Childhood Possessions

Chapter 8

November 2015

I had been seeing Dr. Whalen for nearly six months. I knew she would never believe my story of demon possession, so over time I had carefully allowed her to steer the conversation towards the possession itself being a metaphor for something else. I talked about it so much, in fact, that sometimes I could almost believe it was the truth.

And sometimes, it even seemed to be helping.

Once it was allowed, my mom would sporadically come to visit, and participated in sessions with Dr. Whalen. She was confused at first when the made up assault story came up, but to her credit she caught on quickly. It wasn't long until I felt sure she had convinced herself it was actually the truth. I thought it was probably for the best: maybe it would allow her to finally heal, too.

My father was another story. From the first time he visited, I could tell he was resentful of being coerced (or at least that was my assumption) into participating. He'd probably thought he could get me locked up there, and pay the bills but otherwise never have to think about me again. But in order to keep up the no doubt carefully crafted "caring father" image he'd been working on from the moment he'd signed the paperwork, he needed to be present, and for the first time in seven years, he needed to acknowledge at least part of what had happened to us... to me.

I didn't talk much that first session. I let Dr. Whalen talk, and I watched my father's reaction. His face contorted with effort as he tried to tell his side of the story without mentioning that a demon wearing my skin had thrown him against a wall, and later killed his father. I might have struggled not to laugh, if a cloud of tension hadn't hung over the room like droplets of toxic fog.

He rushed out after the session, giving me a quick kiss on the forehead. His expression as he pulled away from me was as if he had been asked to kiss a crocodile with a contagious skin disease.

The next time he visited, Dr. Whalen started asking me questions about him. I felt put on the spot, even more than the time she'd asked me how I felt my mother had coped with what happened, with my mother sitting right beside me. "I understand why he didn't want to be around me anymore," I answered carefully.

"It's not that I didn't want..." my father started to say, but Dr. Whalen held up her hand to stop him. "Why is that?" she asked me.

"The things that happened," I replied, "the bad things. They may not have been my fault, but they..." I paused, unsure how to phrase it so that it would make sense both to him, and to the therapist.

"They what?" Dr Whalen finally asked.

"The bad things... had my face... that probably doesn't make any sense, but I just mean that I understand that when he looks at me, he has trouble seeing anything other than the bad things. I don't blame him for that. I would probably feel the same way, if I were him."

I glanced towards my father without turning my head, afraid to let him see me looking at him. He looked devastated by my words, remorseful even, for the very first time, and I had to look away before it made me cry.

"I don't want it to be like that," I heard him say, barely louder than a whisper. "Logically... no, there is no logic to any of this... it wasn't easy to accept, but I know that it wasn't my Maddie who did those things, but whenever I remember it, all I see is her... I don't know who else to see in the picture. I don't know how to change it."

The doctor set her notebook and pen down on the small table beside her chair, uncrossed her legs and leaned forward just slightly, towards my father. "Do you want to change it?" she asked. There was no judgment in her tone; it was a simple question.