Falling into the darkness.

My mom pulled me out of Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic school and enrolled me in a public school near our home in Farmington Hills. By this time I believe I was about five years old. The kids at this elementary school seemed a little nicer, a little less judgmental, however, the darkness was calling my name and despite my efforts, I was soon swallowed whole.

For the most part, the teachers were a lot nicer than the ones at Our Lady of Sorrows, but soon they realized that I was deeply emotionally disturbed (from the violence I was regularly witnessing at home, and from my abuse at my previous school). I was soon referred to the school psychologist and began sessions with her frequently during the school day. I don’t remember a lot about our sessions and this makes me believe that my other personalities, my alters, my saviors in a way were the ones who spoke to her, not me

No name was the first to be born to my knowledge. And just recently in therapy, she has opened up enough to tell me her real name is Maggie. She was my playmate, she was stronger than I, and she is still with me in the present, encouraging me to not forget to indulge in childish, innocent fun. She is often the reason why I draw, do crafts, scrapbook and colour. Like all of the others, she has saved my life countless times and for that I am thankful.

Around the age of six a very horrible event occurred that contributed to the strength of the grip the darkness had on my soul. I remember waking up in the morning and walking down the stairs towards the kitchen for breakfast. I think I even remember the smell of food. The moment I reached the bottom of the stairs and my bare feet touched the cold floor I heard my dad screaming at my mom and threatening her. In a way, I was used to this. I was used to hearing his harsh, hateful voice screaming obscenities and even seeing him on top of my mother on the floor, hurting her. Something deep inside told me though, that this time was very different. Instead of walking straight into the kitchen, I walked into the dining room very quietly and when I reached the second entrance to the kitchen I peered inside, painfully aware that if I was seen, there would be deadly repercussions.

I looked into the kitchen and saw my dad standing there with his hand around my mother’s throat and a knife in his other hand. There was a look of pure evil in his eyes as he glared at my mom and it scared me to the point I remember almost wetting my underwear. I pulled back into the dining room and suddenly it felt as if my body was on autopilot. I walked fast, but silent to the stairs, to my room where I grabbed my two favourite stuffed animals (my teddy named Sally, and my Horse named Thunder). From there I strode to my parent’s bedroom and tucked my stuffed animals into their king-sized bed. I told them not to worry, that we would be safe and now I realize that I was talking to myself, not to them.

I picked up the phone beside their bed and dialed 9-1-1. I do not recall ever being taught this number, however just a year ago my mother told me that one night, in fear that my dad would do something, she taught me to call 9-1-1 if I ever felt someone was in danger. When she gave me this information I was chilled to the bone. She had not told me, she had told one of my alters…but thank the Gods that that alter remembered this. Also when my mom informed me of this it had triggered a memory to come back to me. I’m still not quite sure when this happened but one evening I recall hiding from my dad in the living room, being terrified to the point of nausea and dialing 9-1-1 over and over and over again, hanging up the receiver after every attempt to call. I don’t remember exactly why I did this, but I do remember being sick with fear of my dad.

After I called the police I don’t know if I stayed upstairs or if I went back downstairs but I do know that once the police arrived at our residence I saw my dad get put in handcuffs and taken away in the squad car. I felt terrified that my dad would kill me, or worse, my mom for my actions. I also felt a deep depression grip at me with no remorse as my dad gave me a look of pure hatred and disgust. I knew at that moment that he would never love me, and he would never forgive me. Imagine feeling that as a six year old. I owe it to my alters that I survived that day, and that my mind is still intact.

I have no memory of this, but my mom told me last year when we were talking about the past, that after the police took my dad away I asked her, “Mama, did I do the right thing?” and she replied with, “Yes.”

The bits and pieces of memory I do have of this event remains with me today, however as I get more into my current life you will see that I am finally learning that it doesn’t have to control me any longer, as long as I have the will and the courage to say so.


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