BooksBarbecue
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

By 1994, MPD was removed from the manual, renamed and revised to Dissociative Identity Disorder—this new name less freakshow, less scandalous, but still defined as the presence of two or more distinct personality states or identities within one person’s psyche. Some psychiatrists agreed DID indeed existed, but was rare and unsensational. If a person had different identities, you couldn’t see a switch, and it wasn’t a thrilling show; it was just another mundane and frustrating mental health challenge.

As I pulled into the parking garage at Mayo Clinic, I was dumbfounded at the damage these psychiatrists had caused. How had I never heard about this?

Desiree had said Cliff Paulson, my mom’s psychologist, was a rich, know-it-all asshole. Had Cliff Paulson been one of these doctors who sensationalized MPD and Satanic Ritual Abuse? Is that what happened to my mother?

66

66

I spent thirty minutes being ping-ponged between receptionists and hospital wings that seemed miles apart. No one wanted to tell me where I could find Sinclaire Paulson. I should have worn nicer clothes, put on makeup. People don’t trust middle-aged women that don’t look moderately painted and primed. Our wrinkled, worn faces gave off an unstable vibe.

I quit the receptionists and asked employees in scrubs and lab coats. I finally found a man in a lab coat too young to worry about job security who said, “I know Claire. Follow me.”

“Thank you.” I told him my name, that I knew Claire from when I was a kid, and I followed him like a lost puppy. “Do you work with Claire?” I said only because I didn’t like listening to our shoes click against linoleum.

“No, I’m in clinical path; she’s in anatomic. She works in the tissue lab. I couldn’t stand that. Too much microscope work, my eyes would bleed.” He laughed. “Wait here.” He used the lanyard around his neck to open a door and went inside.

“I will. Thank you,” I called as the door whooshed shut. I felt like I was waiting to meet Oz.

The door opened a few minutes later. She was short with close-cut ash hair, like her photo. Her eyes were green, her face was pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes that she hadn’t bothered lightening with makeup. Her expression was sharp. This was not a woman who smiled to make you feel comfortable. I immediately liked her.

“Heather?” she said, her voice flat, deep.

“Yes. Claire?”

“Wow, this is weird. I remember you. I mean, I don’t recognize you now, we’re really fucking old, but I remember you as a kid.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember much.”

“No offense taken. Besides, I was a year older than you.” She smiled. “I’m joking. Why, well, I mean, it’s nice to see you, but why are you here?”

“You wrote a letter to my mom?”