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Back Confess to Me Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Sharon Doering
  3. Title Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. Author’s Note
  86. Acknowledgements
  87. About the Author

There she was, looking plain with her hair ash blond and cut close, no smile. Sinclaire Paulson. Pathology. Not psychiatry like dear old dad.

I stared at her photo, searching for something, some vague characteristic, a fleshy mole, an arch of one eyebrow, that I might recognize. There was nothing.

I called and was transferred four times before a tired woman, someone who was borderline too laid back to work at a hospital, told me Claire was on shift till 3 p.m., but sometimes stayed late.

I checked my watch. I should be able to make it there by 3 p.m.

I returned the nozzle and screwed on my gas cap. I breathed in gasoline fumes. I loved the filthy smell. Always brought me back to the day I met Trevor.

Silly, relaxed Trevor, his lips wet and cherry red. A Slurpee in one hand, a jug of gasoline in the other. “Super Bass” blaring on the outdoor gas station speakers, him telling me that no one would beat him up while this song was playing. He’d tossed his Slurpee and written his phone number for me on the inside of his suit jacket.

He was one of the boys who found her body. Those two, they were a thing.

My stomach turned. It couldn’t be true, could it?

Sliding behind the wheel, I was tempted to listen to his voicemail. Instead, I queued up a YouTube playlist and some podcasts about Multiple Personality Disorder to listen to during my drive (Sybil, The Great Hysteric; Is MPD Real?; See My Alter Switch; MPD and Satanic Ritual Abuse).

65

65

Multiple Personality Disorder had emerged and reemerged a number of times throughout history. First, in 1957, when The Three Faces of Eve hit theaters. Then came Sybil, a late-seventies box office success. In the decade following Sybil, cases of MPD diagnosis skyrocketed, going from barely a hundred cases to over 40,000. The American Psychiatric Association officially recognized Dissociative Disorders in the early 1980s and, within a few years, MPD emerged as the most common of the Dissociative Disorders, though MPD was mostly a US phenomenon.

When a mental health condition only occurs in one country, doctors and scientists should be skeptical. No skeptics emerged.

The doctors who seemed to be most familiar with MPD were selected to head the Advisory Committee for Dissociative Disorders. These men were the authority, the publishers, and the profiteers as they sold out weekend workshops in Chicago and Boston, telling tales of cases and detailing how to diagnose and treat.

Anyone could see the commonalities between MPD and Judeo-Christian possession, just like Alice Paulson had said. The dissociative similarities were blatant, waiting like a dirty Band-Aid, edges peeling away, begging for someone to rip it off.