I thought today about his different personalities. He had three. Dan, Daniel and Little Danny. Don’t ever think a threesome is fun. No pun intended.
Dan wasn’t the host. Daniel was. He was weak, yet the host of the three personalities. He was home to all the boys. If there was a female inside of him, I never saw her come out. Daniel had the warmest of the personalities. He was the one to kiss my tears away. He would be the one to give me the romantic gifts in the beginning. Daniel would always be there with the big shoulder when my family would turn their backs on me. Unbelievably, he was the most empathetic. But I knew that personality stopped at age 12. I’ll go into more detail on each personality.
Little Daniel apparently was about 4 1/2 years old. He was always looking for his mother. Always looking for love. thinking continuously about this nasty babysitter, and what she was going or habitually had done to him, he was a little boy torn into pieces at an early age. Just watching this personality made me wonder if parents really knew how their interactions with their children at early ages made impressions.
Dan was pure evil. Nasty, scornful, lacking remorse, he was always bullying Daniel. He would always be telling me how if only he could snuff Daniel his life would be perfect. To him, Daniel was only a roadblock. He knew Daniel was holding on to me. He knew Daniel loved me in only the way that Daniel could. And he hated that with all his emotion and anger. And with all that anger boiling inside of Dan, he hated me as well.
How did I know about these three personalities? The first personality called and introduced himself when I was home alone one evening. Daniel had gone out alone for a pack of cigarettes. He had taken my SUV down to the local convenience store a few blocks away. Maybe a half hour or so later the phone rang and it was him. Or rather, another version of him, another personality of him that I hadn’t met yet.
“Hello?” I answered. “Hello?” a little boy’s voice responded. “Is my mommy there?” My heart sank right along with my stomach down to the ground. My blood ran cold. I had dealt with a lot of things up to this point with this man. My stress level was over the top. I had only been alone for a few minutes, trying to sort my own thoughts, my head, when I recognized this little boy’s voice as Daniel.
I asked him if it was indeed him. He responded resoundingly no. He told me he wanted his mommy. Then he asked if I was his babysitter. And he told me he was lost, in a big car he didn’t recognize, but that he remembered how he can be safe, and had locked all the doors. He also said that the locks were hard to find and they looked funny, not like the locks on his Daddy’s truck or his Mommy’s car. He was also starting to cry.
I told him to look out the car windows to tell me what he could see. After all, if I was to find him, I needed to know where he and the SUV were located. This voice that I was hearing was definitely his. It was shocking me to the core. I knew it was real and I knew there was no joke involved here. No one was faking anything.
Little Danny looked out the windows for me. Unfortunately, it was dark. Again, I could hear sniffling, and him beginning to cry again. I was always good with children, always patient so I was going to use my regular approach with him. “We can figure this out together”, I said, “I can see that you’re pretty smart, you know.” I was trying to get his mind off of the frightening darkness. The only way I could do this was to make him feel like a big boy. Trying to make a roughly 38 year-old-man who had changed into a 4 and a half-year old personality feel like a big boy. Not like himself, but making a man feel like a big boy. The task wasn’t daunting, it was crucial to my survival, I thought. Remember Stockholm Syndrome.
Little Danny seemed to feed into this. “I am a big boy,” he said. “My Daddy says I am, but Mommy says I’m not…” his voice began to trail off again. “Tell me what you see outside the windows.” I interrupted, not wanting him to cry again. He chose a window and looked out. He told me he saw lots of houses, but they were different from his house. Again, I had to imagine what a four-year-old was thinking and seeing. A four-year-old displaced not only from place but from time, also.
I told him there were all kinds of houses. There were big houses, little houses, yellow houses like the one his Mommy lived in now, brown houses, brick houses that were mushed together…I was trying to think of the areas of Bethlehem he might be parked. I was talking and thinking like a four-year-old. There were plenty of old brick rowhomes in our area. Little Danny wouldn’t know the word for them, so I called them mushed houses. He giggled at that one.
It was a lucky guess on my part. He told me he saw some mushed houses. “I see some mushed houses. But they’re brown. And yellow. And white. There’s something scary too. I don’t want to look out that window.” Bingo. I had used the right colors. And guessed the right area somehow. He was no more than three blocks from our home. “Well, no one said to look out the scary window Danny. Tell me about the mushy houses.”
He started giggling again. “Noooo….they’re called mushed! You said mushed!” Little Danny had some substance in him too. While I was talking to him, I was leaving my house and going to him. I knew exactly where the car had been parked. Three blocks away there was a row of townhouses along a street. They were newer. And the colors yellow, white and brown. Across the street from them was a cemetery. That’s what was outside the scary window.
As he was telling me about the mushed houses, I arrived at the SUV. I unlocked the door, looked at this lost soul hidden in these dark brownish-black eyes and slid in. I’ll say it again as I always do. What my opportunity was then. I could have taken him to a psychiatric ward. I could have called his psychiatrist and had him talk to him as Little Danny. That is, if Little Danny had stayed with Daniel that long.
There was no use in calling Sandra, his mother. What was the point there? She would only deny anything she saw or heard him say. She would make excuses, as she always did, again and again and again. Call one of my children? The oldest was at college, two hours away. The second oldest spent half a week with her grandmother and the other half with her father commuting to college. She was studying, ironically, criminal psychology. She had turned deaf eyes and ears to my situation. My youngest was just that. Too young. And I? I was struggling to survive from the traumas of my four motor vehicle accidents. At this point in time, with Daniel, I am considered disabled. I had no one left. No one. No one but myself. Or so I thought back then.
And everything I am telling you has happened to me. Yes, I am that survivor. Survivor Of A Psychopath…(With Borderline Tendencies)…
- Psychopaths Pushes on Crime Hyperactive “Pleasure Center” (socyberty.com)
- The Characteristics of Cluster B Personality Disorders (brighthub.com)
- How is Borderline Personality Disorder in Children Treated? (brighthub.com)
- Student cheaters likely to be psychopaths: UBC study (theprovince.com)
All works past, present and future are protected under a CCC. Creative Common License, Kaarie Blake Musings by Kaarie Blake is licensed under a Creative Common Attribution-Noncommercial-Noderivs-3.0-Unported License