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     Me? My name is Nomad. I'm cursed to ceaseless wandering between my world and yours where, in the dense gray fog, everything shifts  but does not change. Empty rooms are lost in a maze of darkness. Voices ride the swells  of the sea of meaningless words. Faces on shapeless people fade in and out. I wander. Drifting. Drifting. Drifting. I have a multiple personality disorder (MPD) and my name is Nomad.

12-28-1993

     The whole inside of my left forearm had been numbed but I felt the tugs as the doctor began stretching and tying stitches to close the wounds I'd made with a straight razor. I had four hours to lay on the emergency room table and search the wasteland between my world and yours to try to understand what I had done.

     My eyes were focused on the bright light above me but I could still see the blood all over the bathroom sink and floor. I could feel the heat from the same light but I could feel the young arms of my daughter hugging my neck from the back seat of the car. I looked at the curtain that blocked the door of the emergency room. My beautiful daughter. Where was she? My Tranquility? She must be with her Pa in the waiting room. My eyes returned to the light. I saw the panic on my husband's face when he found me in the bathroom. My husband's name is Love.

     What would Love do to me after I have done such a horrible thing? Love was probably crying somewhere. I closed my eyes and felt the warm trail of tears make their way to my ears. Ears clouded with hushed voices coming from inside me. Do these voices know what I had done too? Then I heard another voice. Gentle. Soothing... But I couldn't understand the words. I opened my eyes and realized the doctor's lips were moving as he sewed. In the corner I saw my son, Nonchalant. Sitting on a metal stool. Staring at the floor. There seemed to be an unfamiliar chasm between us yet he was close enough that I could see something new in his downcast eyes. Sorrow and pain. Funny... on Christmas the other day, everyone had bright eyes. Eyes full of laughter and joy. I had them all fooled with my smiles, laughter and hugs. I even had myself fooled. I was so busy fooling others that I had no idea of the monster that was intending to rip from my world to yours in full fury. No Idea.

     My thoughts drifted back to an episode I'd had earlier that month. It was unlike the angry episodes I'd had during my lifetime where I would hit and scratch myself. Episodes had become more frequent during my years of anorexia and bulimia. My already thin, frail body couldn't handle my attempt at suicide in 1990 by starving myself to death and I had lost enough weight to throw my body into pre-mature menopause. I was 34 years old. But a month ago, fear was my episode not anger. Love found me crouched on the bathroom floor between the toilet and the sink. I was covering my head with my arms and crying. Every time Love touched me I'd withdraw from him and scream. Even Love couldn't help me then. So who could help me now? Now that I'm still alive?

     The next morning I left the watchful eyes of the Intensive Care Unit where Love never left my side and Love escorted me to a larger hospital 45 minutes north. I was locked in the psychiatric unit and was babysat for two weeks. I hadn't been helped... I hadn't changed. Their medication gave me a horrible rash. I threw up in the shower when they thought they were guarding me. My soul felt like a black storm cloud. They were sending me home. The therapist asked Nonchalant what kind of mother he wanted. The therapist asked tranquility what kind of mother she wanted. The therapist asked what kind of wife he wanted. Their different answers wove through the tangles of thoughts, emotions and voices in my mind. I was none of those people my family had described. I didn't know how to be those people. How can I be what I've never been?

     After all, that was why I had tried to kill myself... I wanted them to have someone better.

Read more of Snow Angels by Nomad Rose available from Amazon.com

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