Vigilant Revenge

“Honey? Deb! What’s wrong with you?! Why won’t you answer me?!” I ran down the stairs to see my dad frantically shouting towards my mother who was sitting on our couch. As I approached her, she was staring straight ahead, but something was off. Her head was facing directly towards the front wall, her torso was turned towards the right, her legs were crossed very tightly at the front with her feet tucked underneath and in alignment with her head, and both of her hands were on her right knee with one on top of the other. Tears were dropping from her emotionless, frozen face.

“Would you stop standing there and call 9-1-1?!” My father was now directing his yells and fear at me. I rushed to grab the phone and, soon after making the call, I could hear the piercing wail of sirens in the distance.

“Ma’am, if you can hear me, your rigidity is preventing us from laying you straight. We will have to pick you up and take you to the hospital as you are.” The EMT tried his best to explain this, but I could tell that he was baffled by what he was seeing. With no reaction from my mother, they proceeded.

My father jumped in the car to follow after them. As they all drove away, I watch them until they made a left turn and then I dashed up to my room and grabbed the little, black book to remind myself of what I had written in the early hours of morning. It said “Mother, Deb – Catatonia.”

One Day Earlier

Being diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder or DID was expected because, through my own research of severe and rare mental illnesses, I knew that my symptoms were along those lines. My therapist, Dr. Rover, revealed to me that I, Elina, am a host of 7 alters that she knows of; Creek, Malie, Rissa, Lawrence, King, Giles, and V. Creek is a transgender woman that fights to help others understand her rights and place in this world. Malie is an older lady that acts as the mother of the group. Rissa is a 27-year-old African American queen and boss who takes no disrespect from anyone. Lawrence is a middle-aged man who is always going through a midlife crisis. King is an 18-year-old kid who does things to simply please others. Giles is a toddler stuck in his terrible twos. Then, there is V. V is an older man who has the knack to explore and to also protect by any means.

After Dr. Rover revealed this information to me, he asked me if my family would be willing to come in and possibly have a talk therapy session. I simply told him that this would not be a good idea. I learned a while back that my “family” was not supportive of me and they were ready for me to leave their home just as much as I was ready to leave. This family that adopted me years ago still treats me as if I am a stranger and a maid. They don’t even try to understand why I am the way that I am and they constantly litter me with offensive insults due to the fact that I am different.

When I made it home, I had to complete my usual routine of cleaning up the house and, by the time I was done, I felt an overwhelming sense of exhaust. I decided to take a shower and crawl into bed. Before I could fall asleep, I briefly remember my mother coming into my room yelling about the fact that she could not find the remote for the living room television and then I blacked out. Dr. Rover called this a fugue state.

When I woke up, I was in my room and in my bed where I was when my mother began yelling, but the house was quiet and it was the early hours of the next morning. I reached over and turned on my bedside lamp and was immediately startled to see that I was covered in dirt and there was a soiled, small, black book on the pillow right next to the imprint of my head.

After dusting the book off a little, I picked it up and it was heavier than I had expected. I noticed that there was no title, so I opened it up to see what we, myself and the alters, had gotten into. Still, there was no title. I flipped a few more blank pages until I ended up on a page that said, “Instructions: Three names + three disorders in a week = $20,000 and sanity. Are you willing to sacrifice their sanity for yours?”

“What does this mean?” I heard myself say out loud.

Immediately, I heard in my head, “A way to teach them a lesson.” I knew this was V and that he, of course, located this book.

“Who?” I thought back in response.

“Those that fail to understand you. Your family.” V retorted.

“What are you talking about?”

“You have wanted your family to simply understand you since you’ve been in this home with them. Instead, they treat you like a freak, made you into their personal servant, and pushed you into depression. They need to comprehend what you go through and how it feels to walk through this world being considered abnormal.” He stopped for a moment and then said. “Turn to the next page.”

I responded by flipping the page and reading through the many words. Words like, “Melissa – Dementia” and “Denise – Schizophrenia” were listed on this page and throughout most of the book. When I made it to a blank page I heard, “Write it.” I contemplated for a moment because there was no way that this little black book would give me $20,000, heal me, and give someone else a disorder.

Slowly, precisely, and unbelievingly, I wrote, “Mother, Deb – Catatonia.”

Two more

I sat on my bed in shock as I gazed down at the words I had written. Other than shock, I couldn’t recognize any other feelings. I was not sad or upset, but I also was not happy about what had happened.

After a few minutes, I got up and began doing my weekend routine of deep cleaning the house. Even though my mother was not here to make commands, it was still a part of my routine.

My sister came in the house not too long after I had started cleaning my room. She had met our parents at the hospital because she had been with her boyfriend when the episode occurred.

She burst into my room in yesterday’s clothing and matted hair and started shouting angrily at me. I tried to tune her out until she lowered her voice and said, “Hopefully mom is not becoming a twisted weirdo like you.” She slammed the door.

I glanced at the book that was now on my nightstand. Mom’s situation was nothing other than a pure coincidence, right? However, there was no better person to test this theory on than my sister. I sat on the edge of my bed, picked up the book, picked up a midnight, black pen, and, directly under my mother’s name, I wrote, “Sister, Nelly – Trichotillomania.” I stood up and continued to clean.

I worked my way through the house until I reached my sister’s room. When I opened her slightly cracked door, she was seated at her vanity.

“Just pick the clothes up and get out!” She shouted at me as she plucked a hair out of her head and winced.

“Ouch! Oh My God!” She squealed as she plucked more hairs out of her head. I crept closer as I continued to pick up clothes. I looked up at her and noticed the large amount of single hairs all over her vanity. I immediately knew what was happening with her.

“What are you standing there for?! Get out!” She was in pain and she used that pain to forcefully push my body out of her door.

The force of the door slamming made the pictures on the hallway walls vibrate. I could hear her behind the door yelling at our dad on the phone, and a few minutes later, she grabbed her keys and was rushing out of the house. She drove off so fast that she left marks on the gravel where the vehicle was parked.

Once again, I raced to my room to grab this black book that seemed to be even heavier than the first time I picked it up. “This is unreal.” I thought to myself.

“Seems pretty real to me.” The voice of V was quick to respond. “It seems that we have one more person to teach.”

One More

As I was finishing up dinner a few hours after my sister ran out of the house, my dad walked in. He appeared to be drained and confused. He walked right past me without a word and stomped up the stairs. I heard quite a bit of moving around before he came back downstairs and demanded that I make three plates of whatever food I had cooked since he would be staying at the hospital with my mother and sister.

He jerked the nicely packaged plates from my hand and proceeded to say, “You know? I don’t understand why it was them instead of you. You are already insane so a few more issues wouldn’t have hurt you. It would have been so much easier not having you around.” He turned and left their home with nothing left to say.

This time, I slowly and numbly walked up the stairs, opened my bedroom door, and picked up the little black book. I looked at it for about ten minutes before deciding to open it and write in it for the last time, “Father, Robert – Apotemnophilia”. I shut the book and fell into a deep slumber.

1 Month later

“We are all doing okay. Your sister has been taking medication and going to therapy to ease her hair plucking anxiety. We did make an appointment with the psychiatrist for your father. He insists that his right leg does not belong to him. He can’t even sleep anymore because of this. He was diagnosed with Apotemnophilia. She told us that some people go so far as to actually get certain limbs amputated just to bring them peace. We definitely have some decisions to make. And I am better. I also take medication, but the episodes still come every now and then. To be stuck in those positions for so long makes my muscles hurt so I take pain meds for the aftermath as well. Who knew catatonia was a thing? Anyway, How are you?”

I explained to my mother that I was doing well, we talked for a few more minutes before we ended the call and I left my apartment to head to class.

About a week after the initial episodes happened with my family, something seemed to click within them and they all realized that their lives were no better than mine. They apologized to me for all of the years of turmoil.

I still didn’t fully believe that the book worked until the $20,000 was deposited into my bank account with no identifying information attached and all of the noise in my head had dissipated. Because it was time for me to move away for college, I was able to move into an apartment and put a down payment on a car. The rest of the money was donated to an organization that brings awareness to mental health disorders and diseases. This was my way of justifying what I had done.

In the end, I couldn’t think of a better way to bring awareness to mental health illnesses and those impacted while also gaining both mental and financial freedom.