Dissociative

^{Photo by Iulia Mihailov on UnSplash}

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Have you ever met someone with a split personality? It is as if two souls incarnate in the same body, sharing one life, but seeing the world differently. Their tastes and ambitions are different and they tend to pursue their purposes individually, even though they only have a period to seize control of their bodies.

My mother suffered from this disorder, I don't know if she was like this all her life. My father did not give me many details and I grew up accustomed to not having a more intimate relationship with her. My mother breastfed me until I was three months old, then she gave me to the maids to raise me. After I was born, she remained locked in her room, only coming out of necessity and the maids would bring her food to her room.

At the age of five, I got used to the idea that she didn't exist; that she was just an isolated being locked in the four walls of a remodeled room. Celebrations, birthdays, reunions, in none of these events did she participate; she always remained there, pounding the floor of her space loudly like a ghost.

When I was eight years old I decided to ask my father about her, about her condition, and why I couldn't get close enough to talk to her. He sighed, he knew it was time to tell me the truth. He confessed to me about my mother's condition as if it were a mystical ailment. During the day she was calm, sweet, and kind, but at night she was the opposite, her personality became coarse, distant, and uncommunicative; although this is very arbitrary since at any moment personalities could change periods.

At that time I did not understand what she wanted to tell me, only that it was dangerous to approach her during the night and sometimes in the day. I lived with the idea that I had no mother until I was twelve years old; even if only for a short interval of time, I felt her warmth.

I was running down the hallway until I saw the half-open door to my mother's room, which seemed strange to me as it always remained closed. My father was not at home, so that afternoon I was alone with the maids who also forbade me to go near my mother's room.

However, that afternoon I decided to deliberately disobey and peeked my eye through the open side of the door. I glimpsed with trepidation a woman, sitting in a wicker rocking chair. Her hair was long and wavy, blonde with lines of gray and tousled. Her face exhibited an expression as if she had seen a fright; it was pale and sunken-eyed, with pronounced features and a skinny body.

I was terrified as I thought I was looking at a ghost. She was staring at the window, but suddenly, she laid her eyes on me and smiled from ear to ear. I froze in fear as I watched her gesture for me to come closer.

"Come closer, dear son, I'm not going to hurt you," she said in a soft tone of voice.

Still trembling, I opened the door slowly and took short, slow steps towards her; perhaps it was the need to finally meet her in person that motivated me to approach, but I was still frightened.

"Oh, but you've become such a handsome young man! You're looking like Donovan, your father. How old are you, son?"

"Twe... twelve," I answered shyly.

"Ah, twelve! Has it been so many years? Do you know this is the first time we've seen each other? It is very cruel for a mother to be separated from a son like this. Come, sit on my lap my son, I would like to embrace you and make up for lost time."

Her sweet words convinced me and I did as she asked. I lay on her chest while she rocked. I felt her warm body and also hugged her tightly; all my fears dissipated.

"Did your father ever talk to you about how we got this house?" She asked, I shook my head.

"This house was bought by your grandfather after Donovan and I were married. My father was a very perfectionist and proud man, and he didn't want his pretty daughter and her husband not to have their own house; he even had it remodeled. It was the last gift he gave me; a week later, he died of a fulminant heart attack."

At that moment I saw a reaction in her sunken eyes, like a fleeting flash that slowly dissolved.

"Do you know what I did before I had you, son? I painted, and I was very good at it. Painting relaxed me, calmed my mind, and made me feel like a little girl walking quietly on a spring afternoon. I was very good, I'll show you some of my work later.

"But, after you were born, the inspiration stopped. I stopped painting. I was stripped of the desire to do it. At first, I didn't understand what was happening, I would stand in front of the canvas with my wet brush and do nothing.

"After that, I fell into a depression, and I began to reflect on the lack of my talent, until I understood, dear son, that it was all because of you. At your birth, you took away my inspiration and ended my peace."

Her sweet, soft voice changed and I began to feel a rising fear in my chest.

"For years I thought about how to get my inspiration back until finally an idea knocked on my door, but unfortunately the solution won't appeal to you, sorry, son."

I noticed how he slid his hand to the side of his waist pulling out a huge knife. My eyes bugged out and I tried to escape, but she grabbed my shirt and held me still.

"My inspiration will return!" she screamed, I thought it was the end of me, but suddenly my father came to stop her and the knife fell to the ground like a stalagmite.

"What are you doing?" My father vociferated. My mother howling in tears leaned forward and let out a shriek. My father grabbed my arm and we left the room leaving my mother locked in.

"No! No! Give me back my inspiration! Give it back!" she screamed as she slammed the door aggressively. My father ordered a maid to call a sanatorium. After a while, men dressed in white arrived and quickly mounted her on the truck as she resisted.

I watched every moment with fearful and at the same time anguished eyes, although I did not know my mother very well, I felt very sorry for her.

A week after what happened, we were allowed to visit her in the sanatorium, but we were not allowed to talk to her. We saw her from a window smiling and calm; in front of a canvas and holding a paintbrush. Her clothes were stained with paint and her eyes shone like the sunrise. This is how she felt when she painted.

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THE END