Reckless

I stand in the archway of the kitchen and look at my mom with wide eyes filled with sadness and guilt. I take a step towards her with my hand outstretched; she cringes away like I have some contagious disease.

I put my hand back to my side and give up trying to comfort her. “I’m so sorry mom.” I say quietly, voice cracking from the lump now shoved in my throat.

She shakes her head, silent tears streaming down her face. “I can’t take this anymore Haden, you need help.”

Tears brim on the corner of my eyes. “I didn’t mean to. You know I didn’t!”

She nods in understanding, but that cautious look in her eyes doesn’t leave. “That’s the problem though, Haden. You never mean to, but it still happens.” She looks at me closely. “Take a look around you. This is the damage you cause when you’re not yourself.”

I look around the wrecked kitchen. Flipped over counter stools scatter the floor, as well as dining room chairs that had once been placed with the table. The table is on its side; luckily it doesn’t look broken. Cabinet doors are ripped from their hinges, something that will definitely need replaced and dishes are on the floor in pieces.

The worst part is that I don’t remember doing any of this. I never do and to me, that’s the worst part about having Multiple Personality Disorder. I do it all, I get blamed for it all, but I don’t remember it at all. I don’t remember smashing my mom’s vase, sending the flowers her current boyfriend had given her all over the floor. I don’t remember causing all this damage, but I do know what part of me did it.

The part of me that always thinks he’s dying. I tend to get aggressive when this personality kicks in. Which easily explains the worst part of the damage.

The red hand print on my mom’s face.

I don’t know how I could have ever hit her, even considering my disorder. She’s my mom! You don’t abuse you mom!

The tears are flowing freely now and I can’t seem to get them to stop. I look up at her and she gives a sad frown, the cautious look in her eyes finally disappearing to be filled with sadness and concern. She slowly walks over to me and wraps her thin arms around me tightly. I return the hug and put my head on top of hers because I’m taller than she is.

“Do you really need to get someone to help me?” I ask softly.

I feel her nod. “I just need someone to help me take care of you.” She pulls away and stares into my brown eyes. “Just so this,” she looks around the kitchen and points to her face, “doesn’t happen again.”

I nod sadly, but don’t object.

“Hey.” She says and puts her hand on my chin. “Keep your head held high, we will get through this.” She gives me an encouraging smile that lifts my mood. “You can’t control those other people inside of you, so don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“Thanks mom.” I say with a smile.

I grab the stools and put them upright, then follow with the chairs. My mom helps me to clean up the mess that that my other self made, as she would say.