Faith Allen’s Story – Uncorking the Memory Bottle

In 2003, when my son was two years old, my mother had surgery and needed someone to take care of her at home for about a week. My sister and I decided to split the time. I really did not want to do it, but I believed it was my duty. So, I drove my son six hours to her house, where my mother’s friend had just dropped her off from the hospital.

The house was beyond disgusting, with spider webs on the light fixtures and lots of dust everywhere. I have dust allergies and developed a severe sinus infection within two days of being there. She made no preparations whatsoever before surgery. There was no food in the house, and I had to blow up my own air mattress to have somewhere to sleep.

I was so angry. My mother would fall asleep and not make any noise, and a part of me joyfully hoped she had died. I (my host personality) was appalled by these thoughts. I was a complete emotional wreck spending 72 hours with my mother under her roof again. I thought I was going mad.

My mother awakened me at 2:00 a.m. and told me I had to go to the 24-hour Wal-Mart to pick up some medication for her. She lives in a rural area, so that meant I would be driving alone on unfamiliar country roads to drive 20 miles just to buy this medication that could not possibly wait until the morning. My son was fast asleep, so I left him in his portable crib.

When I returned about an hour later, my mother told me that my son had awakened while I was gone (something that rarely, if ever, happened) and that she had gone into his room. An alter part (Irate) immediately took over, but Faye (host personality) did not go away. I felt like I was pushed to the side of my consciousness – like I was watching myself from the right corner of my head. My body was moving and talking, but I was not the one doing the moving or talking.

Irate grabbed my son, brought him into my room, and then slammed and locked the door. Irate kept saying, “Did that crazy woman hurt you? Mommy never should have left you alone with her.” My mind was flooded with fear that my mother had sexually abused my son, and I (Faye) was baffled as to why I would be experiencing these “loud thoughts.” These were thoughts racing inside of my head (not external voices), but they did not feel like “my” thoughts.

The next day, my mother asked me to leave, even though my sister would not arrive until the following day. I didn’t wait to be asked twice and peeled out of her house as quickly as I could move. She never even thanked me.

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Photo credit: Hekatekris

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