“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Reid.”
I only nod and let the next person shake my hand, always making sure I have my back against the large, leafy plant that fills the corner of the foyer. I hope nobody comes up to me from behind. We don’t cope well with surprises. I didn’t need to worry. People are wary of me since the word got out, we destroyed the office of the Sigmund-Freud-wannabe-doctor.
Of course, we didn’t destroy his office. We should have. He called us an abomination of a human being. Our Toby—bless the little guy—poured a glass of water over the doctor’s laptop in return. I thought that was poetic justice: calling us an abomination cost him two thousand bucks for a new laptop.
After thirty years in the mental health system, I’ve heard it all. We are certified crazy. Now, calling a mentally ill person crazy is no longer politically correct. I have my own thoughts about that. Removing the label hasn’t removed people’s attitude toward someone with a mental illness. I, for one, would rather be crazy than mentally ill, because having a label like mental illness is like a death sentence. There is no way back from there. You’ll never get rid of it. It follows you to the grave.
Miss Marple, a therapist we sometimes see when we can sneak away, said we are not mentally ill.
“If someone steps on your toes and you shout “ouch” that’s not a mental illness and doesn’t need medication. It’s a normal response to being hurt. Dissociating after experiences of severe trauma is a normal response.”
We love her for saying stuff like that. Of course, Miss Marple isn’t her real name. We only call her that because she’s such a clever sleuth. Her real name is Dr. Charlotte Macfarlane.
Horace and Helen don’t know we see her. They swear on their specialists. According to them, we need a special leash for our brand of craziness. And let me tell you, it’s a mighty leash, even if it’s invisible. Helen makes sure we never get away from it.
That leash is called Clozapine, Quetiapine, and Risperidone, plus a battery of other white, purple, and blue pills that are part of it. Some make us tired, and others give us the shakes. They are not designed to help or—heaven forbid—cure us. None of the pills do. They only keep us quiet so people can manage and control us better.
Not that any of the idiots at the mental health place Horace dragged us to showed a single original idea about what kind of help we would need. They could have asked us, but doctors don’t ask patients for their opinion in public mental health.
Don’t get me started. Over the last thirty odd years, an army of doctors has diagnosed us. According to them, we are paranoid schizophrenic, bipolar, borderline, a compulsive liar, and then some… They threw the complete book of mental disorders at me. Pick a disorder and I assure you at least one person diagnosed us with it.
Tell me how does one crawl out from underneath that mountain of bullshit.
“My condolences, Mrs. Reid.”
With reluctance, I shake the offered hand. I know this woman. She’s another one of these creepy NGYD ladies. I’ve seen how they treat young people in their care. I’ve seen the bruises and welts. Anger rises inside me.
Have you ever peeled the shell off a rotten egg? Know the feeling of your innards contracting at the stench? Something triggers your gag response and your stomach wants to turn itself inside out. That’s how my body reacts to everything NGYD.
Everything in me wants to shout, “I’m not Mrs. Reid. I never married that bastard.”
As a fact, I distinctly remember voting against that marriage. Back then my voice wasn’t strong enough. We weren’t a Tribe back then, only a disconnected group of souls trying to cope. Horace thought he married Elizabeth Seagar, but it was Elise who tied the knot with him.
Elizabeth, beautiful, sweet Elizabeth had been long gone by then. I think it was around her second birthday when she reached the end of what she could endure and disappeared.
We couldn’t prevent it. We were too young and none of us knew about the others. Elizabeth disappeared and nobody has seen her since. The helpers she’d created when things got unbearable—us, the Tribe—took over. It wasn’t easy to continue as if nothing had happened, but we pulled it off and, over time, got better and better at it.
Miss Marple said Elizabeth couldn’t have died because the body survived. She thinks she will be somewhere.
Well, we looked everywhere. This time, Miss Marple, you missed the mark.
Elise became our front person. Nobody noticed the switch. Elise started with a clean sheet and no memories of what happened. Not that it helped with the abuse. Nothing any of us did pleased the parents.
Trust me, we tried. By the time they died the body was ten years old, broken and scarred, and a small army of parts, the Tribe, ran the show.
My name Lilly comes from my German great-grandmother Liselotte Schumacher, who came to New Zealand on a boat that landed in Hawkes Bay. She was a tough lady who didn’t take nonsense from anyone. From the moment I read about her in an old family bible, I wanted to be like her.
None of us likes being called Elizabeth. It evokes in us the smell of rotting, damp soil, the metallic taste of blood, the agony of crippling pain, and brings up a past we prefer to forget.
I hope this reception is coming to an end soon. My feet hurt and I struggle to suppress a yawn. My ears ring with all the sympathy people pour over us.
Poor, dear Helen. You seldom find a brother and sister so close and dedicated to each other. His death is so tragic and unexpected, such a good man, what a
