with many other people. All of the sudden, people started screaming and crying, “It’s here! It’s really here!” I ran outside to see what they were talking about. Inside, I felt excitement and I thought to myself, “Could they be talking about the second coming?” As I walked outside, I saw meteors falling from the sky coming at great speed destroying the Earth. The meteors were flaming orange and red and very vibrant. People were running and screaming everywhere I looked, but instead of being afraid, I was excited. I thought to myself, “It is finally happening, the scriptures are being fulfilled, the Earth is being cleansed for the coming of our Savior.” I knew that life was going to be different, and that there would be many trials before Christ came, but I embraced it and I was excited to prove to Heavenly Father that I could take the challenges and grow with them. I walked through the destruction with confidence and with peace. A very large meteor came right at me. It came so close that I could see the pot marks in the rock and the fire flaming from it. It stopped just before it hit me and changed direction, as if it hit an invisible shield. I knew I was protected and I was at peace in the midst of the chaos as I walked through unaffected by it. Then I woke up.

Dream #3:

I was hovering in the sky, well above the Earth and a Heavenly Being was standing at my left, although I did not see who it was. As we looked down on the Earth, I saw devastation, chaos and destruction. My heart felt heavy and I cried out, “But Father, what about the children?” God’s voice spoke and He said, “Fear not, for I will care for my children.” Then each child had two to three angels around them who were carrying them and lifting them from the destruction. They were pulling them out of cars and out from under crumbled buildings. I had the impression that when the cleansing of the Earth comes, there will be many children whose parents will die in the chaos that will need to be taken care of. I also had the impression that I would be asked to take care of some of the orphaned children. Then I woke up.

I need to be clear that I do not believe that the end of the world is coming, but I do believe things are going to change. Life is going to be different than we now know it. My religion teaches that the world will never end, but that there will be tribulation and cleansing before Christ returns. The things that have been prophesied since the beginning of time are going to start happening and we need to be ready. I do not know these things of myself, nor have I learned them from others, but I have been dreaming of them for nearly four years now. I am not an alarmist, nor do I want to frighten you. As a matter of fact, it is my hope that I do just the opposite and help you feel a Spirit of love and peace as we face the days ahead. Every dream I have had has radiated peace and love even in the midst of chaos.

DO NOT FEAR

The thing I love about these dreams is that in all of them, even though there was chaos, I was at complete peace. I was told “Fear not” two separate times in two separate dreams. There is no need for us to fear. As long as you are on the side of the Lord, He will protect you. He is powerful, good and full of love, and very merciful to those who serve and love Him. There is no need for anyone to fear or to worry about yourselves or anyone else because God loves you and your family members. Trust Him, trust in His plan, and trust in the process. God is over all, He writes the story, His arm is sufficient to carry all of us, and He will if we trust Him. We should be a joyous people because we know what we will meet on the other side of the tribulation. We don’t really know how long it will last or the exact time He will come, but we know that in the end, WE WILL EMBRACE OUR SAVIOR! It is joyful! This tribulation is only a small price to pay to get to live in the presence of our Savior and to be embraced by Him. FEAR NOT and know that GOD LOVES YOU!!

BE PREPARED

I know that if we are prepared, and if we trust in our Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ, we shall not fear! So I am asking you and pleading with you to get prepared. Do you know there are living prophets on the Earth today who have forseen this very time and have been warning God’s children for decades to get a year’s supply of food storage? God’s church is on the Earth today, and just like ancient times, they prophesy of things to come because they speak directly to God. I know if we follow their counsel, miracles will happen! I know miracles will happen when you ask God for help and make food storage a priority. We have never had food storage before, but when my dreams persisted, we prayed for God to help us and miracles happened! Money started showing up in the mail, in opportunities to earn overtime, in bonuses and in so many other ways. Within two months, we were able to achieve an entire years worth of food for a family of seven. That, my friends, is a miracle, especially since we have never been able to achieve it in the previous 15 years of marriage. God is a God of miracles and if you make it a priority, He will give you a miracle that will allow you to prepare and be ready.

HAVE FAITH

Please remember that in order for God to create miracles, He needs your faith. Faith must also be a very big part of your preparation. Faith is the antidote to fear and miracles and protection will come if only you believe.  Align yourself with God. Cheerfully do all things that lie within your power, and then stand still with the utmost assurance to see the salvation of God and for His arm to be revealed. If you don't know God, humbly seek and find Him. There are many good people who believe in God that are in many different religions and walks of life. I sincerely ask you to go to your Father in prayer and ask Him what He would have you do, and then act on those promptings, no matter how strange they may seem. If you are sincerely asking, you can know the answer is most assuredly from God.

ASK GOD

I am not asking you to believe me. I am asking you to go to God, who is the source of all truth and ask Him in humble prayer to give you the answers you seek and guide you to know how to act upon that knowledge. What greater witness will you have then God Himself. I love all of God’s children, which is why I share these things. If I could, I would invite you all into my home and do everything within my power to keep you safe. But I cannot, so I humbly ask you to do one simple thing today. Talk to God, ask the right questions, believe He will answer you, and I know, without a doubt, He will lead you along.

If you have read this far, then I would like to invite you to learn more about the modern day prophets by visiting lds.org or finding a Mormon place of worship near you.

Just a sample

My name is Tiffany Fletcher and I am the second oldest of six children born to a mother diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder. My mother was originally diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder in March of 1994. Later that year, however, the American Psychiatric Association changed the name from Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) to Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). The change was made to reflect the medical understanding of the disorder, as it is not a personality disorder at all, but rather a dissociation from reality. Although my mother’s original diagnosis was MPD, I have used the more current term of DID to promote the name change and the professional understanding of the illness. In my attempt to promote awareness of Dissociative Identity Disorder, I have decided to share the first two chapters of my book, "Mother Had a Secret" for readers to enjoy. Although I am now 32, I lived in the trenches for 28 years, experiencing every mood, every alter, every heartbreak and every success. This book begins with my feelings of resentment towards my mother but then moves into understanding, respect, healing, acceptance and love for all my mother was and for all that her alters taught me. If you like the chapters, please leave a comment and then tell all your friends about the blog. Word of mouth is the only way I have to get the word out and the more comments I get, the more likely I am to get it published! So, please, if you like the chapters, tell your friends, post it on your blog, yell it from the mountain tops. Help me do whatever it takes to get people here. Thanks so much and enjoy.


Chapter One-Family Secrets

What happens in this house stays in this house. Although she was now dead, the words resounded in my mind as clearly as the day my mother said them. I hated the words for what they represented, a life of hidden suffering. While relatives and friends gathered outside the small bathroom of the funeral home, lining to view my mother in her last repose, I stood looking at my reflection. My eyes were swollen and glistened with new tears. “They glistened like Tiffany diamonds,” Mom would say, “That’s why I named you Tiffany.”
I stared at a small window at the far wall of the bathroom. Twenty-four, I thought. It was the number of panes in the window. I had an incessant need to count things ever since I was a child, which only grew worse as my nervousness increased. Whenever I was nervous I found myself counting things, not consciously. It was an involuntary habit like chewing on nails. My mother said she did the same thing when she was forced by her father to…I couldn’t think of it. Instead, I splashed water in my face from the running tap in the sink I stood next to.
I looked back at the window, trying to refrain from counting any more of its symmetrical features. It was the only source of light in the dismal bathroom. It was about five feet off the ground with just enough clearance to squeeze light through, but not much room for a person, unless that person were desperate. I was certainly desperate. I wanted to runaway and avoid what was to come.

I splashed more water on my face in a futile attempt to bring back my senses. What’s wrong with me? I couldn’t just leave my own mother’s viewing. What would people think? That was the ultimate question; the question that kept us in our social lines of what was acceptable and right. Who would dare stray from the accepted norms when the neighbors were watching?
There was nothing I hated more about myself than the need to be perfect in the eyes of others. Although I often told myself that I didn’t care what they thought, the truth was that my life was ruled by how I thought others viewed me. Like a harsh slave master, propriety kept a watchful eye over me, as it did everyone. If I stepped out of line, it would crack its whip of ruthful public scorn and I would file back to my proper place and once again take up the labor of maintaining the community façade.
Mom also tried to maintain that conformity despite her secret, a secret she insisted we preserve as well. The same secret, which I now had the freedom to discard like an unsightly thing. Yet, somehow I was not willing to toss it aside. Was it my duty as a daughter? Was it the pressures of family? Did I really care what they, outside the door, would say? I knew what their question would be. “How did Vickie die?” they would ask. What I did not know was the answer. I knew how she died, but would I tell them? Could I tell them?
I splashed more water on my face and glanced again at the window. Maybe a running start would help, I thought, amusingly.
“Tiffany,” said a voice from behind the door. It was my sister, Lydia. “Umm…one of your children needs a diaper change.” She paused for a moment. “Oh, and Grandpa’s here.”
The words shook me to an awakened state of duty. I quickly wiped the mascara from under my eyes, took one last look at the mirror, and started for the door. I paused a moment and looked to the ceiling. “You have to help me with this, Father” I said. “I can’t do this on my own you know.” There was no reply, but I knew He was listening, perhaps even cracking a smile.
I stepped outside to find Lydia standing, waiting. “Where is he?” I asked.
“In the outside foyer,” she said.
“Duty calls,” I said, mostly to myself.
Four feet from the door to the foyer, it happened, what I had been avoiding. Since I received the news that Mom had died, I had been preparing myself for this moment. Now that the moment was here, I was just as uncertain as I was before. She was an acquaintance from church and although she was not a close friend, she came along with the rest of them to offer her support of the family and to pretend with us that this death was unforeseen.
“Tiffany,” she said, “I’m so sorry.” She put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my face. She mirrored my mourning expression and then embraced me. Pulling back she asked, “How are you holding up?”
“We’re getting by alright,” I replied. I felt the need to talk on behalf of the whole family as if I represented their collective feeling.
“This came so suddenly. I couldn’t believe it. When I heard I…” A look of shock replaced her words as if she were miming the rest of the conversation.
“It was a surprise to all of us,” I said. That was a lie. I promised myself I would not lie, but there it was blatant and unobstructed. It fell out like all lies fall into a conversation. They were the fodder from which we grew our deceptively perfect lives. I felt guilty that I had contributed to it. Shame stricken, I began to excuse myself when the question came, just as I had seen it in my head a thousand times.
“How did she die?” she asked. Her lips seemed to move synchronously with my thoughts. Though she spoke the words, I heard them more than with just my ears; I heard them with my heart, like steady precautionary beats.
I did not see Mom when she died, but I could imagine how it must have looked from the descriptions I had been told. She was kneeling by the edge of the bed, her head and arms sprawled across the blankets. The vision was horrific like a gothic painter’s depiction of the saints lying prostrate before their God.
I looked at the woman and her expectant eyes. Her question was artificial like everything else at the funeral. She did not care how Mom died. She was testing me to see if I would divulge those indiscretions of my mother—if I would tell her secret. I smiled and said, “She died on her knee’s praying.” And that was the truth.



Chapter 2 – Accidental Discovery

I remember screeching. That is what everyone remembers of a car wreck. It is a horrid sound that pierces the ears and assaults the attentions of spectators who otherwise move fluidly through their daily activities. It is a surreal experience that unhinges the coherence of what is normal and suspends it for moments after the collision. Like most other spectators, I stood doing nothing, an outsider looking in, unable to interpret the event. Without the acknowledgement that I was a part of this intrusion, I would have remained an outside observer and nothing more, but fate would have it differently. God wanted it differently.
It was the spring of my senior year of high school. I had my first job working at a burger shop not far from the house. Though it wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, it was a source of money and for me that meant a source of freedom. Just having something to occupy my time, other than home, was a nice reprieve from the usual responsibilities I took upon myself. It was an escape of sorts or so I thought, but soon I would know there would be no escaping. Like always, my home life would crash into the rest of my life, leaving me to deal with the consequences. I would never be normal.
The comprehension that something was wrong came long before the collision. The car was moving much too fast, much too conspicuous. The sight of it was an irritation, like a sliver prickling the senses. My stomach tensed and heart beat faster. Though I was viewing the accident from behind the counter of the restaurant where I worked, I felt a part of the event as if I were riding in the car. It was a sickening sensation of dread and fear.
As the cars approached each other, time seemed to stretch to fill every sensation that was about to erupt. First was the screeching, which quickly faded as the explosion of impact struck me like the beating of a snare drum and then the crumpling and whining of metal that had been compressed beyond its capacity to give. The metal folded into rough angles as shattered glass scattered across the road. The random shrieks of evasive cars poured out their last objections to the abhorrence. Then, a silence settled like the slow exhalation of breath. A few more beats of the heart and time sped up again.
I gasped as the realization to breathe came back. I stood a few moments longer trying to realize what had just happened. My manager took action first, rushing to call the police while the rest of the patrons and I continued to flow around this minor interruption. A few customers glanced subtly at the accident, trying to satisfy their hungered curiosity while others gawked blatantly, feasting on every sensual enticement of the anomaly. The accident presented nothing more than a minor distraction that filled the otherwise stale conversations of the patrons with a new freshness.
“I just witnessed that accident,” I said. “What should I do? Should I go out and tell the police what I saw?”
“No, there were plenty of witnesses,” the manager replied. “They don’t need you as much as we do. Your job is here. Just take the next order.”
I nodded in agreement. Taking a few short breaths first, I then took the next order, but something still seemed out of place. Despite my attempts to focus on the customer, my eyes continued to wander to the scene of the accident. I had a clear view of the car wreck from the large bay window of the restaurant. My scattered attention had nothing to do with curiosity; it had to do with a feeling. In the back mechanisms of my mind, I was still processing the accident.
Something had triggered a thought that was now constraining my attention. I could no longer resist. I looked at the cars, which now rested some distance from each other. The police had arrived and were approaching both vehicles. One of the cars had a female passenger who seemed to be slightly dazed. It was then that I recognized what had been plaguing my thoughts. The feelings of the accident rushed back like a tsunami. The woman in the car was my mother.

“Stand back, Miss. No one is allowed beyond the sidewalk,” one of the police officers said.
“But that’s my Mom in the car,” I said. I had rushed out the door, leaving the customer without his order. The thought that I might lose my job, which I had only just started a week prior, never crossed my mind. The sight of Mom replaced all other thoughts with a single imperative: I had to take care of her.
“You’re her daughter?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
“She’s not talking clearly. We can’t understand what she’s saying, something about your father. She has sustained some serious injuries and we need to get her to the hospital, but she won’t let us touch her. We think she might have a concussion.”
“I can talk to her,” I said. “I can get her out for you.”
The officer looked at his partner, who was trying to coax Mom out of the car. He turned backed to me and asked, “Is she on any medications?”
This question alarmed me. “The doctors have prescribed her a lot of different medications,” I said. “I am not exactly sure which prescription she has taken. If you let me talk to her, I can get her into the ambulance for you.”
The officer directed me to the car where his partner was still trying to talk to Mom.
“Mom,” I said, “Are you okay?”
“Tiffany,” Mom said. Her voice was slow and lethargic. “What are you doing here?”
“I was at work Mom. I saw you hit the car in front of you and came out to make sure you were okay.”
“I was going somewhere,” Mom said. “You’re father’s going to be mad. He’s going to leave me. Please don’t tell him about this. I don’t want him to know.” She was pleading like a scared child.
“Dad’s not going to leave you, Mom, you just need to get checked to make sure you’re okay,” I said.
“No, I need to go. You’re father’s going to be mad at me.” Mom pointed to the police officer standing beside the car. “He won’t let me go. I told him I need to go, but he said I couldn’t.”
“Mom, he’s just trying to help you. You can’t go anywhere in this car. You were just in an accident and you totaled it.”
“I didn’t. I was just going somewhere. Where was I going? I can’t remember, but you’re father will be angry with me when he finds out.”
“Mom, the police are trying to get you out of the car and if you don’t come, they are going to be mad at you.” I tugged on her arm. She resisted. “Now, come on, before they get really angry,” I pleaded.
“Why are they mad at me?” Mom asked. “Did I do something wrong?” Her speech was still slurred, her eyes glazed, her mouth gaping, and her face void of expression.
“ Mom, you just need to listen to them. Okay.”
“Okay,” Mom agreed. “I’ll come, but your father’s going to be angry.”
By this time, Dad had arrived on the scene. Previous to my arrival, the police had called him at home.
“Vickie, what happened?” Dad asked. “Are you all right?”
“George, don’t be mad, okay. They wouldn’t let me go. I’m sorry. Please, don’t be mad at me.”
Dad reassured her that he wasn’t mad but Mom continued with her pleadings long after she was placed in the ambulance.

When she arrived at the hospital, blood tests had revealed elevated levels of narcotics and her stomach was pumped. Mom’s demeanor changed also and she lashed out violently at the doctors. Because of her erratic behavior, she was admitted into the psychiatric and behavioral unit. After two days of evaluation she was discharged. I waited for Mom to be brought out, not knowing why this was happening and hating her for allowing it to happen.
“How could she?” I said.
“Now, lets not jump to conclusions,” Dad said.
“How can you say that? You know this whole thing is her fault.”
“Let’s just wait and see what the doctors say.” This was not like my father, he should be angry. He was a good man, but patience was the least of his virtues. He knew something, he was not telling me. Why?
“Mr. Young?” An older woman in scrubs stood above my father, a clipboard in hand. “George Young?” she asked.
“Yes,” my father replied. “That’s me.”
“You’re Vickie’s husband.”
My father nodded.
“Vickie was admitted to the behavioral unit for psychiatric evaluation.”
“Yes. They told us.”
“I have some news about her condition.”
“Is she alright?” I asked. Although I was angry, I was still concerned.
“Your mother is fine,” the doctor said. “She sustained only a slight concussion.”
“Why is she under psychiatric evaluation then?” I demanded.
The doctor looked at my father, who was extremely calm given the circumstances. He knew why?
“What’s going on Dad?” I felt alone and confused.
My father nodded and the doctor turned to me. She paused as if to collect her thoughts. “We believe your mother has Dissociative Identity Disorder. She seems to be a classic case, although our diagnosis is somewhat preliminary.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“When a person experiences severe trauma, there are several different ways the mind copes with it,” the doctor explained. “In your mother’s case, when she was forced to deal with the trauma of her father’s continual molestation, her mind dissociated with reality and created a separate persona, or alter, who would deal with the trauma for her so that she didn’t have to. For this reason it is called Dissociative Identity Disorder. In the instance of her father’s abuse, your mother dissociated from the situation and Sam, a three-year-old boy, came into being. From that time forward, Sam was the one who faced the abuse and suffered through it.”
I stood saying nothing. The words revolved in my mind, Dissociative Identity Disorder. It seemed surreal. I had known about my grandfather sexually abusing my mother and that it had caused her irreparable trauma, but I had no idea how much. Mom often jumped from one mood to another erratically, like a flickering light. We thought she might be bipolar, but her mood swings were more than just the bounding between limitless depressions to heights of manic excitation. They were even more random and often contradictory.
Mom rarely remembered what she had done during the episodes and was often disoriented. At one moment she would be a loving caretaker, while at others she would become violent and angry. She often acted as a small child forcing my sisters and me to take care of her. Though the diagnosis fit, it was still difficult to accept that she had multiple alters. The thought of each of these moods being a distinct person seemed absurd.
“How many alters are there?” Dad asked.
“We are not sure of the number, but we know there are at least three: Sam, Bill and Vickie, your wife. Our main concern right now is Bill. He is extremely violent and we had to restrain him. We believe there are even more residing in her body, but Sam doesn’t talk much and all Bill does is make threats. We are sure that through extended psychotherapy, we can interview more of them, but it will take time to draw them out. That is the problem.”
“What do you mean? What is the problem? Why can’t you help her?” My father became agitated.
“Normally a person with a disorder like this one would undergo several months—even years worth of evaluation and treatment,” the doctor continued. “The diagnosis itself, and identifying the individual alters could take several months. Unfortunately, your insurance will not cover it. If you would be willing to pay the…”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” my father said. “I’m just a mechanic. I’m working two jobs as it is.”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. She placed a hand on my fathers shoulder. “Without further treatment, there is nothing more we can do. I am more than willing to work with you in getting her treatment. As I said, she is a classic case and I would love to work with her and learn more about the disorder, but this will require funding.”
“But what if I can’t come up with the money?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Young, but my hands are tied,” the doctor said. “Without proper funding, I will not be able to treat her. I truly am sorry.”
“Then what will we do?”
“The hospital has decided to release her into your care.” She handed the clipboard to my father. “I will need you to sign these papers. By signing them you acknowledge that I have talked to you about her condition.” She began to walk away, then paused. She looked at my father. “I really am sorry.” The doctor left Dad and me sitting alone.
My father remained despondent, looking at the clipboard. While the news came as a shock to me, it was not completely unforeseen. I knew mom was mentally ill. I just didn’t have a name for it.
As a family, we had faced mom’s alters, even the violent one, many times. Though we did not call them by their names, we knew when they were there, like haunting specters lurking behind her eyes. We had dealt with mom’s problem for many years, but somehow giving them a name made them new and more foreboding to us. The question remained between my father and I: How were we going to take care of her?
I was angry, just angry. There was no meaning to my anger. It expanded until it filled everything and with it came hate, hatred for my grandfather, the doctors, even my own father, but mostly toward my mother. Although this news changed my perception of her, I still could not keep myself from hating her. She was the object in which my anger took shape. I hated her and, yet, I cared for her. They were two opposing emotions struggling to sustain the same space within my heart.
I felt guilty for hating Mom now, in the face of her illness, but I could not help but blame her. In my head, I felt that somehow she had given up being a mother and allowed this to happen to her. I believed that God gave everyone the option to choose to be or not to be who they were. Such an idea is easily accepted by many, but when we are confronted with those who fall outside of that perception we are faced with a dilemma: Do we blame them for being the way they are or do we accept the fact that sometimes things remain outside our control?
I already faced a world outside my control and needed the hope that somehow we all have control. I hated my mother for what she represented—helplessness and the possibility that every effort I made to change, even control my life might be worthless. Was I like her, just a creature of fate, unable to break the cycles that bound me to this existence?
As the nurse wheeled Mom out, I found no words to say to her.
“I’m sorry, George,” Mom said. Her pleas of forgiveness were as a little child who had just broken their parent’s favorite vase. “I won’t do it again. Just don’t make me stay here.”
“You’re not staying here any longer, Vickie,” my father said. Though he seemed tired, he spoke lovingly.
“Are we going home?” she asked.
“Yes, Honey, we’re going home.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay. Let’s just get you home.”
“You’re mad at me,” she said. “You hate me, don’t you?”
She often acted like this. I would learn later that my mother had many child alters. One of them was Vicki, a seven-year-old girl. She spelled her name without the ‘e’ because she said she hated the ‘e’ at the end and voiced her opinion every time she saw it. When Vicki came out, Mom acted like what Vicki was, a child. She was always very negative and constantly saying we hated her. With the exception of Bill, none of the alters bothered me more than Vicki. Like many of Mom’s alters, I hated her.
“We don’t hate you, Mom,” I lied. Though Mom had many alters we called them all Mom, except for one, the violent one. He made sure we knew his name. He struck fear into our family and for that reason we spoke little of him.
“Did the doctors talk to you, Vickie?” Dad asked.
“Yes. I don’t like those doctors.” She yawned. “I’m tired. Can we go home now? I want to go home.”
“I have to sign some papers then we can go,” my father said. “Did the doctors tell you why they were keeping you here?”
“They said I was sick.”
“Did they tell you what that sickness was?” my father asked.
She hesitated for a moment. “They said I had other people inside of me,” she said, “but I don’t believe them.”
“What do you mean, you don’t believe them?” I asked.
Mom looked at me as if to be offended by my question. “I don’t think they know what they’re talking about,” she said.
“They’re doctors, Mom, I think they know what they’re saying.”
“Why are you upset with me?” she asked.
“You wrecked Lydia’s car,” I exclaimed. “Do you remember that?”
She looked at me confused. “You hate me,” she said. She looked at my father. “You both hate me.”
“We don’t hate you,” Dad said. He handed the clipboard to a nurse sitting at check-in, took the handles of the wheelchair and directed Mom to the car.
I followed a distance away, still thinking of the doctor’s words. They did not want to care for her. My father didn’t even want to care for her. He would go back to working his two jobs and then who would be left to care for her, my sisters and me. Until my sisters left home, then it would just be me who would take care of her. That was my job. That had always been my job.