We Are Annora: A True Story of Surviving Multiple Personality Disorder

By P. S. Marrow

Marital and parental responsibilities can be enough of a challenge for two working adults. Add in one spouse who has intensifying bouts of amnesia and you have a recipe for disaster. But disaster is not an option for Annora. She grew up in an orphanage and so the preservation of her precious family was her number one commitment. But that commitment was threatened when, during marital counseling, Annoras therapist began to recognize even more unusual and abnormal behaviors in her.

Annora was subsequently diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, also known as Multiple Personality Disorder. But that wouldnt stop Annora from declaring her sanity to her husband and begging him to fi nd them a new therapist.

We Are Annora is a story about the human will to survive amidst the darkness which lies deep within despondency and a powerful mental disorder.

Marrows choice of first-person narrative successfully pulls the reader into this page-turning true story which so richly demonstrates the human will to survive amidst a crippling disorder that is still so misunderstood. Throughout the pages of this book, struggles of fear and hope, love and hate, confusion and utter clarity give the reader an insider perspective of the challenges faced by traumatized people with DID. Hence, the reader acquires a better understanding of the difficulties suffered by multiples and the potential for true healing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453580981

Book preview

Dedication

I offer special thanks to my best friend and husband Jay who has always lovingly encouraged me to keep moving forward and who tirelessly assisted me in the writing of this book.

I wish also to thank my stormy-weather friend, Sherry Adams, whose moral support also encouraged me to pursue my passions and keep moving forward with this project.

And lastly, to my beautiful children . . .

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Prologue

Among Hidden Discourse

I sensed trouble looming near me as I stepped out of my warm minivan into the crisp air, which blew a tight layer of goose bumps over my warm skin. I walked across the parking lot of the pale-bricked post office, and I could see and even somehow feel the lower angle of the autumn noon sun. I recognized the dark, angry-looking autumn clouds that seemed to serve little purpose other than to usher in the changing season. Summers were so hot on the Outer Banks of North Carolina that even the roads seemed to sweat and groan in agony. The cooler autumn air was always welcome and gave me that extra bit of energy I’d lacked during the oppressive summer heat, not to mention it flushed the pungent smell of frothy salt and rotting seaweed out of the ocean-side air. I made a mental note that it was getting too chilly for sandals.

I liked autumn even though it was kind of spooky. A more intense energy stirred inside my chest, and I felt the sudden compulsion to run and hide, but from what I didn’t know.

I don’t like spooky, a voice came from that soft corner inside me. I ignored the complaint. Instead, I tried to enjoy October, the month that had put a mysterious spell over me year after year. I breathed in the fresh air as I hurried toward the glass doors of the nondescript brick building that portrayed conservative 1960s-era government architecture.

A kind, elderly black man held the door for me as I neared his small frame.

Thank you, I said, as I slid quickly past him.

Yes, ma’am, he answered as I knew he’d answered a thousand times before. Southerners are so polite. During off-season, in the small southern resort town of Kitty Hawk, it was perfectly acceptable and even expected to acknowledge and return a kind gesture. After all, we were the full-time locals who shared the common bond of willingness to tough out hurricanes and the damp, cold, quiet winters coupled with having to endure the higher crime rate when we were flooded with the party atmosphere of summer tourism. We were the locals and when we first moved here, I had learned quickly that we spoke freely to one another.

I stepped to the back of the line and stared at a string of paper pumpkins hanging over the clerk’s long counter above scales, racks of official postal forms, and customers who were quietly doing business with each station’s clerk. The musty smell of heavy paper and old ink lay heavy in the sluggish indoor air. I felt a twinge take root in my stomach, and I turned my eyes away from the pumpkins knowing better than to question why they caused me discomfort. Without warning, there was an eruption of emotion inside as everyone reacted to the setting.

Stupid. It’s just stupid!

It is not!

Leave it alone.

Oh, grow the hell up!

Damn.

I like the pumpkins.

I ignored the others and searched for something safe to focus on. My eyes fell on the big chart explaining the different postal services and their costs. I read them in my mind one by one the way a child might recite the alphabet.

Safe. Safe. Gotta stay safe, I thought to myself.

Gotta get outta here!

Be quiet! Ganna get in trouble!

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and shook my head slowly. Anxiety whirred hard into my chest like a pressure washer driving dirt out of cement seams. I tried again to ignore the ruckus inside. Ganna get in trouble? I couldn’t imagine for what, yet my fear intensified. I have money. I have my keys. I have time. Why are we ganna get in trouble? And what has us so afraid?

My stomach began to knot, and I felt the eerie haunting of a childhood memory lurking in my periphery. I knew that feeling, and I knew it was bad news. I knew my parts or alters as some refer to them, were triggered by something in my present environment, and I wasn’t in a position to deal with them. I would have to try to stay grounded, take care of my tasks at hand, and leave the building as quickly as possible. Otherwise, we could have a meltdown.

In order to drown out the inner chatter, I breathed deep and focused hard on what I needed to accomplish that day. I need to buy a roll of stamps and go to the supermarket. The grocery list is in my pocket, and I have the keys and the checkbook. I have to be at Currituck County High School in time to pick up Lucas from football practice. I have just enough time.

I couldn’t help but look back up at the string of paper pumpkins looking so bright and jolly. Suddenly, like a powerful tsunami washing over my mind, my surroundings began to grow dark as if the sun had moved behind the clouds. Before my diagnosis, I thought these were spiritual events where the Holy Spirit was moving my spirit into another special vision, but I could never seem to see the visions to their completion. Now I know that in reality, I wasn’t having spiritual events at all, rather I was dissociating. Talk about a spiritual buzzkill.

I lost sight of the jolly paper pumpkins and was standing somewhere deep in my past. Heaviness closed in on me. I was falling, inside.

Don’t do it. Don’t let Mum in! Don’t think about her. Stay here! I heard in the distance. I felt panic hit my soul, and I tried to stay out and in control of my body.

Aware that I was experiencing inner disorder in public, I looked around at the others in the post office for any acknowledgement of my inside activity. No one seemed to notice. I took another deep breath and tried to stay focused on the present.

As involuntary as a late-night yawn, I fell into my parallel world where past and present mixed together like pancake mix and milk. Sometimes the flashbacks came full fledged, and I battled them. Other times, I slipped farther away to that quiet place inside where I was protected from the oncoming hauntings of the ageless taunting predators of my childhood. My reflex depended mostly on the intensity of the trigger. Intense flashbacks were growing more frequent and more invasive in past months due to therapy sessions with Wade. We were delving into dark and evil places that had, till now, been tightly woven shut by a tapestry of steel cobwebs and decades of heavy dust. This memory was too much for me to asphyxiate. I tried to turn away as the flashes flooded the room around me.

Like rapid gunfire, the scene barreled down and around me like a scene out of a thriller movie. I couldn’t escape. I was catapulted back to my childhood. I was nine years old. My entire existence then was one of being in constant danger, trouble, enormous stress, and perpetual moment-to-moment fear of how Mum would hurt me next.

It was autumn, 1970. I stood inside the Ann Arbor Post Office for which my adopted mother delivered mail.

No! Kitty Hawk. I’m in Kitty Hawk! I am not in Michigan! My eyes darted desperately around the room for proof that I was not in the Michigan post office in 1970, but the fingers of my mind slipped, and I fell and I plunged full force into hell.

The nice ladies that worked out front put pretty pumpkin decorations over their counter. I wished I could go home with the workers. They seemed nice. I wanted Halloween decorations too. Like at school. My teacher was nice, too. I wanted to be with nice people.

I panicked as I discovered myself standing inside Mum’s post office! Fear burned through every fiber of my being. Whenever Mum stopped by work, I was to stay in the car. People who didn’t work there weren’t allowed in the back of the building, and I knew that. I couldn’t remember leaving her car and coming inside the building. But I obviously had.

She’ll appear from the back soon! I’m supposed to be in the car. Why did I come in here? Why do I constantly stay in trouble? My disobedience would mean absolute and unquestionably merciless punishment, probably in the form of the belt and no meals until she felt I’d suffered enough for my enormous act of disobedience. I knew this would take place as soon as we got home where no one could see or hear. She always waited until we got home.

I slipped in and out of reality. I floated back and forth between two separate decades, two separate post offices. I knew in my adult mind in real time that there were three more customers ahead of me in line now. Why was the body not screaming out and causing a scene? It never had before, but how could it contain the fear and urge to flee? I wasn’t sure I could keep it together much longer. I was suddenly thrust whole back into the 1970s.

Adrenaline burned through my veins as I tried to think of an excuse and an escape. Mum’s probably already spotted me. She always knows when I’ve done wrong. I want to run away! I hurried to the building’s exit and pushed the big glass door open letting the noise of the boulevard into the lobby. How could I hide now?

Annora! I heard her voice; it was clear, firm, and tight. Click! I suddenly fell into my little tired body, into that calm place where I was, once again, disconnected and protected from another oncoming assault by Mum. I was gone.

Hours passed after the nightmarish flashback had faded. But I wouldn’t know that until I woke up when I heard my front door shut behind me. I opened my eyes. It was like waking up from real sleep except I was dressed, on my feet, and in action. I was back in my home, in North Carolina, in 2002. I looked down to be sure. I saw that my body was big. I watched as I let my brown purse slip off my shoulder and onto the floor next to my cold, sandaled feet. I was euphoric to be away from Mum. But not absolutely convinced yet that I was. My stomach knotted while I scanned my memory for the last thing I could remember—the post office, the flashback. I hurried over to the living room window. It was dark outside, and my car was in the driveway. I looked down, and my keys were in my right hand. I had to have driven myself home.

Hey, Mom! I heard Lucas shout from upstairs.

Lucas—dark out—post office—football practice!

Hey, buddy! I hollered back, trying to sound calm and convincing. A lump grew deep in my throat—my Lucas. I looked down and noticed a paper bag of fast food in my left hand. Food—good, I’m starving. "Hey, I am so sorry. I got held up. How’d you get home from football practice?" I hoped he didn’t detect how my voice squeezed past the large lump in my throat.

I closed my eyes for a moment, thankful that Lucas was home safe. I vowed to work even harder to stay focused in order to avoid any future predicaments that could put Lucas at risk. If he were any younger than fifteen, I might begin to question if I were even fit to be a mom.

As the familiar rhythm of Lucas’s footsteps bounced down the stairs, he told me his friend Ryan drove him home when I didn’t show.

I am so sorry, buddy.

It’s okay, Mom. Geez. No big deal.

Are you ready for dinner?

Oh, burgers! Cool! he said as I opened the bag. There was one burger and one fry. The lump in my throat grew even larger as I realized someone inside bought dinner for one when there were two of us at home ready to eat. I heated up the fast food as I fibbed to Lucas that I was so hungry I ate mine on the way home. I wanted to throw my arms around him and hug him tightly, but I was afraid that might make the situation more awkward.

I wonder if I ever bought my roll of stamps.

Part I

The Woes of Lure

Chapter 1

Fifteen Months Earlier . . .

It was another beautiful but hot, sultry summer day in my neighborhood in Point Harbor, North Carolina. I looked outside our living room window and noticed our home owner’s association had faithfully placed little American flags along the streets of the neighborhood in honor of Independence Day.

Tomorrow was Fourth of July, and we would celebrate the evening with several families from our church, with whom we enjoyed gathering. We’d all been invited to Tom and Kristin’s where we’d play yard games and share a potluck dinner. Then our big group would carry lawn chairs down to their big dock and watch the kids play with small packets of fireworks while waiting for the big fireworks to begin. Being a U.S. Coast Guard family has its challenges, but having good friends everywhere we were stationed helped make holidays and fun occasions less lonely for us. But today we will have our preholiday family merriment at home.

I was pleased with the summer holiday meal I had planned for my family. Hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill—my husband Blaine would enjoy cooking them. I had plenty of food if company stopped in: buns, homemade potato salad, chips, baked beans, dill pickles, fresh iced tea, watermelon, and brownies. I’d pick up Hannah at 1:00 at our church where she was volunteering at Vacation Bible School helping the little ones learn about Jesus. It seemed like a worthy summer activity for her. Blaine would be back from the gym in time to take Hannah and Lucas jet skiing for a couple hours before dinner. After everyone was showered, fed, and done sharing their latest adventures with renewed sunburns on their faces, Hannah and I would do a quick cleanup in the kitchen, and then we’d all retire to watch the movie that I rented for the evening.

I scooped potato salad onto my salad platter while I tried to reflect on Independence Day and other holidays of my own childhood. I was sure I must have celebrated Fourth of July many times, but I could not recall a single picnic, party, or even going to fireworks until my twenties. I tried harder to remember at least a faint memory of Independence Day in the 1960s or 1970s, and I came up with nothing. I sprinkled paprika on the potato salad which always made it look more festive. I’d often wondered if most people forgot as much about their childhoods as I have.

I then saw a steel-hard, quick flash of my childhood. We had gone to the beach at Whitmore Lake in Michigan. It was unusual that I was allowed out of the car. In no time, I had gotten into trouble because the screw had fallen off my eyeglasses into the sand and . . .

No! Don’t think about it, I scolded myself. I shoved the memory out of my mind. I pulled a large jar of olives out of the refrigerator. Okay, I won’t go there. No lake, no lake, no lake—not a good memory.

Mom? Are you going to pick up Hannah at church? Lucas asked. I jumped with a jolt out of my memory and realized I had been sitting in my living room in front of the windows gazing out at the little flags spaced evenly along our street. I glanced down at my watch.

Good grief! I was supposed to pick Hannah up an hour ago! Thanks, Lucas. I totally lost track of time, I said, as Lucas headed back up to his bedroom. I rushed to the kitchen to cover and refrigerate the food before I ran out to the van, but the food was gone. I swung open the refrigerator door and there, neat and nicely wrapped, was all the food I had been preparing for dinner.

Thank you, Lucas, for putting the food up for me! I called up the stairs as I grabbed my keys.

What? What food?

You didn’t wrap this food up and put it in the frig?

No, Mom. I haven’t even been downstairs until just now.

That’s strange. I don’t remember putting the food away . . . I’ve got to go!

I ran outside into the stifling summer heat that swiftly engulfed me and my clothes in heavy, moist air. I jumped into my minivan and backed out onto our rural road as sweat drops fell off the hairs on my neck. Where did that hour go? I can’t believe I lost track of time like that. Stupid me!

As I rushed beside an expanse of knee-high, bright green cornstalks, I felt a chill as the air conditioner blew into my face and hair. Sweat ran down my scalp, and I wondered why anyone would voluntarily live in such a hot climate.

I turned the radio on as I noted an oncoming car in the other lane. I glanced at my speedometer; I was going too fast! I was driving seventy-two miles per hour in a fifty mile per hour zone. I gently pressed the brake and eased to the center of my narrow country lane.

Suddenly, without warning, my van began to fishtail. I’d hit the gravel on the side of the road, overcorrected, and missed the oncoming car by what felt like inches. My van began swerving so hard I could only try to force the wheel to straighten. I could hear the screaming of the tires on the hot pavement as every muscle in my body clamped down for the worst. Then, as if in slow motion, I watched helplessly as the van slid down into the three foot deep, water-filled, hurricane ditch and slammed onto its side. Braking was useless because my tires were no longer making contact. I hydroplaned toward the culvert ahead.

Oh God, is this it? Am I going to die? I asked out loud as time slowed further, and I truly wondered if I would survive the crash.

Like a well-timed orchestra as the van hit the culvert, both front passenger air bags blew, and I heard various explosive sounds followed by the crackling of safety glass. My body slammed into my seat belt, and I saw a huge wall of muddy water spray into the air and hang there momentarily before it came crashing down onto the small paved intersection to the left of me. The world became silent. I heard nothing but music on the radio and the steam hissing from my engine. I looked at my hands and moved them in front of my face. Am I alive? I think so!

As I carefully made my way up the embankment to someone’s lush green lawn, I seemed to disconnect from most of my natural senses. I didn’t care that onlookers gawked at me and the spectacle I had created. I was simply glad to be alive and walking. I was soon relieved to see an ambulance arrive. I wasn’t sure it was necessary, but I always erred on the side of caution. Several people stood around while a few helped me and talked with me.

I heard myself repeat to the kind strangers, My chest hurts. My chest hurts. I was grateful for the paramedics who eased me onto a stretcher and whisked me away from the devastation.

My face began to sting, and it took me a few minutes to realize it was from the blow it took in the air bag. My upper chest ached more and more from the impact of the seat belt. My mind became amazingly clear, and I wondered if I would become unglued once the shock wore off.

After a ride that felt too long, I felt the ambulance turn and the gears shifted into reverse, and the large vehicle crept backward. Reverse alarms were beeping, and I knew I was at the emergency room’s ambulance ramp. I had stood near that same ramp many, many times while smoking in the hospital’s designated smoking shelter on my work breaks. I’d been doing part-time clerical work at the hospital, for the purpose of, as Blaine described it, getting me out of the house more. The extra bit of money I brought in was my mad money.

I knew the drill. I had watched with lessening interest over the time I’d worked there as paramedics pulled gurney after gurney from the back of ambulances and wheeled patients inside to the emergency room. Right on cue I was whizzed through automatic glass doors, past glancing eyes and into a curtained exam room. As the paramedic reported off to the nursing staff, I was surrounded by four personnel who lifted me from the gurney onto a hospital bed. I felt ridiculous, nauseous, and scared all at the same time. As quickly as everyone scattered, a pretty nurse with long blonde hair rushed into my exam room.

How are you feeling, dear? she asked as she busied herself.

I felt hot tears run into my ears as I looked up at her. I felt like a complete idiot. I was fine. I could tell I had no broken bones. I felt no deep injuries. I was just in mild shock, I guessed. Or maybe that’s what I tried to convince myself of.

Not too good. I’m not sure was all I could manage. My body began to shiver while I focused on the floral pattern of the privacy curtain.

The nurse stayed with me and performed what must be the usual tests and checks of vehicle collision victims. Her presence made me feel safe. If I were going to have any sudden complications, she’d be right there to help me.

It must be the stress, I thought to myself. The nurse pushed open the sections of flowered curtain fabric to leave.

You’re not going to leave me, are you? I asked her in a voice that sounded far away. All my perceptions seemed to be askew, and I hated feeling so vulnerable. I wanted to be better, and I needed to know I was not seriously injured.

Well, I have other patients. I’ll be right back, she said with a puzzled look on her face.

I don’t want you to leave me. I want my doctor! I said, sounding whiny and babyish. What an idiot I must sound like! What is my deal? The nurse paused as if she were going to say something, but then left with a crooked brow. I tried to run my own inner checks on myself because something felt very wrong.

Next, a police officer made his way into my tiny space. He was tall, and he didn’t seem very nice.

Are you Annora Garrison? He sounded distant and strange. I focused very hard and forced my mind to search for the answer to his question. The name sounded familiar . . .

I need some time. I don’t feel well, I said to him as my nurse appeared at my side again. Good! She’s back. Everything will be okay now. Good grief! I’m such an idiot. Get with it! I yelled silently to myself inside in a weak attempt to force myself to appear normal to others. I squeezed my eyes shut and wanted to cry and go home. Keep it together, I quietly thought. I wanted my nurse to help me. I wanted her to answer the policeman’s questions for me. Maybe she could take me home. She has pretty blonde hair like mine. When I grow up, I want to be a nurse; I mean I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up . . . and I want to be a nun the most. And I want to be . . .

Ms. Garrison? the policeman’s voice broke through my thoughts. It felt as if he woke me up, and the entire scene around me was distressing. Accident . . . I remember.

Where are my children? Do you know where my children are? I asked the tall officer.

Your daughter Hannah was taken home, and your son was already at your house. From what I understand, you told someone at the accident scene where Hannah was, and someone took her home. I think it was your pastor. We also tried to reach your husband, but we don’t know where to locate him.

Good grief! Am I ever in a lot of trouble now!

Blaine Garrison. Coast Guard base. I can give you his cell number, I told the officer.

The police officer issued me a citation for failure to maintain my lane and politely dismissed himself but not until he was satisfied that the rub burn on my shoulder was his proof that I was wearing my seat belt. Terrific! I laid my head back and tried to rest and bring my equilibrium back on board.

Annora? Hi, I’m Dr. Serven. How are you? A nice middle-aged man asked as he walked directly to my side. I wanted to reach out and take hold of his white coat and never let go.

I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad to see you. I’m glad you came to see me, I said in a rush. I knew I sounded ridiculous but then emergency room staff are used to people being upset and not particularly themselves in times of distress.

Well, thank you. How are you feeling?

Better now. I mean, I think I’m okay. Just a little shaken is all.

Okay, well, let’s run some checks and some X-rays here, and if everything is okay, then you’re welcome to go home.

Thank you, I tried to smile, and knowing the bill would be large, I was as cooperative as I could be. Two hours later I was released.

Chapter 2

Understandably, our holiday dinner didn’t go so well that evening. My minivan was totaled, I got a hefty traffic citation, medical bills were on their way, and I was stranded, sore, and still afraid. But what bothered me more was that I kept hearing my own voice in the emergency room, You’re not going to leave me, are you? I prided myself on my strength, independence, and ability to handle tough situations. After all, I was in the military, and anyone who can endure boot camp and active duty has proven to themselves that they have some genuine level of endurance. I didn’t care for whiny female types, and I discouraged my own children from acting that way. I was puzzled as to why I had acted in that manner. I finally decided to chalk it up to mild shock and move on.

Annora, are you going to the beach or not? Blaine broke into my thoughts as I lay back on the blue living room recliner in more pain than I anticipated there would be. My dizziness seemed to be worsening with every hour.

When we met in the Army, Blaine had such a handsome baby face for a sergeant. That had been twenty years ago, and I still found him to be quite handsome.

Blaine, I can hardly sit up, and when I do, the whole room starts spinning. I’m so sore. The X-rays showed that I didn’t break anything, but I swear to you, I’m in pain. And what is this about going to the beach?

Uh, Kitty Hawk. Hello? We were just talking about it, Blaine said with irritation in his voice.

Kitty Hawk? I tried to remember the conversation, but I was so uncomfortable I didn’t care to spend any more energy trying to recall it.

I’m too sore to sit up. How am I going to sit in the sand all day? I’m ganna stay home. You guys go ahead. I’m really not up to it.

Let’s go! he yelled to the kids who were in various areas of the house. I didn’t know he planned on going to the beach before the potluck dinner and fireworks with our group of friends that evening. I was positive I could not endure lawn chairs for hours, so that festivity was out for me as well. But I did want my family to go and have fun. I would use the quiet time to rest and heal.

I stopped Blaine as my crew headed out the front door with backpacks full of sunscreen, Walkmans, fresh clothes, and snacks. Would you do me a favor before you leave and pull my footrest lever down for me? It hurts my chest too much to bend that far, and I need to use the bathroom.

Do it yourself! he said with disgust on his face and slammed the door behind him.

Whoa! What’s his problem! Tears dropped down my cheeks as a lump bulged in my throat.

I don’t want to be here! came from someplace deep inside me.

Okay . . . deep breath. No, I don’t want to be here, I said out loud as if I were replying to another person in the room. That was weird. It must be the pain meds. Now I’m talking to myself! But it’s true. Blaine is so hateful toward me sometimes, and I try so hard to be a good mom and wife. I don’t understand him. I would have stayed home just to help keep him be more comfortable if he were the one in pain.

Later that afternoon, when my crew returned from the beach, I heard about the great adventures of the day, and then the kids headed to ready themselves for showers, then dinner and fireworks over at Tom and Kristin’s place.

Blaine brought the last of the beach gear into the house and set it on the floor just inside the front door.

Blaine, why were you so angry with me when you left? I really am hurting, and you were so angry and hateful. Why were you so angry toward me?

Oh my god, like you really don’t remember screaming at me ten minutes before that! You can be ‘hateful’ to me, but I’m not allowed to be ‘hateful’ to you? There’s that old double standard again, Annora!

What? I did not scream at you about anything! Why are you saying that, Blaine? I was watching TV trying to rest, and you know it! I said with as much skepticism in my heart and voice as he had on his face.

You’re scary! Your memory’s getting worse and worse, I swear, he said, and he walked to our bedroom.

Great!

*     *     *

The next morning, I’d managed to make my way to the kitchen after a careful trip to the restroom. I stood in a daze and stared at the many prescription bottles that were sent home with me from the emergency room, or did we go to the pharmacy to pick them up? I must have really been out of it because I couldn’t remember where all the medications came from. I just knew my chest ached deeply, and I needed relief. Each prescription seemed to have a different schedule, a different drug name, a different purpose, a different everything. I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know how much of what to take or when or for what. I had no idea what I had already taken or when. As I stood in pain, both physical and emotional, Blaine walked into the kitchen just in time to see tears running down my cheeks.

Good morning, I said, trying to disguise my exasperation and start a new day.

Annora, what are you doing?

The labels were blurry through my tears, and I wanted help but didn’t want to appear needy. I need to take my pain medicine but I can’t remember what I have already taken, and I can’t figure out what to take next. I don’t want to screw this up and OD or something, Blaine. Would you please try to help me sort this out? I’m sorry. I just don’t feel well, and I’m more confused than usual. So much for me not wanting to appear needy.

I don’t know anymore than you do about that. Sorry. He walked out of the room and reappeared in his gym clothes mumbling something about not knowing what to do with the meds either. He had really been on a fitness kick lately. He was pumping iron, dieting, and jogging. He wasn’t this fit when we met in the Army. I’m heading to the gym to play basketball. I’ll be back in a couple hours.

I’m sorry I had the accident, I offered.

Accidents do happen. I’ll see you later. He walked to the garage. In moments, I heard the rumble of his little red car, and he was gone.

I chose a pill from the bottle that said, Take for pain as needed, and I went to the recliner to rest.

*     *     *

Blaine looked fitter than a fiddle when he returned home in sweat-soaked clothes. He looked at me lying in the recliner, then he walked back to take a shower, and I closed my eyes to rest. The accident had shaken me to the core. I was just plain wiped out. I gently dozed off.

Are you ganna ever get up and get with it? Blaine yelled. He scared me out of my wits.

Why are you so mad at me, Blaine? Don’t scare me like that! It makes me jerk, and it hurts! Okay? I sat up and tried to make sense of Blaine’s angry intrusion.

I’m mad because you cuss me out one minute and then want to be my friend the next. You say angry and hateful things to me, then turn around, and want me to help you. That’s why! We need to go to marriage counseling. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I’m going to set up an appointment and sort this mess out.

Marriage counseling? Now our marriage is in trouble?

Yes, Annora. We’re having a communication breakdown between us, and we need to figure out how to get back on track, Blaine said with such sincerity that I almost believed him.

I pulled myself out of my chair and balanced my sedated body on the nearby stair banister. We don’t need marriage counseling, Blaine. What we need is to start saying kind things to each other. When have I ever yelled at you in the past week?

"Let’s see . . . You yelled at me because you were mad that we went to the beach without you. You were mad because I looked at new vehicles without asking you! You were mad because . . ."

"What? I never yelled at you for not taking me to the beach or for looking at new vehicles! Why are you saying those things? This is ‘me,’ Blaine. Do you think I have the interest or the energy to have such arguments with you?"

See, this is what I mean.

I didn’t want to go to the beach because I was too uncomfortable and in too much pain so why would I claim otherwise? I want the three of you to be able to do things without me. I don’t want you to force me to go places right now, and I was happy to see the three of you go to the beach. It gave me time to rest. It’s what you like to do on your time off. Listen, you don’t have to go through all these theatrics. Just tell me you want a divorce, and spare me the charades. This is a cruel head game you’re playing, Blaine, and I don’t have the energy to participate.

I don’t want a divorce, Annora. You don’t remember arguing about going to the dealership? he asked with a softer voice and actually held eye contact.

Dealership? No, I don’t remember discussing any dealership with you. I must have been out of it on the meds or else you’re confusing me with Marcus or someone. I’m sorry I yelled at you about it, if I did. Tell me about the dealership, I conceded as my body began shaking with protest. Wait . . . I need a few minutes to regroup. Okay? I said as I walked back to our bedroom, shut the door, and tried to calm the adrenaline burn in my muscles. I prayed he wouldn’t follow me.

Fine. But I’m going to make that counseling appointment! Blaine yelled from the other room.

I slid to my knees in the most broken state I could imagine. My shot nerves combined with Blaine’s dissatisfaction with me during a time when I needed healing and patience felt like a mean and purposeful betrayal. The tears poured down my face as I felt our boxer, Major move nearby and sit against me. My Major. He always seemed to know when I was really down, and he had an uncanny way of comforting me. He set his chin on my right shoulder and let out a deep sigh. I love you, boy. You’re my boy. You’re such a good boy, I said and put my arm around him. He licked twice at my tears and then lay next to me. What a great dog!

I couldn’t believe Blaine felt we had self-destructed to the point in our marriage that we needed marriage counseling. I could have the marriage counselor tell Blaine that it’s a cruel and selfish game he’s playing with me, and if he wants out of this marriage then just say so. I don’t have the strength to fight him much longer.

*     *     *

The next morning I wasn’t feeling any better. I had a terrible headache, my chest was still painfully sore, and the summer heat seemed to ooze through the walls. I had taken half an extra pain tablet trying to ease the pain in my aching sternum. The blue recliner was getting more uncomfortable, but there was no more comfortable place or position anywhere in the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the driveway. A huge green conversion van pulled in, and I heard the honking horn. Good grief! Who can that be? I’d never seen the vehicle before. I eased myself up and stepped onto the front porch. The driver’s door whipped open, and Blaine jumped down from the driver’s seat.

Where did that come from? I yelled over the rumbling engine.

C’mon for a ride! I just bought it! he yelled back, looking like a boy with his first car. Oh my. It was huge! And ugly! And it must guzzle gas. And . . . . . . .

The side door swung open,