What Shaped Us

A Story by Megan Benoit

When I was a little kid, I would read all the time. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Alice in Wonderland and The Secret Garden were among my favourites. I would imagine myself as the mischievous Tom, the brave and whimsical Alice, or the down-to-earth Dickon Sowerby.

I would immerse myself in their persona, sometimes spending full days as them. I was no longer Steven Ruthberg. I’d act like them, eat like them, and I would even change my voice to match theirs. Sure, I got some strange looks from bigoted relatives as I paraded around in a light blue gown, rambling on about mushrooms and rabbits, but I was having too much fun to care.

But, when you grow up, having multiple personas is less than adorable.

At age eight, I was diagnosed with MPD, or Multiple Personality Disorder. I also have a mild case of schizophrenia, although my therapist says it’s more or less harmless. I can’t tell you what exactly happened to trigger my trauma, as I've found that I've blocked it, but, erm…. Cameron can explain it.

So, um, yeah " hey! That’s when I was born.

I’m Cameron, and Steven would tell you that I’m a ‘210 pound terror trapped inside a skinny boy’s body’. I come out whenever the kid’s in danger, and, not to toot my own horn, but I can kick some serious a*s. Not a lot of people like me, I can admit. Partly my fault; I have no interest in friends nor to pursue romantics. The only time I really crave companionship is when I’m drunk. I really do adore my liqueur. Both fortunately and sadly, that makes me more violent. Steven describes me as ‘Bruce Banner hulked out 24-7’.

As for Steven’s trauma, I remember seeing a man, dressed in a bright orange polo, holding a gun. I remember…. A lot of blood. Think the movie Kick A*s with that grody microwave blood explosion. It was gory, to understate it. Then, I remember seeing my- I mean, Steven’s mum, her limbs cocked at impossible angles, a bullet hole straight through her temple and "

My lord, these boys are rather descriptive, aren't they? They’re going to end up scaring you poor dears. After that horrid night, I can remember Steven waking up in a place he didn't recognize, stripped down to his nickers; sirens whirling outside and red and blue lights flashing before his eyes. There was a police man gentle shaking him awake, telling him that he was safe. He was rushed over to the hospital and checked all over for injuries. There were many, but I won’t go into detail and traumatize you all. Cattle prods were used; I suppose I may tell you that.

And the sight of blood, for dear Steven, was too much. It still does to this day. The lad can’t deal with looking at it " the putrid sulfur, the red sticky residue, and the above all, the memories that follow. Any encounter with it, and let me tell you, when your brain learns to split, it does it far easier the second time. I was born, and I really have no idea where the boys would be without me.

My name is Lynn, and I am, truly a mother to these boys. I dress Cameron’s gashes after his fights, make chicken noodle soup when the body is sick, and I basically plan out Steven’s entire education. I don’t mind it, of course. While I find them to be rather tiresome, I can’t help but love the boys; they’re my family " my children.

Erm, hey. Steven’s back again. Lynn had to leave; she was getting quite emotional. So, time went on, and despite Cameron coming out every once in a while in public, I was a fairly normal kid. Sure, I went to therapy every second day, and was bullied every other. But really, it was okay. Bullying never really bugged me. Cam was always there to back me up if it got to rough, so I could just shut off and not take the brunt of it all. When I would wake up, I’d be at home, the gashes and wounds mended by Lynn, and the body getting some well-deserved rest.

Fast forward twelve years, and here we are. Twenty year old me. I’m off to college, which, as all young adults can agree, is a frightening experience. But I won’t be alone. I've got Cameron, I've got Lynn, and life is alright. I know I can’t ever truly escape the horrors of my past, but I’m content with allowing my alters to deal with it.

Now, here, before me, is a small box my grandparents packed up for me the night of the trauma. I think I’m gonna make a list so I can show Lynn and Cameron later. I mean, there isn't a lot in here…

- A couple year books

- Some baby clothes

- Wedding vows

- A packet of cards

- A bright orange polo

Wait, who are you?

Where the hell did Steven go?

Cameron, dear, stay back, I’ll handle this.

Who the hell is this kid?

Hi! I’m Stevie. I’m eight years old. Where am I?